The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(27)

“He’s in the master’s chambers and still abed,” Mrs. Smith said.

Chloe’s gaze flew to the longcase clock in the corner of the vestibule. “But it’s almost three o’clock!”

“We are all worried, miss,” the butler said, his voice low. “But we also know better than to disturb His Grace. On the occasion that any of us has tried, we’ve been very sorry indeed.”

Chloe glanced up at the ornate, gilded balustrade and winding staircase that led to the second floor and the bedchambers. “I will see to him.”

Mrs. Smith’s brow furrowed. “But he’s still abed!”

“His welfare is what concerns me, not propriety.” Chloe ignored the gaping servants and hurried up the staircase. She strode down the hall, her footsteps silent on the plush Brussels runner. Priceless artwork whirled by as she passed door after door until she reached what she suspected was the master’s chambers at the end of the corridor.

She rapped softly and waited. When there was no response, her fingers grazed the handle. She knew entering a man’s bedchamber was recklessly improper, but she thrust the thought aside. She’d seen him last night. He’d clearly suffered from shock when the fireworks had exploded at the end of Madame Saqui’s performance. She’d witnessed the flash of wild grief that had ripped through him…had glimpsed his pain and inner turmoil in the depths of his eyes. In his mind, he’d been transported back to the horrors of battle.

Without further hesitation, she pushed the door open. The room was dim and her eyes took a moment to adjust. A ray of sunlight that penetrated between the nearly closed curtains provided sufficient light to see. It was a purely masculine room with mahogany Chippendale furniture, a plush Oriental carpet, an escritoire in the corner, and a leather chair by the window. But it was the enormous four-poster that dominated the room—a bed large enough to fit a man well over six feet tall—that drew her eye.

The duke lay in the bed, sprawled on his back in a restless sleep. Heart pounding, Chloe tiptoed close and then stopped breathing at the sight of his bare chest. Unable to stop herself, she stared. Ropes of muscle defined his broad shoulders, biceps, and sculpted chest. His skin was bronzed, and she wondered how he exposed himself to the sun. Her knees grew weak as an image of him riding shirtless arose in her mind. A sprinkling of hair trailed down his flat stomach and disappeared beneath the bedclothes that covered the lower half of his body. One long, muscular leg was uncovered where he’d kicked the linens aside. The raw power of his body nearly stole her breath. With a start, she realized that he slept naked and hadn’t bothered with a nightshirt. Had he sent his valet scurrying out of the room last night?

She’d never seen a man’s naked chest before, but she knew without a doubt, that no one else of her acquaintance could ever compare.

Certainly not Henry.

Michael had the body of a soldier. He appeared strong and muscled from hours of disciplined training. He was no dandy or coxcomb or spoiled aristocrat who’d never known physical labor. Her fingers trembled with the need to touch his flesh, to run her fingers down his chest.

Deep lines slashed between his dark brows, and he tossed on the bed. “Gavin…no…no. Look out!”

Chloe’s eyes flew to his face, and a heavy feeling settled low in her stomach at his distress. He was clearly in the throes of a nightmare. Whatever feelings she had for him, desire and anger, her heart ached to see him in pain. She reached out to touch his arm and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Your Grace.”

He moved so fast she didn’t have a second to breathe. Her wrist was caught in a powerful grip and she was pulled down and across his chest. He rolled, taking her with him and pinning her beneath him. Engulfed by his weight, she couldn’t move an inch.

Her heart slammed against her chest. She was aware of every rigid angle, every powerful muscle, and his hardness pressing between her thighs made her inhale sharply at the contact. His dark visage was fierce and unyielding as he hovered above her, and she experienced a trepidation of fear.

He’d reacted instinctively, like an experienced soldier who’d been threatened.

“Your Grace!” She gasped. “It’s Chloe.”

He blinked and focused on her face inches from his. “Chloe?”

“Yes…yes. It’s me.”

His merciless hold on her arms eased. “Why are you here?”

“I…I was worried about you after last night.”

His mouth was set in a grim line, his gaze narrowed and determined. “Christ. I could have killed you. Crushed you as easily as a twig. How the hell did you get into my bedchamber?”

“Your butler and housekeeper told me you were still abed.”

One dark eyebrow shot upward. “I’m surprised either permitted you to enter here.”

“They didn’t. I let myself up here.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

His voice lowered to an intimate whisper and she became even more aware of his hardness pressed against the apex of her thighs. The coverlet had fallen aside so that a thin sheet and her own clothing were the only barriers between them.

Sweet Lord. His manhood seemed so…large. She should have been more afraid—any proper female would have been—but Chloe had never been proper, had she? Instead her initial fear ebbed as she lay soft and pliant beneath him. The physical contact stoked a gently burning fire, and she was powerless to stop the wicked thoughts that came to mind. She was wildly curious by nature, and the hushed whispers of the servants and her own married sisters when they thought she wasn’t listening had always fascinated her.