Page 68 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke
Achilles barked. That one sharp sound had broken the spell Dominic had been under—the one that involved Marianne’s sweet taste on his tongue.
Then, he heard another sound. Something that would haunt his dreams from then on—Marianne’s gasps as she came down from her orgasm. Her cheeks were red, her eyes wide and her pupils dilated. She was still in the throes of pleasure.
Another bark could be heard. Yes, that should be Beowulf. It also sounded like he was growling.
The carriage lurched to a stop as Marianne tried to catch her breath.
Home. They were home.
Dominic could see that his wife was finally realizing it as she blinked and began adjusting her skirts. Her fingers trembled.
He managed to regain his restraint, sitting straight as if nothing had happened even as the door opened too suddenly.
Marianne tensed as footsteps approached the carriage, and Dominic quickly removed his coat and helped her cover her torn bodice.
She gave him a small smile.
Right then, a stable boy with a ruddy face and hair sticking at all angles peered inside.
“Y-Yer G-Graces,” he stammered with a quick bow. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but Perseus has been rampagin’ over the tulip beds again, and now he’s in the kitchen garden, running in circles.”
Dominic shook his head in disbelief. That damned goat, again.
Marianne sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. His eyes followed her hands as she wrapped his coat around herself tightly.
He swallowed. He needed to stop looking at his wife like that, lest his servants noticed the evidence of his arousal.
“Perseus can be somewhat rowdy on occasion,” she grumbled.
“What the hell would that goat want in the kitchen garden?” Dominic asked, still dazed.
The only silver lining of this situation was that all this goat talk was dissipating his desire quickly, sparing him the embarrassment.
“He was after the lettuce, Yer Grace,” the stable boy explained. “He also raided through some of our carrots.”
“I suddenly have the appetite for goat pie,” Dominic muttered.
Marianne shot him a sharp look. “Perseus is not on the menu,” she said bitingly.
“Not yet,” he groaned, straightening his coat.
He finally stepped down from the carriage, bracing himself for whatever chaos awaited in his home.
Marianne followed but then hurried past him, lifting her skirts with purposeful grace as the stable boy led her toward the kitchen garden.
Dominic watched her go. Her shoulders raised to her ears, her back straight and rigid—a woman ready for battle.
He shook his head, a slow smile tugging at his lips. Marianne was a duchess by title alone. Beneath it beat the heart of a warrior, a woman fiercely devoted to the things she loved.
And beneath the armor, he remembered the softness of her lips against his—the fire they’d shared moments ago, fierce and raw, yet somehow tender.
That memory lingered, warming him against the chill of the evening—and reminding him that no matter the battles ahead, she was his.
As soon as Marianne reached the gardens near the kitchen, her eyes landed immediately on the notorious culprit.
Perseus had somehow managed to clamber atop a toppled wheelbarrow, looking every bit the victorious bandit. She could have sworn his beady eyes sparkled with mischief, and the half-chewed carrot dangling from his mouth was a trophy—his way of declaring total conquest.
Chaos reigned around him: overturned baskets, snapped stalks, and a decidedly displeased Serafina hissing like a tiny dragon on guard duty.
