Page 69 of The Duke of Ruin
“I see. I like the green. It reminds me of your chamber at my cousin’s.”
He smiled. “I thought the same thing. And Lord knows I have pleasant memories of that room.”
She blushed. “What else has been refurbished?”
“The stairs were first. The railings have been changed. They were gilt before. And all the artwork there and in the entry hall have been moved around—so that it looks different.”
“A wise decision.” She stepped toward him, her features tentative. “Simon, have you considered not living here?”
Every damn day. “One might argue that I don’t. As you know, I’ve spent much of the last two years traveling. Or I’m in London for Parliament. I stayed here one night after I left the house party in October, and before that, I was here for just four or five nights in the summer.”
She touched his hand, slipping her fingers between his. “We don’t have to stay.”
“We do—at least for a few days, maybe a week. A duke should probably see to his estate.”
She moved closer so that their chests almost touched. “I don’t want you to suffer.”
He marveled at her empathy. “How can you be so kind? You know what happened here, what I did.”
“Not entirely,” she said. “I know your former wife fell and that you are blamed and that you don’t remember what happened. It sounds like a terrible tragedy. Sometimes, no one is at fault.”
Logically, he knew that was true, but that wasn’t the case here. He’d apparently been arguing with Miriam, not that he could fathom why. They’d never fought. While it was true no one could definitively say he’d caused her death, it certainly seemed as though he had. He ought to tell Diana all this, but the words froze on his tongue. She was so understanding, so generous with her faith—he wanted to bask in her light.
He realized this was what love felt like. He knew from loving Miriam. He’d wanted to spend every moment with her, to better himself by being in her orbit. But how could he love someone other than Miriam? He’d sworn he wouldn’t. He could like and respect and admire Diana. He couldn’t love her.
His chest ached with the unfairness of it.
Suddenly, he was tired of thinking, of hurting. He wanted to feel something good. And he wanted to forget. He clasped his hands around Diana’s waist and pulled her flush to his chest. He lowered his mouth to hers and claimed her lips.
Again, she seemed to understand exactly what he needed. She pushed his coat from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, then tugged his cravat loose and slid the silk from his neck. When his shirt fell open, she slipped her hands inside the fabric and caressed his collarbones, curling her fingers around his nape.
Her tongue flashed into his mouth, seeking and claiming what he would freely offer. She’d been nothing short of adventurous and enticing in their marriage bed. He’d hoped to find a match like this once, but twice?
No, this wasn’t the same as Miriam. It couldn’t be.
And it wasn’t. There was something fiercer about Diana—she was courage and fire and beauty all wrapped into a petite and astonishing package. She was, as he’d told her on several occasions, incomparable.
The familiar guilt tugged at him, more strongly than in recent days, probably because of returning to Lyndhurst. But maybe with Diana—with this glorious physical connection between them—he could begin to banish the ghosts of his past.
She trailed her lips from his, moving along his jaw, then down his neck. Her fingers made quick work of the buttons on his waistcoat, unfastening them with deft alacrity. Then the garment slid from his shoulders to join the growing pile of his clothing on the floor.
“Duchess, are you seducing me?” he murmured.
She pulled the hem of his shirt from his waistband and skimmed her hand up under the fabric, stroking the hard plane of his abdomen. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Never.” He curled his hand around her nape and dragged her mouth back to his. Unbidden, he whispered, “Make me forget.” The plea was dark and ragged, like the edges of a heart that had been split in two.
But just maybe it could be repaired.
Chapter 14
After dinner last night, Simon had given Diana a tour of Lyndhurst. Quite a few refurbishments had taken place over the past two years, and she wondered if all the work would be enough to make living here tolerable for him. She wasn’t convinced.
Shecouldsee, however, that her new husband was really quite wealthy. That might be enough to mollify her father, but she doubted it. She wondered when and how he would deliver his anger upon her—for never in a moment did she think he’d simply congratulate her on her elopement and wish her well.
Shoving those unpleasant thoughts aside, Diana made her way from the sitting room where she’d enjoyed a lovely breakfast with Simon. After enjoying a rather lovely night with him too.
She still blushed thinking of their intimacy and how wonderful it had turned out to be. She now had to speculate whether her mother’s experiences were really as awful as what she’d told Diana, or if she’d lied on purpose to dissuade Diana from allowing any bachelors to kiss her while she was on the marriage mart. Unfortunately, Diana was fairly certain it was the former. Her poor mother.
