Page 11 of His Abandoned Duchess

“They are written in some type of code, Edward. I’m sure of it. The sense these receipts make is a sure as a one foxed up to no end.”

Richard’s frustration bit through him, gnawing on the marrow of his bones as he continued to study his wife’s ledgers. In truth, there was no issue with the calculations or the lack of transparency. Still, the system that Amelia used to keep track of the debts was none he’d ever seen, and countless line items appeared to him like quite the waste of funds.

“I am most sorry to hear of your exasperation, Your Grace. Is there anything which I can bring you to ease your mind?”

He shook his head at the valet, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeezed shut. “No, Edward. I am quite without the possibility of good spirits at this stage. I think I shall retire, in fact. There is little more to be done at this late an hour.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Edward nodded, moving toward the door to begin preparation for assisting the Duke with undressing. “I shall ensure the room is to your liking.”

But Richard’s enjoyment of his valet’s company was minimized this evening, a result of his long hours navigating the estate’s accounts. He wished for only an evening of peace and solitude.

“It is quite all right, Edward. I’m sure it will be acceptable. Would you please be so kind as to ensure that breakfast and the necessities for a morning walk are at the ready for the morrow? That would suit my mood far better.”

Edward ducked his head low as he regarded Richard, bowing slightly. “Of course, Your Grace. Have a most restful evening.”

As his valet left, Richard shoved aside the ledger. He would not be attempting to discern its truth further until the morning. Exhaustion crept through him too readily, and he would be of little use in navigating the documents as tired as he was. He leaned back in his chair, the wood squeaking softly as it took his weight, and Richard let out a long exhale.

“It is a wonder that my wife’s hoyden sensibilities have not led the estate to dun territory.” He shifted forward again, unable to find comfort in any one position for longer than a moment. “We shall be dished up and under the hatches should that woman continue to lend out her good graces so readily.”

A rough sigh hit him, and unbidden, Richard’s mind turned to the events of earlier that day. Amelia’s cadre of hangers-onsurrounded her like gibbering cits, and the laughter from the drawing room had been enough to rattle the walls of his office.

And Richard knew that it had been a purposeful effort. There was no mistaking the timing of the lively chatter or the way that it occurred out of thin air when the room had been quiet just moments prior. His wife was attempting to dislodge him from Heartwick for his supposed offenses to her, and he would have none of it.

I am the Duke of this estate, and Amelia will take care to remember that.

Still, even now, hours later, Richard’s fingers tingled at the memory of holding Amelia as she nearly toppled to the ground, thanks to that silly game she’d insisted on playing in the house instead of in the garden or yard where it was most suitable.

The blazing image of Amelia’s smile lit up behind Richard’s closed lids, and he sighed as he raked his hands over his face. She had smiled. His wife had smiled so genuinely and without the usual weight that carried her down. He’d not seen her wear that expression previously, and certainly not as the result of his proximity.

In the moment, Richard had nearly frozen, nearly told the guests crowded into the usually bright room to depart for an entirely different occasion. He’d been consumed with lascivious thoughts that strangled him even now, simply recalling them. It had been his only hope, steering into the storm of his anger, or he would have claimed her sweet lips within moments.

Steel yourself, Richard. You cannot allow yourself to be so…manipulated by the mere presence of the woman in your mind.

But there was little use in fighting against the raging waves of his subconscious as they churned all the harder. Every breath he took made the situation with his wife that much more complicated, more fraught with unending battles between his sound, logical mind and the depths of unpredictable, purposeless emotion that threatened to crowd it out.

This would not do. There was no time for the distraction that Amelia’s being caused with each interaction. She was thistle in the soft down of a pillow, one that prodded him at even the slightest of unfortunate movements.

And were he not careful, Richard knew that his better judgment would be swayed by the unique cunning that her kind possessed.

He had been taught far too well by his father—a man whose disappointment carried with it the vengeance of a swift switch—and he would not allow himself or his reputation to be so sullied by a lack of strength on his part.

He stood up from his desk, shaking his chair. The quiet of the room was too oppressive. He needed sleep. So, Richard trekked up to his bedroom. It would not be occupied by an unforeseen visitor this evening, and allowing himself to fall into the cushion with little care sounded heavenly.

A candle was still lit near his bed, and Richard used the low light to strip free of his many layers. His banyan was set asidewhile his shirt and waistcoat were deposited in the sturdy basket for the maids. Next should have come a nightshirt, but Richard was practically dragging himself to the bed as it were, and it seemed of no significant harm to crawl beneath his covers in his pantaloons.

I’ll be sure to inspect them for any damage come morning.

Richard crashed down atop his mattress without ceremony, and unlike a typical night laden with insomnia and discomfort, Richard began to steadily fall asleep within seconds.

Hazy images percolated up from his subconscious mind as Richard dozed, and the mist-like shapes gradually began to take form—smooth, long lines forming slender arms and legs and swelling curves forming naked breasts and hips.

Even asleep, Richard’s pulse ticked up as his dreams conjured up the fantasy of his wife’s unclothed body. His imagination proved too strong to deny, and it churned with the possibility of seeing her, touching her.

His body stirred to life, a reaction that he could keep at bay when he was not so consumed by the sorcery of his slumber. Questions tickled through him as the images morphed and danced behind his closed eyes.

What would she display to him? What would the rosy tenderness of her lips taste like should he claim them with his own?

What would Ameliafeellike wrapped around his?—

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