Within days the return of the “newlyweds” to London was remarked on in the newspapers. One magazine described the event as thus: the Duke of R and his bride tumbled into Town late last Thursday night. Husband and wife appeared so overcome by amatory spirits that they succumbed to their voluptuous passions before reaching the front door.

“’Amatory spirits?’” Simon scoffed, sipping his breakfast coffee. “’Voluptuous passions?’ What twaddle is this? And what did I tell you? We are always being watched.”

“Unfortunately this twaddle is true,” Ravenna murmured.

“It isn’t. We succumbed to our passions on the carpet, and I made certain the shutters were closed.”

Ravenna swallowed her small bite of toast. “Isolde refused to let Timpkins carry her into the house. He insisted that you would have done so, and that for the sake of authenticity, she should agree. I didn’t have the heart to explain to her that we sneaked in through the stables on our wedding night. She was doing her best. She tussled with Timpkins on the front steps before relenting.”

Simon grew dour. “We shall be observed in public even more so now. People will hope to see us tussle.”

“Perhaps we should only go out in disguise.”

“Perhaps we should not go out at all,” he said, not displeased by the notion.

“Speaking of -- you do remember we’re attending the theater tonight with Rhys?”

“I was hoping you might have decided to stay home, instead.” He put down the paper with a deep sigh. “Don’t you wish to catch up on all the letters you’ve received? You must be knee-deep in invitations.”

“Isolde is here now to help me.”

He sighed again.

He took her to the play that evening, not to prove anything, but to please her. And yet he was unable to lower his guard to enjoy the night out. What defense did one prepare against an enemy too craven to show his face?

The scents of sawdust, cologne, and candle wax pervaded the theater, offending his senses. Simon was weary of what the world considered alluring, plays and players, acts of betrayal. He considered burying his face in the dark hair tidily coiled on his wife’s neck. She was the elixir that lifted his mood and cleansed his soul.

An enrapt silence had gripped the audience. Ravenna and Rhys leaned forward in the box. She glowed in a silver-threaded taffeta gown. Her brother looked dashing in black. Damnation. Simon loved the pair of bookends more deeply than he could bear. His best friends. His world, actually, and he included Aunt Glynnis in that realm, although he was relieved she wasn’t present tonight to observe his slightest move.

The lead actress had broken into a bawdy song. He glanced around the house, diverted by the glint of a brass-handled quizzing glass raised in an adjacent box. He glared at a gentleman staring at Ravenna. Other audience members had broken into whispers at her arrival. Why? To seek a haut ton acquaintance? To witness a scandal first-hand? Or for more nefarious reasons? Perhaps they stared simply because she was lovely to behold.

He might have deciphered what lurked beneath the differential greetings and courteous smiles; he might even be able to name the play in progress, had he not been as bespelled by his wife as everyone else.

Ravenna’s attention wandered from the stage. How many times had she stood up high on the castle turret as a child, pretending she was a princess, her brothers the besieging raiders below? Somewhere in London’s sophisticated world a genuine enemy existed.

This was no game. One of the playgoers might be the man who wanted Simon dead. One of the elegant women in attendance tonight might nurture illicit hopes for an affair with her husband. Ravenna could not close her eyes to these dangers if she wished to protect both his life and their marriage.

Innocence no longer served her. She had married a desirable man who did not care whom he provoked, nor when he did so. Her blood heated as she felt his mouth graze her shoulder in a forbidden kiss. By force of will she did not outwardly react, savoring the act in secret. As a friend, Simon knew her foibles and shortcomings. As a lover, he understood how to unlock her sexual inclinations. It might be unfair that as her husband he held unlimited power over her.

Yet there were benefits to his expert tutelage. There were delights to be discovered in a marriage neither of them had sought. She had looked forward to her night at the theater. By the end of the performance, she keenly anticipated time alone with Simon.

On the ride home she avoided his inquisitive stare lest he sense she longed to return the kiss he had stolen.

Appraising her in silence, he lounged against the carriage squabs in urbane splendor. His lips lifted at the corners in a smile of sensual awareness that emboldened her. She dampened the edges of her mouth with her tongue. Then, with a deliberation that would have shocked her a month ago, she bumped her knee against his.

“Excuse me,” he said, his eyes half-closing.

She bumped his knee again.

His eyes opened, studying her keenly in the lantern glow. “I seem to be clumsy tonight,” he murmured. “Do pardon me. We need that larger carriage, don’t you think?”

Her breasts lifted as she drew a breath. “I am in a restless mood.”

He straightened his legs. He was a large man, heavy-boned, suited better to a horse than a town carriage. But he suited Ravenna to perfection. Everything from the symmetry of his form to the kindness he showed family and servants enthralled her.

“You kissed me in the theater,” she said.

“I am a wretch.”

“Yes, at times you are.”

“A clumsy wretch.”

“You provoked me.” She leaned forward, deliberately not only exposing her décolletage to his view, but tugging the neckline down indiscreetly with her hand. “I am most provoked.”

“My goodness.” He sat upright, his gaze dark with understanding. “You’re sitting on your cloak. You’ll catch a cold uncovered like that.”

She sighed deeply.

He settled next to her in a heartbeat. “There is something you desire of me?”

Surely a duchess would be mortified to admit her intimate needs outside the boudoir? “I might be hungry. We rushed through supper.”

Simon refuted her feeble explanation. He took her face in hand and stared at her with the faintest smile. His gloved thumb stroked her bottom lip until she quivered in readiness. “May I satisfy your appetite?”

“In the carriage?” she asked doubtfully. “As you said, there is hardly room to stretch one’s legs.”

“Are we not resourceful?”

“We are almost home,” she whispered, captured by not the strength he exuded but the potency of his stare. She would dearly love to pull off his evening jacket and use him to her advantage. She turned to the window to conceal this wayward thought.

Startled, she felt him slide closer to her, felt his hand cradle the curve of her breast. “I have no willpower when it comes to you,” he said in her ear.

Her stomach tightened as he eased his arm around her waist. “Simon, this is the wrong place,” she said without conviction. “Ignore my untoward suggestion.”

“Ignoring my wife would be bad manners.”

She dropped back against his arm, releasing her breath. Deftly he raised her dress to her hips. The silver taffeta glinted against his dark jacket sleeve as he briefly lifted his hand away. His gaze holding hers, he tore off his glove and worked open his trousers.

She leaned beneath him in a daze. Fire infused her veins as the thick head of his shaft pressed between her folds. He tugged off the other glove with his teeth. His warm hand glided across her tuft of curls, slipped lower, and found her pearl. His fingers pinched and plucked her delicately.

She arched, stifling a moan of sheer erotic surrender.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, massaging her with his masterful touch.

“Yes,” she breathed, subsiding beneath his shadow. The intensity in his eyes mesmerized her. Who had initiated this act? Her thoughts blurred. Her insides knotted.

She moved to encourage, entice him, and quite honestly, to lock them together against the jostling of the carriage on the cobblestones. “Perhaps this was a poor idea,” she said unevenly.

“Loving you is always a good idea,” he replied, and bowed his head to cover her upturned face and the tops of her breasts with kisses.

She struggled to remember where they were, that she could not cry out, nor implore him to hurry. “We’re almost home,” he said as he licked the nipple that had escaped her bodice. Sharp desire lanced to her spine. He thrust harder. Her back bent into a bow so tense that she quivered. “The driver is drawing up to the stables,” he added in a wickedly deep voice.

She caught her breath, so close to release that her heart ceased to beat. Almost. Now.

Then the carriage slowed.

He sighed in helpless apology, withdrawing from her and fastening his trousers before the vehicle came to a complete stop. Ravenna swiftly drew down her dress and attempted to hide her feverish discomposure from the footmen who flanked the vehicle’s folding steps. She ached unbearably, insatiable woman that she was.

“We will continue in the house,” Simon promised behind her as the carriage door opened.

How could he sound so cavalier?

She shuddered. Her entire body felt hot, engorged, and unfulfilled. She turned her head to reply to him, but the raw hunger in his eyes stilled the words in her throat.

Her gauche attempt at seducing her husband had not been the complete failure she’d feared. Embarrassment slowly evolved into determination. She would study a street map of the metropolis as part of her education. And make demands of Simon earlier in the journey the next time they ventured abroad.