Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(16)

She’d wanted a man to love her.

Because the thing was, she was alone.

Oh, she had friends, but none of them were close—not since the death of Katherine, her childhood bosom bow. She had her brother and sister-in-law, but they weren’t hers.

All her life she’d wanted a close inner circle, a family that knew her intimately—all the good in her and all the bad—and loved her anyway.

A family in which she could be herself.

Instead she was married to a stranger—a violent, possibly dangerous stranger—who had also saved her life.

Iris was brought back to the present when Nicoletta bustled over and briskly began removing the pins from her hair. However careful Nicoletta was—and Iris could tell the maid was attempting to be gentle—her hair was hopelessly tangled.

Iris winced as her hair was yanked again and again.

When the pins were finally out, the maid placed her hand against the back of Iris’s head and firmly pushed.

Iris leaned forward so that her head hung between her bent knees.

Warm water poured over her head. Nicoletta’s strong fingers worked soap through her hair. It smelled of something nice—oranges, perhaps—and Iris let the movement of the maid’s hands lull her.

Another splash of warm water over her head made her start. It felt good, though.

She pushed back her dripping but clean hair and set about washing herself. Scrubbing away the terror and exhaustion and trepidation. Letting fresh water rinse away the last couple of days.

And what might have been.

When she was done, Nicoletta held out a large drying cloth for her.

Iris stepped from the copper bath, feeling as if she had been born anew. She was the Duchess of Dyemore now, for better or for worse, and really she’d rather pick better if she had to choose. Perhaps … perhaps she could somehow build a family with Dyemore.

If Dyemore recovered from his wound.

She frowned as she rubbed herself dry and then found the clean clothes she’d set out on the chair. Lord, she hoped that he had only a light fever.

That he’d soon wake up.

Iris pulled the shirt over her head. It did indeed come down to her knees, and the sleeves fell over her hands. She heard a sound and glanced up in time to see Nicoletta covering her mouth with both hands, obviously trying to hide a smile.

She met the older woman’s wide brown eyes, and for a moment they both froze.

Then Iris’s lips twitched. “Yes, well, there wasn’t anything else to hand.”

Nicoletta clucked, said something in her native tongue, and then helped her roll up the sleeves. Iris pulled on the stockings while Nicoletta produced a comb from somewhere and patiently tamed the tangle of her hair. When the maid was done, she wove Iris’s still-damp hair into a loose braid and tied the end with a ribbon.

“Thank you,” Iris said.

Nicoletta didn’t smile, but her face somehow softened. She dipped a curtsy and bustled from the room, her arms loaded with the dirty clothes. Hopefully she was off to find a way to clean and mend them, and not to discard the lot.

Iris, left alone, shivered as she looked about the little dressing room. A shirt really wasn’t enough to wear. She should see if Dyemore had another banyan she could borrow. Or perhaps a coat.

But when she opened the door to the bedroom, the first thing she saw was her new husband, standing by the bed, his crystal eyes aimed at her.

“What,” he said in his smoke-filled voice, “are you doing in my shirt?”





Chapter Four




“Is there naught we can do for El?” asked Ann.

“I fear not,” the stonecutter replied. “For your mother gave birth to her in the rock fields, lured there by the flinty shades that haunt that place by night. Those shades stole El’s heart fire the moment she first drew breath. And without that?” The old man shook his head. “She will not live to be a woman.” …

—From The Rock King





Raphael clutched the bedpost, doing his damnedest not to sway. His duchess was poised upon the threshold like a startled naiad, one of his own shirts enveloping her form. Her hair had been braided like a girl’s and hung over one shoulder, making the fine lawn of the shirt wet.

And transparent.

He fancied he could see the tip of one nipple, pink and pointed, and something tightened in his belly. Christ, she might as well be naked before him.

He dragged his gaze away from the sight and focused on her face. Her blue-gray eyes were wide and startled. She looked all of twelve.

Well, except for that damned nipple.

She blinked and seemed to come to her senses. “What are you doing out of bed?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I felt the need to piss.”

Color bloomed in her cheeks, a pale rosy pink. He could spend days trying to duplicate that exact shade on paper and never lose interest.

“You have a fever, I think,” she said tartly. “Perhaps you should return to your bed.”

“I’m fine,” he said, ignoring the sweat that rolled down the middle of his back. “My shirt?”

She clutched the front of the shirt between her fists as if afraid he might tear it from her. The fine lawn pulled tight, outlining her breasts in lewd detail. Was she doing it apurpose?

“I hadn’t anything else to put on that was clean.”