Page 45 of My Demanding Duke

“It looks much better,” Hugh said firmly, before adding. “Not to say that you need my approval to make changes. This is your home after all.”

She nodded in agreement, her eyes finally meeting his.

“I would like it to feel more like home,” she said, her simple statement sounding to Hugh’s ear rather loaded.

“I would likeyouto feel more at home,” he replied, clearing his throat awkwardly. Dash it, why was it so difficult to put into words what he wanted to say?

His gaze travelled from the cheerful landscape to the pianofort, atop which sat a fresh vase of flowers. He frowned then, as he noticed something was missing.

“The other portrait?” he questioned anxiously. He did not care a fig about the expensive Turner piece she had removed but the portrait of Jack was priceless—to him, at least.

“I thought it a shame to hide it away in a room you rarely visit,” she answered, her tone even but her words, once again, heavy with meaning. “I had it moved to the library.”

“Very good,” Hugh answered, his racing heart returning to a steadier rhythm now he knew that it had not been consigned to the kindling pile. He shifted a little, under her watchful gaze. She was waiting for him to tell her about Jack—heavens only knew why, for she had obviously unearthed the truth of the story herself.

Well, most of it. Only Hugh knew the true tale.

“Jack was my older brother,” Hugh said stiffly. His words sounded wooden, though he reasoned that was because he’d not had much practice saying those words over the last decade.Jack. Brother.He couldn’t recall the last time he’d said that in a sentence toanyone.

“He died many years ago,” he finished, feeling rather silly for stating what was blatantly obvious. If Jack had not died, Hugh would not be standing before her as the Duke of Falconbridge.

“You don’t like to talk about him.”

Her soft words were delivered not as a question but as a statement. Nervously, Hugh lifted his eyes to meet hers and found they were brimming with warmth and understanding. He suddenly yearned for her comforting touch—longed to hold her close, bury his head in her hair and whisper the heavy secret he had carried for so long.

"No," he said, after a heavy pause. "No, I think I should like very much to speak of him. Just, perhaps not all at once."

He prayed silently that she would take the hint, for his throat felt tight and if he wasn’t two-and-thirty years of age and holder of one of England’s most powerful titles, he could have sworn that he might cry.

"Of course," Anna said, her voice gentle as she took a step toward him. "I will not force you. Only when you are ready.”

Hugh inclined his head graciously, unable to voice a reply to her kind offer. Inwardly he wanted to laugh aloud at his pompous declaration to Thorncastle, that he knew what was best for his wife. Anna was omnipotent; in less than a week of married life, she had unearthed his deepest wound and gently forced him to confront it.

Anna moved closer still, until she stood just before him, her face upturned to his. She rose onto her tiptoes, one small hand coming to rest upon his chest.

“Thank you for telling me,” she whispered, before placing a kiss upon his lips.

Hugh stilled, shocked that his vulnerability had not pushed her away but had drawn her to him. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, a peace offering of sorts. Anna’s fingertips pressed against his waistcoat, and Hugh felt the warmth of her touch even through the layers of fabric.

Something broke loose within him; passion mixed with the heady relief of baring his pain to another. Of showing someone a portion of his battered soul and finding not revulsion, but compassion. His arms encircled her waist, drawing her closer as the kiss deepened. She responded eagerly, her arms encircling his neck, her passion matching his.

A low sound escaped Hugh’s throat as he gently pushed her backward, until her shoulders met the wall beside the newly hung landscape. His body pressed against hers, propriety forgotten as desire overwhelmed him. His hands roved her body, caressing her curves beneath the fabric of her dress.

He longed to possess her completely; to feel himself inside her. He wanted, he realised with shock, to join their two bodies as one.

“Anna,” he groaned, as her fingers tangled in his hair.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered against his lips, unaware that she was in grave danger of ceding her virginity to him, upright against a wall, like a common tavern wench.

He pulled back slightly, breathing hard. Her eyes were dazed, her lips reddened from his kisses, her hair half-undone around her flushed face.

"We shouldn't," he managed, even as his aching cock protested his words. "Not here."

A sharp knock at the door confirmed his suspicions that the parlour-room was not the correct venue in which to finally consummate their marriage. They sprang apart, Anna smoothing her hair as Hugh adjusted his cravat.

"Yes?" Hugh called, his voice rough.

The door remained closed as Reeves spoke from the other side.

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