Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(23)

He let his eyelids close. His head ached and his limbs felt heavy. He grimaced in frustration. “You were wearing my shirt.”

He remembered her nipple, small and pointed and pink.

“Yes.” She pulled her hand from his and rose.

She took the one burning candle and lit several others around the bed, making the area brighter. As she did, the shawl slipped off her shoulders.

He squinted. She was wearing a yellow dress. “Where did you get that?”

Her eyes darted away from him. “I … erm … I found it in the next room.”

He froze. “Which room?”

His voice had been quiet, but her gaze flew to him, clearly alarmed. “The sitting room. But I … I also went into the duke’s room.”

His lip curled as he looked away from her. He didn’t want her to see the rage rising behind his eyes.

He kept his tone calm. “I told you not to go into any locked room.”

“Yes, you did.” Her voice was steady, though a bit high pitched. “But I’m your wife now. Don’t you think I should be allowed to access rooms in your house?”

He turned to look at her then because she deserved it—and because he’d gained control of his expression. “No, I do not.”

Her lips trembled, but she lifted her chin. “Would you prefer it if I’d continued to wear your shirt and banyan?”

Actually he’d quite liked her wearing his clothes, both because her breasts had been unbound and because it made something in him very, very content. The yellow dress, however, quite suited her. She seemed to glow in the candlelight, like a beacon of purity.

“Naturally not,” he replied. “You may wear my mother’s clothes if that is what you truly desire. But I don’t want you to enter my … father’s room again.”

He felt wild at the very thought. That room was steeped in evil.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I ordered you not to.” The words slid like ice from his lips.

She frowned, looking stubborn. “Whyever don’t you sleep there instead of the duchess’s room?”

He gazed at her and the scent of cedarwood seemed to drift through the room.

His stomach roiled.

That must be why he answered her with the truth. “Because walking in that room makes me want to vomit.”

He closed his eyes and listened to her swallow.

“Oh.”

Damn it. He hadn’t wanted to argue with her. Nor reveal the worst parts of himself.

He sighed. “Thank you.”

He felt her straighten the coverlet over his chest. “For what?”

“For nursing me.” He opened his eyes with effort. “For not running away.”

She frowned at him and then abruptly turned to pour more water in the cup. “I wouldn’t leave a sick man, Your Grace.”

Ah. He’d insulted her.

She held the cup to his lips again and he watched her as he drank. She looked tired. Weary and wary … of him?

Most probably.

As she should be.

She set the cup down by her book.

“What are you reading?”

“Polybius’s Histories.” She glanced at the book and then up at him, her brows knitting. “Don’t you remember me reading to you?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t understand you. The fever, I think.” Polybius was rather an obscure chronologer of Roman history. He glanced at her curiously. “In Latin? Or Italian?”

“Neither.” She cleared her throat almost as if she were embarrassed. “My Latin isn’t particularly good—though I have read a Latin edition of Polybius before—and I don’t know Italian. I found you had an English translation in your library.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “I was unaware of an English translation in the library, but I came across a record of my father’s steward having bought the Earl of Wight’s library when the earl was forced to sell on his father’s death.” He caught her puzzled frown. “Gambling debts.”

“Oh.” She glanced down at the volume in her hand, smoothing her fingers over the worn cover. “I see. Then the Earl of Wight’s loss is my gain, I suppose.”

“So it would seem.” He watched as she swallowed and tapped her index finger on the book. Was she nervous? “Where did you read that Latin edition?”

She looked up as if a little startled at his interest. “My father’s house in the country, where I was born.”

He raised his eyebrows in question.

“It’s in Essex,” she said. “An old rambling sort of house that sits on a low hill with meadows all around. Much too big for our family’s means now, I’m afraid. The Radcliffes—my family—have rather descended from our height in the time of the Tudors.”

He realized that he knew very little about her, this woman he’d impulsively dragged into his darkness. “You were an only child?”

“Oh no,” she replied. “I have an older brother, Henry. Seven years older, actually. Though he was sent off to school, so I didn’t see him very much except at holidays. But I had a very good friend from the neighboring estate. Katherine.” Her voice hitched.

“Katherine?”

She nodded and inhaled. “She died this last fall. Quite suddenly. It was … a shock.” She looked up at him, tears pooling in her eyes. “She was married to the Duke of Kyle. That’s how I became friends with Hugh.”