Page 21 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
But she was already lifting her head, those extraordinary eyes finding his in the dim morning light. Her lips were still swollen from his kisses, and there was a delightful mark justwhere her neck met her shoulder—his mark, his claim, though he had no right to either.
"What time is it?" she asked, stretching in a way that made the sheet slip dangerously low.
"Early yet." He couldn't resist running his hand down her bare back, feeling her shiver in response. "You should rest. You'll need your strength for the journey."
"Mmm." She pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "And whose fault is it that I'm so exhausted, pray tell?"
"Yours entirely," he said, rolling her beneath him in one smooth motion, gratified by her gasp. "If you weren't so damnably irresistible, so responsive, so perfect..."
He punctuated each word with a kiss—her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast just visible above the sheet. She arched beneath him, her hands tangling in his hair, and he nearly forgot about Hartwell and whatever urgent business awaited.
"Sir?" Hartwell's voice came again, apologetic but insistent. "The gentleman says it cannot wait."
James cursed under his breath. "I must see to this," he said to Catherine, pressing one more kiss to her lips before forcing himself to rise. "Stay here. Stay warm. Stay exactly as you are."
"Commanding as ever," she jested, but her eyes were dark with renewed desire. "Hurry back?"
"Wild horses couldn't keep me away."
He pulled on his trousers and shirt hastily, not bothering with anything else. Whoever had come calling at this ungodly hour would have to accept him in a state of dishabille.
The sitting room was cold, the fire having died during the night. James opened the door just enough to see Hartwell and, behind him, a man in traveling clothes who looked as though he'd ridden through the jaws of death.
"Peters," James said flatly. Of course. He should have known his valet would come again, like he had done the day before. The man had an uncanny ability to appear at the most inopportune moments.
"Forgive the intrusion, sir," Peters said carefully, mindful of Hartwell's presence. "But your father's condition has deteriorated most alarmingly. The physician fears... that is, the family requests your immediate presence."
James felt something cold settle in his chest. He'd known this was coming, had been expecting it for months. Yet somehow, the reality still struck like a blow.
"How long?" he asked quietly.
"The physician cannot say with certainty. Perhaps days. Perhaps hours."
"I see." James was aware of Hartwell's curious gaze, of the way sound carried in the inn. "Mr. Hartwell, might we have use of your private parlor? This is a matter of some delicacy."
"Of course, sir. This way, if you please."
James followed them down to a small room off the main hall, gesturing for Peters to close the door behind them.
"Now," he said once they were alone, "speak freely. How bad is it truly?"
"His Grace..." Peters caught himself, even though they were alone. The habit of discretion ran deep. "Your father has been asking for you. Your mother is beside herself. She insists you return immediately."
"And if I don't?"
Peters's expression was carefully neutral. "Then I am instructed to remind you of your duty, sir. Of what is owed to the name and title."
Duty. Always duty. It had driven him to war, to years of exile, and now it would drive him away from the one woman who'd made him feel truly alive.
"I need an hour," James said. "Perhaps two."
"Sir..."
"Two hours, Peters. I have... matters to conclude here."
Peters's gaze sharpened. "Matters, sir?"
"Nothing that concerns the family," James said firmly. "Personal matters of no consequence."
