Page 39 of His Unruly Duchess
His cheek was warm and hard and angular, whereas hers was soft and hot and plump. And there was a slight roughness of stubble as if he had not shaved that morning.
If she turned her head to look at him, what would he do?
“Yes,” she murmured, so conscious of him and every part of him that brushed against her that even breathing proved difficult. “He favored English Baroque, but St. Paul’s is… a blend of so many architectural styles: Gothic, Classical, Greek, amongst… many others.”
She noticed him turn his head toward her, as if about to answer her question of what he might do at such proximity. His gaze skimmed her profile, the corner of his lips turning up in a small, secret smile.
“You have gone red again,” he said softly. “Are you sure you are not afflicted with something? At least in London, we will not want for a good physician.”
She cleared her dry throat, unable to turn her head to look at him. If she did, she both feared that he would kiss her and feared that he would not. She was not certain which would be worse.
“I think it is just the motion of the carriage,” she replied, as they turned away from St. Paul’s and headed west toward Mayfair.
In truth, now that she thought about it, they should not have been near enough to St. Paul’s to see it at all. Either the driver had taken a wrong turn by the museum, or Max had deliberately asked for a detour, past the one building that any budding architect worth their salt would gaze at in wonder.
If there is a dog in the next park we see, then he did it on purpose—for me.
It was not long before the carriage passed by a private park surrounded by black iron railings, in the fashionable area of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Not so many fields, in its present state, but a large portion of greenery, overlooked by the Royal College of Surgeons and the Lincoln’s Inn Theatre, amongst countless others.
And there, running back and forth to a gentleman in a thick, dark greatcoat, apparently fetching a stick, was what appeared to be a very small horse… and, on closer inspection, revealed itself to be a brindle-colored Great Dane.
“Thank you,” Caroline said, thinking out loud.
Max raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For… making sure I am well,” she mumbled, too shy to ask him outright if he had taken her past St. Paul’s on purpose.
He placed a tender hand between her shoulder blades, rubbing small circles. “What else is a diligent husband meant to do?” There was laughter in his voice, but when she cast him a sideways glance, his face was entirely serious.
Worried, even, as if he did not know the answer to his own question.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The carriage came to a standstill outside the Mayfair townhouse. Remembering not to make the same mistake twice, Max opened the door and held out his hand to his wife.
Carrying the cat in one arm, Caroline accepted the proffered hand. They walked together to the bottom of the porch steps where, for reasons quite unknown to Max, he decided that he would carry them both—feline and wife alike—over the threshold of his London residence.
“What are you—!” Caroline gasped, clinging more tightly to Powder Puff.
“It is more for the little beast than you,” Max replied nonchalantly. “I would hate for her to think she was not being treated like a princess for even a moment.”
How could he tell her that he had no idea why he thought it important to make right what he had done wrong the first time?Nor could he tell her that he was suddenly and inexplicably nervous, wondering what she would make of the townhouse. It was the only thing he had kept in the transfer of the earldom to Dickie, as it was not technically part of that neatly wrapped parcel. The only thing unchanged.
Dickie had not cared at all, for whenhewas in London, he took it upon himself to be a nuisance to as many of his friends as possible, overstaying his welcome wherever he chose to reside.
Caroline’s arm slipped around Max’s neck, coming all the way around to drape over his chest. As if she was comfortable in his embrace, as if she was glad that he was making things right. A far cry from the way they had begun.
“Welcome to your city residence,” he said awkwardly, reaching the door.
Some of the staff had made the journey the previous day to prepare the house for the couple’s arrival after months without use, so the door graciously creaked open as Max managed to turn the knob.
Mrs. Whitlock had evidently been waiting for the Duke and Duchess, but the moment she saw them enter in such a surprising fashion, she darted into the nearest hallway in a manner that was not at all subtle. If Caroline had noticed, she did not say so, her gaze leisurely taking in the fine entrance hall.
“This is beautiful,” Caroline said, making no demand to be let down. “It is so much… brighter than my brother’s.Thattownhouse has not been altered in a long time. Oh… look at that chandelier! How pretty!”
The hanging crystals caught the late afternoon light, the glow coming through the windows veering toward the bronze of sunset. And down below on the elegantly painted tiles—pale blue vines and ivy leaves on white—the crystals cast rainbow shards that, in turn, reflected on Caroline’s face.
Carefully, Max set his wife down. “I know it is somewhat abrupt…” he began, his nerves rising as Caroline’s eyes widened slightly as if she was expecting him to say something profound.
