Page 66 of His Unwanted Duchess

At the peak, thaturgencyexploded, and Beatrice’s mouth fell open. She had a strange vision of herself going over a waterfall and falling down, down, and down—but that didn’t matter, none of it mattered.

It took a moment or two for her to return to herself, gasping for breath and blinking like a newborn.

“That was…” she managed, not quite able to find the words.

Stephen was sitting back on his heels, more disheveled than she’d ever seen him. His breaths were coming hard, his cheeks flushed, but he looked almost triumphant.

“I may not be a man ofmanytalents,” he said when their eyes met, “but I have one talent in particular.”

She struggled up, resting on her elbows. “Let me… I ought to help you.” She nodded her head towards the bulge in his trousers.

He followed her gaze, chuckling ruefully. “It’s not necessary, my dear, but thanks for offering.”

She sat up properly, “No, I’d like to. It’s only fair. You might need to show me what to do, but I’ve… I’ve read books, you know. I’ve seenpictures.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Well, if you’ve readbooks…”

Without another word, Stephen took her hand and drew it to the placket of his trousers.

CHAPTER 19

The ride back to the house was a quiet one. That was not at all what Beatrice had expected.

Things had seemed to be going… well, swimmingly. After Beatrice’s climax, and Stephen’s—which she’d managed rather well, she thought—they had lain together for a moment, breathless and chuckling giddily.

“That,” Beatrice had said, fighting the urge to grin like a fool, “was frankly marvelous. I hope we can do it again. I think I have a knack for it.”

That was a joke, mostly, but Stephen did not smile. He propped himself up on his elbows, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. Beatrice was struck with the desire to brush it away. At first, she curled her fingers into a fist, suppressing the feeling.

Then a thought struck her.

Why shouldn’t I? We’ve just been intimate. Why should I not run my fingers through his hair if I wish?

Summoning her courage, she leaned forward, raking her fingers through the lock of hair at his forehead, brushing it back. Stephen’s reaction, however, was not what she had expected.

He flinched back as if she’d landed a blow instead of a caress, very nearly falling off the carriage seat in the process.

“Stephen?” she’d asked, baffled, but he avoided her gaze.

In the poor light inside the carriage, she could not read his expression, and she was not sure she could have interpreted it even if there was sufficient light.

“I should find the coachman,” he said abruptly. “We’ll draw attention by sitting here by ourselves. You look rather disheveled—it might be best if you remain here. I shan’t be a moment.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, simply letting himself out of the carriage and hurrying off into the night, jamming his hat on his head as he went.

Beatrice found herself alone, sitting up on a carriage seat, bewildered.

What in the world is going on? What have I done? Did I do something terrible?

No answers, it seemed, were forthcoming.

On their way home, Stephen kept his gaze turned away from Beatrice, aimed out of the window at the dark, slick streets they passed by, drawing nearer and nearer to their home.

Herhome, Beatrice reminded herself.

She hadn’t expected this sort of coldness. In the few, racy books she’d read, in which the hero and heroine engaged in some form of intimacy, it was always followed by embraces and expressions of love and generally ended with the pair falling asleep in each other’s arms. Of course, Beatrice knew quite well that it was fiction, but surely, fiction had to havesomeroots in reality.

Right?

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