Page 76 of His Unwanted Duchess

Abruptly, as if he’d forgotten he was pinning her down, Stephen released her wrist. When he drew back his hand, his fingers skimmed down the inside of her forearm. She shivered at the touch, and he must have noticed it.

“Goodnight, then,” Stephen said abruptly.

He pulled back, and Beatrice felt cold without the warm weight of him pressing her down into the mattress. Struggling up into a sitting position, she was just in time to see Stephen flopping down onto the pillows, curling up and turning away from her.

She opened her mouth, not entirely sure what she wanted to say and whether she should say anything at all.

After all, he’d made it abundantly clear that all he wanted was a bed for the night and nothing else. A man like Stephen, aman likeDuke Blackheart,could go after what he wanted the moment that he wanted it, couldn’t he?

“Goodnight,” Beatrice managed, her voice faint and weak in the silence.

Stephen did not answer, instead leaning over to where the candle stood on the bedside table, flame guttering. He blew it out, plunging them both into darkness.

Stephen lay awake. He deserved it, really.

At the time, riled up by his argument—no,discussion—with his mother, already irritated by Beatrice’s refusal to budge on the matter of their room, and, of course, their intimate encounter in the carriage—which ought never to have happened—it had seemed entirely natural to storm into his old room and prove that he was just as stubborn as she was.

Perhaps it was the fire of whiskey fizzling through his veins that had emboldened him to stomp into his old room and insist on sharing the bed with Beatrice.

At the time, it had felt like a victory, but right now, Stephen felt like a prize fool.

He could not, of course, sleep.

How could he, with Beatrice lying next to him in that too-thin chemise, sprawled over the mattress, deep asleep, entirely unconcerned?

Stephen, however, was fairly aching with desire, and with no chance of quenching it anytime soon.

They are both wrong,he reminded himself.Our rules are in place for a reason. Yes, yes, very well, myrules! I am only thinking of Beatrice’s well-being. That is all. She doesn’t understand, but with time… well, with time, I think she might.

He wanted badly to regret what they’d done in the carriage, just like he wanted to regret the kisses they’d shared earlier. It could not, however, be undone, so he would have to commit to not repeating the mistakes. A little self-control was all it would take.

Glancing over at Beatrice, who was now curled up on her side, facing him, he acknowledged that he did not have a great amount of self-control at his disposal at the moment.

Through a gap in the curtains, Stephen could see that the gray pre-dawn light was filling the sky. It was possibly four o’clock in the morning—perhaps half-past four. Proper daylight and dawn were hours away, and not even the servants would be up and about yet. Still, there was no sense in lying awake for much longer. Sleep had evaded him that night, and there was nothing to do about it.

He got up carefully, gingerly sitting up in bed so as not to disturb his sleeping wife. Despite his best efforts, she shifted a little as hemoved to climb out of bed. Murmuring something unintelligible, she pressed her face into the pillow and abruptly let out a low, breathy gasp, trapped in the clutches of some dream or another.

The noise made Stephen shiver involuntarily.

Good heavens. I’m in deeper than I thought.

She did not stir again, and he slid out of bed without disturbing her further.

Stephen’s clothes from last night were scattered across the floor. He had a feeling that if he searched his old wardrobes for his clothes, he would find them gone. He would have to ask Mouse later where Beatrice had put them, and what had become of the boxes and suitcases that were so rudely abandoned in front of the house.

Dressed for the day and intending to take a long, refreshing ride before breakfast, Stephen hesitated at the door only for a moment. Peering back into the darkened bedroom, he could make out the form of Beatrice, her red hair glinting even in the gloom.

With a pang in his chest that he did not entirely understand, Stephen resolutely turned around and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

CHAPTER 22

Beatrice woke up gradually, tangled up in some delightful dream. It had been hazy, scarcely remembered, as most of the best dreams were. What had it been about again?

Stephen was there, she remembered that much, smirking down at her with those glowing green eyes, making it impossible to look away from his stupid, handsome face. Thewantingthat had coiled in Beatrice’s gut so insistently had transferred itself to her dreams, leaving her with breathless, intense feelings of desire, frustration, and yearning that made her wake up hot and sweating, aching for something just out of her reach.

It was not the best start to the day.

The other side of the bed was empty, the sheets neatly smoothed out, the pillows plumped, the mattress cool. It was clear that Stephen had been gone for some hours, and had left without waking her.

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