Several days passed without incident. Ravenna was secretly enchanted if inconvenienced by her husband’s devotion. He refused to understand that she was more worried for his well-being than her own.

Yet all worry aside, she was not about to forget the snippet of male conversation she’d overheard outside the drawing room between Simon and Rhys.

Had the virile duke kept a private room in an exclusive brothel? If he’d done so before their marriage, he had no need for one now. It pleased her to indulge him. He had sworn his fidelity. He would break her heart if he betrayed her.

Between their bouts in the nuptial bed, Simon had begun to reveal more to her of his innermost self. They shared little confidences, observations, preferences for their favorite foods and books, over breakfast, on the staircase, but mostly during the drowsy moments before sleep. The boundaries of their friendship had been crossed and reforged in the privacy of their bedchamber and routine of daily life.

Over a fortnight flew by. No one had attempted to murder either of them. Ravenna had not been forced to disguise herself as a young man and join the Royal Navy. Simon had managed to keep at his investigation with scant progress while taking solace in his wife’s company.

Aunt Glynnis finally moved from Grayson’s Park Lane mansion into her nephew Griffin’s Bedford Square townhouse. She celebrated Simon and Ravenna’s union with a supper that included endless glasses of sparkling wine and a meal of lamb cutlets and green haricot beans cooked by a French chef.

“I do believe the newlyweds are settling down,” she confided in Rhys as the dessert course of almond blancmange neared an end. The gentlemen had begun to excuse themselves for brandy and cigars. “Caverley,” she said affectionately to Simon. “Have you grown domesticated?”

Rhys shook his head at Simon in mock sympathy. “Aunt Glynnis, temper your tongue.”

Simon half-rose from his chair. His gaze flickered to Ravenna’s face. “I’m perhaps not the person you should ask. My wife can tell you whether I behave myself at home.”

“Does she behave herself?” Aunt Glynnis asked, her sweet voice slightly slurred.

Simon’s smile disconcerted Ravenna. She dropped her dessert spoon to the floor. “Oh, no. What a mess.”

“Permit me,” he said, chuckling at her.

She shook her head in chagrin. Simon ducked under the table for the spoon. An alert footman beat him to the task. For an awkward moment the three of them stared at one another in the shadowy darkness.

Simon could have tweaked the helpful fellow’s ear. He hadn’t been able to talk to Ravenna in hours. This was not the opportunity he sought.

“Pardon me,” the footman mumbled, pulling back, spoon in hand, at Simon’s scowl.

“I’m clumsy,” Ravenna whispered. “Simon, must you speak so frankly? Don’t you dare say anything about how I behave at home.”

“Misbehave.”

“Don’t.”

“Have I been tamed?” he mused. “I never thought I was that wicked to start, not in comparison to your brothers.”

Ravenna pretended he had not spoken as they straightened in their seats, smiling around the table at the other guests, who had broken into excited chatter –- apparently Aunt Glynnis had just announced that Her Grace would be giving her own parties for her select friends.

Simon excused himself from Ravenna with reluctance. He had no interest in brandy or cigars. He wanted his wife, bare-arsed, in his lap, her breasts pushed into his face and preferably not smothered in the king’s ransom of roped pearls he had bought her.

Domesticated? As if he’d been a zoo creature brought to heel. Was that how he appeared to others? Did he care?

No. Because an hour later he was kissing his wife with unbridled fervor on the floor of their firelit parlor. The fragrance of her, of burning wood, and the plum sherry they had shared, pleased his senses. She lay with her bodice unbuttoned to the waist on the carpet, one arm thrown out in abandon. Her muslin shift was tucked beneath her hips. He adjusted his weight, paused a heartbeat as her mouth slid from his, and sank, thick and ready, into her cleft. Her legs grasped his hips, exerting pressure to push him fully inside her.

“You’re still very tender,” he said, slowing his movements, hesitant to fully submerge his cock in her flesh.

She hooked her arm around his neck, running her fingertips down his nape. “Please go on,” she whispered, pliant and apparently eager to accept the length of him. “I am in agony without you.”

He lowered his head and kissed her long and slow, seducing her with measured sexuality. Her hand slid down his straining back. He felt her inner muscles pulse around his cock, squeezing lightly as if he weren’t in enough torment.

He drew back with a sharp breath, slipping his hand between her shoulders and the carpet. “I should carry you up to bed. The floor has to be uncomfortable. I’ll go wild if you do that to me again.”

“I can walk, Simon.”

“Perhaps not if we continue like this.”

“I don’t think you’re at all what Aunt Glynnis would consider domesticated.”

“Would you like me to mop the floor after we finish?”

She smiled. “I might enjoy that.”

He captured her wrists above her head. “I enjoy watching your breasts move as I work you. Especially when you make those sweet little moans.”

Her head swam at his words. “That’s no way to talk to your duchess.”

“It is when she’s helpless beneath me.”

She could not deny her vulnerability. “Before I forget how to breathe, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Which is?” he asked huskily, lifting her to him with the flat of his hand.

She arched as he pressed inside her in an elemental act of power. “I’ve forgotten,” she whispered. “You’ve taken me over, and I don’t care about anything else. But you know that.”

“I do.”

He drew away, allowing her a glimpse of his cock before he slid back inside her. She closed her eyes with a sigh. The fire crackled in the ensuing silence. Their bodies strained in a heated battle. She met his every thrust until she was gripped by a climax she thought would never end. She felt besieged. Simon surged deeper still inside her, his face terse with concentration. She was trembling from head to toe by the time he took his pleasure.

She looked up at his beautiful face as her body cooled. He stared back down at her with a smile of grateful contemplation and said, “God.”

She pressed her index finger to his chin. “You are altogether too complacent for a man whose head was on the chopping block not a month ago.”

“What chopping block?” he asked, dropping onto his side as if concerned he would collapse atop her.

“Humor me,” she murmured. “Would you have married me of your own volition?”

“My fair duchess, if you knew how my soul takes flight when I look at you and realize you are mine, you would never again ask such a silly question.” His eyes widened in mock alarm. “You haven’t fallen in love with me, have you?”

“Heaven forbid.” She raised her hand and studied her wedding ring in the firelight. “Don’t we know each other too well for that?”

Simon reached for his trousers and stood, his face turned to the fire. “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for some time. I’d prefer we were in more comfortable surroundings, however.”

“I would prefer you not dress quite yet,” she said, obviously not attuned to his change in mood. “While you look undeniably elegant in a long-tailed coat, you look even better naked.”

“Excuse me?”

“You wear your clothes well.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But your nude body delights me even more. Have you not encouraged my complete honesty? Are we not to bare our souls to each other as easily as our clothes?”

He laughed and shook his head. “We need to retire before the servants discover us. I’m up early tomorrow.”

“Oh, Simon. Have I embarrassed you?”

“Not quite. Shall I strike a pose?”

“Why would anyone need Greek statues with men like you in the world?” she mused.

“I should think that would be obvious. A statue is not able to perform certain pleasurable functions.” He shook himself. “I am up early tomorrow,” he said again.

“I’m not,” she said, her voice indistinct.

He swung around. She was on her knees, collecting her stockings and shoes from the carpet. He smiled at the provocative sight and bent to help her. Now, he thought. Confess about the rejected proposal and be done with it. It was probably too much to hope that Rhys had already told her. And that she was waiting for Simon to admit it himself. She said she and Rhys shared everything. Of course that was before she had become Simon’s wife.

“Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But the answer is yes,” he said as he dressed. “I would have married you without coercion.”

She balanced one leg on a footstool to put on her stockings. He came up behind her to help her complete the task, letting her balance against his shoulder. He steeled himself not to react to the sway of her soft bottom against his groin. Her satiny curves made him hard again.

“Thank you,” she whispered, leaning her head back on his chest.

He exhaled, his body fiercely responding to hers, his thoughts in a knot. Broken trust would not easily mend. Had he waited too long? “How can we know each other too well?” he asked.

“Why don’t we go upstairs to finish our conversation?” she suggested with a mischievous smile.

He straightened with a nod of agreement only to pull around at the rattle of wheels in the street. Was he to be granted a reprieve from his confession? “That sounds like a rather large carriage for this hour.”

“And it’s stopped in front of the house.”

“Go through the side door to the other staircase to be safe,” he said quietly.

The front door opened. Hushed voices filtered through the hall. Simon brushed around her and seized the gun he had set on top of the pianoforte.

“Someone is breaking in,” she whispered, at his heels. “I’m not about to leave you by yourself to face intruders who are this brazen.”

“For God’s sake,” he said, his jaw set. “Do as I ask.”

A heavy object thudded outside the door. For all Simon could discern, a dead body had fallen. He strode forth, uncaring that his cravat dangled like a noose from his neck. He was more alarmed that Ravenna had made no effort to escape, although she had taken the precaution of pulling the bell cord to summon help from the servants’ hall.

This measure proved unnecessary. As Simon charged into the hall to tackle the two figures skulking by the door, his gray-haired butler hastened to the scene from his quarters. Evidently the man had been roused from bed. His nightshirt was bunched into his breeches. He carried a tallow stub in one hand, a long-barreled pistol in the other. He was more likely to set the house on fire than to scare off burglars.

Simon swore under his breath and lowered his own weapon. “Timpkins,” he said to the other man present, recognizing his estate manager in a tall black hat and long coat. “You bonehead. What are you doing here this time of night?”

“Returning from our honeymoon.”

Isolde hung back from the grinning young man, quite lovely in one of Ravenna’s traveling gowns and hooded royal-blue silk cloak. “Your grace might have forgotten,” she said in a weary but apologetic voice. “Timpkins, I told you we should have sent word ahead as we neared London.”

Ravenna ventured into the hall. “This is what I forgot to tell you, Simon,” she said sheepishly.

“Couldn’t you have planned an earlier arrival?” he demanded of Timpkins. “It’s ungodly late to be on the road.”

“One of the horses pulled up lame, your grace,” Timpkins said. “We’d have been here hours ago if not for that.”

Simon scowled. “It is all well and good for you to relish your adventure, but I never expected you to place yourselves in such a vulnerable position. You should have stayed the night at a coaching inn.”

“Miss Fychan wouldn’t hear of it,” Timpkins said. “She informed me that the honeymoon was over and cohabitation in public places was inappropriate.”

What could Simon say to this? It wasn’t fair to chastise a young couple who had gamely put their lives at risk so that he and Ravenna could enjoy a fortnight of uninterrupted pleasures. Nor could he find fault with Isolde for defending her virtue -- not when the young maid so resembled his wife that she could have claimed to be a Boscastle cousin. At least in the darkness of the vestibule.

It would have been on Simon’s head had harm come their way.

“I am relieved that you’re home and grateful for your service,” he said at last. “I suggest, however, that we wait until tomorrow to discuss any estate matters. All went well?”

Timpkins cast Isolde an impudent look. “Yes, your grace. Our time together was sweet, but, alas, too short.”

“I was inquiring about your physical safety, Timpkins, not your personal fancies.”

“There was a prowler on the grounds near the family vaults, your grace,” Isolde said with a chagrined glance at the steward. “Mr. Timpkins was quite brave in giving him chase, but the man wasn’t apprehended.”

“If he existed,” Timpkins said with a snort of doubt.

“He was spotted before daybreak by the head maid,” Isolde said. “For all we know he may indeed have been a poacher or even a drift of mist. This was the only unusual incident, conduct of present company excluded, that occurred during our sojourn.”