Page 17 of The Duchess in His Bed
Blue ones adorned each side of the mask. He was tempted to count the seconds, but instead simply let them flow into eternity, ignored while he waited, while her eyes searched his face, her lips flattened. “Trust me,” he finally said, surprised his voice rasped so rough and raw, as though he’d gone his entire life without a drop of water ever touching his tongue. He despised the desperation he heard there, hoped she didn’t note it. He shouldn’t care that she kept herself hidden from him. Other women did, had. A mask wasn’t required for keeping oneself hidden.
She gave two quick nods, and she might as well have delivered two quick punches to his gut for the way it tightened, almost painfully. It wasn’t so much that he was about to see exactly what she looked like. It was more about what her actions said regarding her feelings toward him. She wanted more than his cock, wanted to please him. Not as much as he wished to please her. He suspected that was impossible. But more could develop between them now. More than rutting.
Lifting his hands that vibrated with the barest of trembles, he brought them around to the back of her head where the lacings secured the mask. Tugging on one dangling ribbon, he demolished the bow, then unraveled what remained and pulled the mask away.
Perfection greeted him, made it difficult to swallow. Her cheekbones were high, sharply cut, hollowed out, her nose a slender bridge that connected the blue of her eyes to the pink of her mouth. Unlike the blond of her thinly arched eyebrows, her eyelashes were thick and sooty, which made the blue stand out even more. Without the mask, everything was brighter, more vivid.
“You said you didn’t marry for love. But you are too beautiful for your husband not to have loved you.”
“Trust a man to equate beauty with love.”
Beauty had always been her currency, and for some reason, with him, she didn’t want it to be, which was part of the reason she’d held fast to the mask for so long. But beneath it her face had grown dewy, and she’d become weary of it providing a barrier between them—in more ways than one. She hadn’t wanted to discuss it anymore, had needed to move beyond it. And blast it, she’d wanted his fingers caressing her cheeks, caressing all of her.
This room had made her believe he wouldn’t be fixated with her appearance, that he valued much more, truly understood women. Not that this chamber wasn’t gorgeous, but it reflected a man’s tastes, the sort of room a man would be comfortable in—and he’d given women access to a small corner of a man’s world. Not with only the billiards table but the hunter-green walls, the masculinity of them.
One wall, the one she now neared at the far end of the room, was naught but shelves with books nestled tightly on most of them, the occasional figurine depicting a nude couple in one scandalous pose or another providing an interesting contrast. “Are these books just for show?”
“No. Those to the left of the midpoint I’ve read. Those to the right remain to be read.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You say that as though you intend to read them.”
“I do.”
She moved to the left, wanting to discern something about his taste. Biographies, mostly. Some books on travel.
“Scotch or brandy?” he asked.
“Brandy.” She was in need of something to regain her equilibrium after unveiling herself. She heard the clatter of decanters and glasses being shifted around, had noted the well-appointed marble sideboard with its mahogany hutch when they’d come into the room. Several seating areas adorned the space, for those who might want to watch a game at play. The scent of cigars hovered on the air, and she imagined ladies sitting around, puffing on the horrid things, sipping scotch, lounging back in the plush chairs, legs crossed in a rarified exhibition of rebelliousness, acting as they imagined men did when they retreated to their male-dominated dominion after dinner.
He could have decorated the room in pink, with flounces on the curtains, with delicate flowers rather than the plain green fronds adorning the area. Instead Aiden Trewlove had given the ladies a room where they could feel equal to men. She could not help but imagine he would offer the same courtesy in the bedchamber.
Perhaps that was the real reason she’d removed the mask. Because she wanted to come to him as equally as possible, in a place where neither rank nor title mattered. He knew she was a duchess and yet he wasn’t the least bit intimidated. Cared not one whit that fate had propelled her nearly to the ceiling of the social order while he was not even within shouting distance of it.
Speaking of ceilings, this one was painted with hunting scenes. Amid hounds, foxes, and forests, ladies wearing trousers and red jackets sat astride their mounts. Even in the décor, he gave women their due. He was a man of rare enlightenment.
She hadn’t heard him approach, but suddenly a snifter appeared before her. Cradling it in one hand, she took a sip, relishing the burn as she trailed her finger along the spine ofOn the Origin of Species. “You seem to favor nonfiction.”
“I like reading what I know to be true and real.”
“Fiction can be both.” She looked askance at him. “Or so my sister would argue. She forever has her nose buried in a book.”
“You have a sister?”
She was rather pleased he’d chosen to question that particular portion of what she’d revealed, to take an interest in her family, even though she knew danger resided in his doing so. Yet none of the swains before her marriage had ever spoken of anything other than themselves or her possible role in their lives. “Three. Alice is the youngest. Sixteen. She became a voracious reader after our parents died eight years ago. I rather think she was searching for an escape, and she found it in stories.”
“How did they die? Your parents?”
“Being Good Samaritans. The cobbler in the village, a brute of a man, beat his wife. My father learned of it, went to pack her up, to bring her to...” To Camberley Glenn. But that was too much information to share. “To our estate. Mother went with him to reassure the woman, to let her know all would be well. Only it wasn’t. The cobbler was in possession of a Tranter revolver—I don’t know how he came to have it, but he shot my parents. Dead. Then his wife. Then he took his own life.” Winslow had always been a weaponry enthusiast. Through him, she’d learned the Tranter’s chamber held five bullets that could be fired in succession with the continual pulling of the trigger. The Crimean War as well as the war in America had resulted in the development of more effective firearms—if the number of people killed without reloading could be termed effective. “My father thought himself invincible, that his title girded him with armor. Only it didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” She heard true regret laced through his voice. “I’ve never had anyone close to me die. Death is making a nuisance of itself around you.”
Her smile was a bit awkward, difficult to bring forth now that the memories were bombarding her. Alice had escaped into her books while Selena had bolted into marriage one year to the day after they died as her means of leaving the awfulness behind. Not that her route had been left entirely up to her—her siblings had needed her to make that sacrifice in order to ensure their world returned to being as right as possible. “So it seems. If you’re a wise man, you’ll keep our association short and to the point.”
“I don’t know that anyone has ever accused me of being wise as I tend to place more value in having fun. We’ll play billiards, shall we? Get us back into a more jovial mood. I can teach you the basics.”
“I’m not here to learn to play billiards. I’m here—”
“To be bedded. Yes, I know. You are of a singular purpose, aren’t you?”
