Page 47 of Tamed By her Duke

“Not here,leannan,” her husband murmured, which was right bloody rich, in Grace’s opinion, given that her skirts were still about her waist. But she was too eager for him to argue. Her crisis had left one part of her sated, but not the part of her that longed to touch him, to feel his skin pressed to hers.

She let out another little whimper, this time frustration, when he stepped back enough to let the heavy fabric of her skirts fall to the ground. She was, absently, grateful for the thick brocade of the tartan-inspired dress, which withstood crinkling far better than would have any silk London ballgown or even a muslin day dress.

If not here, Grace decided, they needed to find themselves elsewhere. Ignoring the truly horrifying social lapse that was leaving a party thrown in one’s honor without so much as a by your leave, she grasped her husband by the hand—shooting him a poisonous look for good measure, lest he think this delay acceptable—and pulled him toward the hall’s front entrance.

If their coachman was surprised to see them emerge while the party was still clearly going on, the music echoing joyously outside, he was too well-trained to mention it. He merelychucked aside the apple he’d been chewing and clambered up onto the coach’s front seat.

Grace giggled as her husband hoisted her inside, apparently as eager as she was. The wheels crunched against gravel; the moment they were off, Grace deposited herself directly into Caleb’s lap.

They had nearly three quarters of an hour back to their estate, and Grace intended to make good use of that time.

Caleb, however, was not cooperating.

“Let me,” she urged, tugging at his clothes. She could feel his hardness beneath her, both in his muscular thighs and in other places, places she was not at all certain she was yet ready to explore. She had found herself, however, rather intensely intrigued by the way his shoulders pressed against the weave of his jacket, as if determined to test its seams.

It was unfashionable to be that broad, impolite to be so strong. But Caleb wasn’t polite, not in the least, and for now, Grace found she did not mind.

The only thing she minded was getting past all these idiotic layers so she could touch that rugged, impolite strength.

But Caleb wasn’t helping.

And this, she realized in a sudden, sobering flash, wasn’t merely part of their game. He wasn’t merelynot helping, he was actively hindering her, was taking her hands and pulling them away from his body.

“No,leannan,” he said. His words were almost soft, almost, but they were powerfully unyielding.

Grace felt a sudden flash of humiliation. She’d let him take his liberties as he wished—in ahallwayof all the places—thinking that there was something to this attraction between them.

But maybe she’d been playing the wrong game. Maybe his game had been to see how far he could push the ruined little wife he’d purchased. Maybe he’d just wanted to test how far his control went.

“I see,” she said, though she didn’t truly. She didn’t understand why he’d bothered playing. Was it just for the joy of knowing this was one more element of power he held over her?

Her husband did not look joyous, however, as she straightened her crumpled dress and removed herself to her own side of the carriage.

“Grace,” he said, but she couldn’t stand to listen to whatever he was about to say. Could not bear, not just then, to hear his explanation of how this marriage was nothing more than an exchange of her womb for the protection of his name.

She turned her face out the window, determined to block out whatever horrid thing he was about to say…

And then immediately forgot about her husband’s presence entirely, when she saw what stood, menacing in the moonlight, outside her carriage window.

CHAPTER 13

“What is wrong with ye, Grace?” Caleb demanded before inwardly cursing himself.

That hadn’t come out quite right.

Frankly, none of this was quite right. For one, he should not have appeared at breakfast the morning after that banquet. He’d made a practice of not spending time with his wife whenever possible, but here he was, watching her nibble distractedly at a piece of toast.

She looked up at him, her expression one of mild, polite surprise.

“Nothing,” she said, her tone suggesting that she could not even fathom why he might even think someone would ever be wrong with as primly pressed a proper Englishwoman as she. She allowed a hint of self-approbation into her smile. “I must be a bit distracted. Woolgathering, as it were. I do beg your pardon.”

She held the smile a moment more, then returned to her absent nibbling.

The whole thing was an utter crock of shite.

When she’d retreated into coldness the night prior, when he’d put her off in the carriage, he’d considered it his fair due. Any lass might be irritated, he gathered, to be mauled up against a wall and then discarded like yesterday’s scraps. She didn’t know he’d had a reason for wanting to keep her hands out from beneath his jacket, and he did not intend to share that reason with her.

He'd earned that anger, so he’d determined to weather it. After all, irritation between himself and his pretty wife, he was beginning to learn, often sparked into far more entertaining diversions.

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