Page 52 of His Unwanted Duchess

Beatrice yanked open a drawer and began to rummage around in it, keeping her back to him.

Curse the woman.I just wanted to rest after my hellish journey. Is that too much to ask? Apparently.

Biting back a sigh, he crossed the room to stand behind her.

“I’ve had a long journey,” Stephen said flatly.

It wasn’texactlyan apology, but it was the closest thing she would get, and so she’d better appreciate it.

“Why did you not tell me that yesterday was your birthday?”

Beatrice straightened, whipping around to face him. Stephen realized then that he was standing far too close. He could not, of course, back away—it was a sign of weakness, everybody knew that— so he was obliged to stand where he was, squinting down at her.

“I wasn’t aware we were meant to share details of our lives with each other,” she said, deliberately echoing his earlier words. “In fact, I am fairly sure you advised against it.”

I deserved that, I suppose.

Was that hurt in Beatrice’s eyes? No, he must be mistaken. Beatrice—the redoubtable Duchess of Blackwood, whose exploits he’d read about with horror and admiration in the scandal sheets over the past few months—would never behurtby anything he could do. After all, he was only her husband.

“I knew you would do this,” she said, her voice quiet and shaky. “I knew you’d come back and ruin everything.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

She made to move around him, but his hand automatically shot out, gripping her shoulder. Not hard, of course, but enough to keep her in place.

“I am not here to ruin anything,” he said. She was avoiding his gaze.

“You came back to make sure I act like a proper wife,” she said bitterly. “I knew the freedom wouldn’t last. Legally, as my husband, you can oblige me to act however you like. I always knew you were a liar.”

That was too much. Stephen turned her around to face him, and when she insisted on averting her gaze, he gripped her chin with his thumb and forefinger and turned her face up to his. Her breath hitched. He heard it, and it made him shiver.

“I am not here to ruin anything,” he repeated. “I am not here to stop you in any way, do you understand?”

She jerked her chin away. “I’ll never understand you for as long as I live.”

“No,” he remarked thoughtfully. “I suppose you won’t.”

He wound his arm around her waist, pulling her close. He could feel the warmth of her body against his, making the blood pound frantically under his skin.

“Although,” he said, his voice a little raspy at the edges, “would you like to understand me? Because frankly, I am not sure I can understand myself.”

She was staring up at him, her eyes wide, and he had the strangest feeling that if she looked away, he might actually die.

“I can’t understand myself,” he repeated, “because all I could think of these past few months is… is…”

It wasn’t like him to stammer, to not be able to form words.

Beatrice gave a wry smile. “Go on,Your Grace. Tell me what you’ve been thinking of.”

And then he kissed her.

Stephen himself was not entirely sure where the kiss came from, only that Beatrice’s plump, pink lips had been dragging his gaze downwards even more than her remarkable bosom had done. Their lips met in a harsh, ungenteel press, and he wrapped his arms around her, pressing her tight against him.

She wasn’t wriggling away, wasn’t struggling. In fact, he could feel her fingertips on his lapels, one hand inching up and up his chest, coming dangerously close to the bare, vulnerable skin atthe side of his neck. He wanted to crush her against him even more, to make her feel the growing hardness that was already driving him wild, to touch her and make hersee…

They must have moved back, and Beatrice bumped against the dresser—that hideous new thing she’d bought for herself—and she let out a choked little moan, her teeth scraping his lower lip.

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