Page 94 of The Duchess in His Bed
At the top of the stairs, she skirted the edge of the hallway until she reached his rooms. Removing the key from her reticule, she unlocked the door and crossed over the threshold, inhaling deeply the fragrance of Aiden, allowing it to fill her lungs, to penetrate her blood, to inhabit her once more.
A solitary lit lamp on the table near the window, the table that had once been covered in white linen and displayed strawberries, held enough shadows at bay that she was able to walk into his bedchamber. The bed was neatly made, and she had a strong urge to muss it up, to see it in disarray as it had been so many times in the past.
Carefully on a pillow, she placed the package containing the fine leather gloves she’d purchased that afternoon. On top of that she laid his key. They would greet Aiden when he was ready to lay down his head, which no doubt wouldn’t be for several more hours.
That task done, she had no reason to stay. Still she lingered, glancing around and memorizing what she already knew by heart: the bureau where she had retrieved his neck cloths in order to bind him, the drawer of the night table where he housed the sheaths he kept on hand to protect women from an unwanted pregnancy, the chair where she had sat and watched him nurse his mother back to health. Everything in his life served a purpose. No clutter, no fanciful knickknacks. Nothing to remind him of her, except for the paintings he stored in the attic.
She debated whether she should take the gloves with her, but in the end left them where they lay.
Exiting the room, heading for the door, she glanced over at the fireplace and paused. She hadn’t given it any notice when she’d first walked in, her focus on delivering her gift and the key.
With her heart hammering, she went to the table, picked up the lamp, and lifted it higher, throwing its glow over the gilt-framed painting hanging over the mantel. Slowly she approached, her chest tightening with each step.
In the distant background, the slight blur giving it a mystical feel, was Sheffield Hall. On the path leading up to it, the main focus of the piece, was a woman and a man, each holding a hand of the small boy walking between them. The man was fainter than the other two, as though he wasn’t there, didn’t truly belong.
While only their backs and a narrow profile of each of their faces as they gazed down on the boy were visible, she recognized herself and Aiden. In a world that for them would never exist. Tears flooded her eyes.
He had told her he painted from memory. At the bookshop, she’d seen that, in addition, he painted using his vivid imagination. Now, she understood that he also painted his dreams.
And his dream was the same as hers.
The air shifted as though more space was required for the arrival of a formidable presence. A collective intake of breath hissed through the room.
But neither of those things told Aiden she was here. Even though his back was to the doorway and he’d been giving his attention to a countess who was having a difficult time calculating the sum of the cards in her hand, he knew who had strolled into the room. He felt her as though she’d reached out and skimmed her fingers along his spine.
Straightening, turning, he saw he had the right of it, and every cell in his body rejoiced at the sight of her. So beautiful, so stunning, so—
Unmasked.
It had taken him a moment to realize she had entered his dominion without shielding her face and now was striding through it—
No, notthrough. Toward. Toward him.
Her blue eyes were aflame with purpose. That lovely mouth of hers was tilted up slightly at the corners. Her steps were measured, graceful, bringing her ever nearer.
And when she reached him, without any hesitation at all, she rose up on her toes, wound her arms around his neck, and claimed his mouth as though it belonged to her alone.
God help him if it didn’t.
Without thought for the consequences, he closed his arms around her and brought her up against him, enfolding her in an embrace that made the world seem right again. For a week, he’d barely slept, tossing about whenever he tried. He’d missed her so damn much. It took every shred of decency he possessed to not go see her, to not tell her how it was slowly killing him not to have her in his life.
Leaning back, she held his gaze and what he saw there nearly brought him to his knees.
“I love you,” she said with clear certainty.
He slammed his eyes closed as emotions rioted through him.
“I’m not going through with my original plan. I won’t claim this child as Lushing’s. I want our son—or daughter—to be raised within your shadow, to know you for the wonderful man you are.”
Knowing people were watching, listening, knowing he should take her elsewhere for this discussion, he seemed incapable of doing little more than staring at her dumbfounded. Gently, he cradled her cheek. “Lena, I can’t give you—”
“I don’t give a bloody damn what you can’t give me. I know what you can give me, and it’s more than enough, more than I deserve, more than I ever hoped for. And it’ll be enough for our children.” Her smile was beatific and radiant. “I know you love me. I saw the painting in your lodgings. Change the background to a small cottage and make me the happiest woman in the world.”
Dropping to his knees, he pressed a kiss to her belly where their child grew. “I love you with all that is within me.” He looked up at her. “Will you marry me?”
Countless sighs echoed around them as her smile grew and her eyes warmed. “Oh yes, I’m looking forward to introducing you to the pleasures of marriage.”
Laughing, he stood, swept her up in his arms, and began carrying her from the room amid cheers, claps, and adoring smiles. “No reason those pleasures can’t begin immediately.”
