Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(32)

Hesitantly she touched his shoulder.

He started, then stilled.

She swallowed and whispered, “Raphael.”

“You came back.” His voice was hoarse—from the shouting?

“Yes.” She bit her lip. “Come to bed.”

“I cannot,” he said so low she had to bend closer to hear. She saw that his eyes were squeezed shut. “Cedarwood. The smell of it. I cannot.”

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry, I did not know before, but now I do.”

“Is it gone?” he husked.

“Yes.”

One gray eye opened, staring at her warily. She felt as if she were looking at a wild thing—some animal much more powerful than she, deciding whether to trust her or to devour her.

He must have made a decision, one way or the other, for he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and stood. His face was gray, highlighting the livid scar, and she wondered what had happened to make him so wounded—both on his face and on his soul.

She rose as well, keeping her shoulder under his arm, wrapping her smaller arms around his waist to steady him. “Come. It’s only a little way to the bed, Your Grace.”

“I prefer that you call me Raphael.” When she was this close, pressed against his side, his voice seemed to resonate through her.

She glanced at him, startled, but he had his head up, his eyes straight ahead. “Then I will, if that is what you wish.”

She waited for a sarcastic retort, but he merely shot her a sideways glance before climbing into the bed. He hesitated for a fraction of a second as he was laying his head on the pillow. Had she not been watching—had she not seen the breakdown only minutes before—she would have thought nothing of it.

Then it was over and he lay still. “Will you come to bed with me?”

She caught her breath, glancing quickly at him, but his eyes were closed now. Had this been any other circumstance she might think that an invitation.…

Since it so obviously wasn’t an invitation, but was instead a very straightforward and simple question, she should stop waffling and answer the man. “Yes. I’ll just … erm … ready myself in the other room.”

She let herself into the maid’s room, closing the door behind her. Iris blew out a breath, feeling like a fool. The fact was, she’d spent the previous night in the chair, and the first night when she’d slept with him in the bed, they’d both been near dead to the world.

Tonight felt very different.

But after his bad turn earlier she didn’t want to argue the matter.

Her lips twisted as she reminded herself—firmly—that he’d made quite plain that he wouldn’t touch her. There was nothing to be nervous about—nothing to be frightened about. Even if she still had some lingering attraction from the sponge bath, she thought bitterly, he wouldn’t be moved to consummate their marriage.

Quickly she took down her hair, brushed it out, and undressed, leaving on her chemise—which had been mended very competently by Nicoletta.

She opened the door to the bedroom and saw that Ubertino had left and only one candle still burned in the room. She tiptoed around the big bed to the side that was apparently hers and got in as gently as she could. The duke—Raphael—didn’t move.

Perhaps he was already asleep.

She blew out the candle and settled on her side, very near the edge of the bed, facing away from him.

In the darkness she heard his voice. “Good night, Wife.”

Her eyes drooped, her mind spinning away drowsily. Until her thoughts lit upon the way Raphael had been sitting when she’d first entered the bedroom.

He’d sat in the same pose as the little boy in the old duke’s sketchbook.

He lay awake and stared at the fire’s embers, keeping the dreams at bay.

Cedarwood.

It clogged his nostrils still, acrid and sharp, making his head ache, seizing the breath from his lungs, tearing sanity from his mind.

Cedarwood.

The linens had always stunk of it, and his father’s room had reeked with the scent.

She must think him insane. Or a weakling.

He was, in a way. He’d not finished what he’d set out to do so many years ago. By his own estimation that made him a coward.

Cedarwood.

Once, sitting down at a dinner party, he’d happened to smell it on the clothes of the man next to him. Raphael had staggered out of the room and barely made it into the garden, where he’d vomited into the shrubbery. And left without apology to his host. He hadn’t been able to bear returning to that room and that scent.

He could hear his wife’s gentle breaths behind him. She’d edged as far away from him as possible in the big bed. Perhaps she feared him. Or was disgusted by him.

He should have let her sleep in the dressing room.

But something proud within him couldn’t do that. She was his duchess. Even if he was tainted, even if theirs might never be a normal marriage, he wanted her here.

With him.

In the room that had belonged to his mother. The only room in the abbey in which he’d felt safe as a boy.

He turned finally, moving slowly, his shoulder aching. She’d sewn the wound closed, Ubertino had told him, and he wouldn’t be surprised if his movements earlier had torn something open. At the moment he didn’t care.

He only wanted to rest.