Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(39)

“It lies high above a bay on the south of the island,” he said, “built on white cliffs by my mother’s grandfather. He was from Genoa and we have lands there, though I’ve never seen them. There is white sand on the bay and I swam there as a boy—a young man, really. Rode my horse there as well. The sea is a different color in Corsica, clear and green blue. The sky is wide and sunlit. On my estate we grew chestnuts, and I used to walk among the trees, dipping in and out of the shade and the sunlight.”

His words enthralled her. “Why did you leave?”

He looked at her. “To finish it.”

She didn’t dare ask what “it” was.

“I would like …” He paused. “If it is possible—after it is over—I would like to travel to Corsica again.”

For some reason her eyes stung. “I would like that, too.”

The carriage was silent a moment as they rumbled along the road.

Then Raphael tilted his head. “And is that it? A decorated country house, dogs, books, and travel? This is all you wish for your life?”

“I’m afraid I’m not a very complicated woman.” She half smiled. “I don’t need jewels and carriages or parties and scandal. A fire and a dog on my lap while I read and I’m perfectly happy.”

He snorted. “I’ve married a dormouse.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. He’d brutally refused her before, but surely now …

She cleared her throat. “I … I’d also like what any other woman wants from her marriage …”

He cocked his head in inquiry.

Oh, for goodness’ sake! The man couldn’t be so obtuse.

She forced a trembling smile. “Children.”

He stiffened, and any hint of the camaraderie they’d found fled. “No.”

He’d spoken too sharply to her.

Late that evening Raphael watched his duchess as the carriage drew into a large inn for the night. They’d barely exchanged two words for the rest of the day after he’d cut short their conversation about children. She had done her best to act as if nothing were wrong, but he could see that she’d lost the light that shone in her eyes when she’d discussed decorating his houses and building a library for herself.

He looked away from her pensive face. What had she expected? He’d already made clear his terms. Surely she didn’t want to mate with such as he? With the blood that ran in his veins, with the stain that shadowed all that he was? She wasn’t aware of the latter, but surely she’d understood what his father was?

What the Dyemores had been for generations?

Better by far to end his filthy line with himself than to continue the corruption any further. To risk what his father had done—

No.

He blinked, shaking his head to push the thought away. For a ghastly moment he imagined he smelled cedarwood, but that was madness.

He set his jaw and realized that she was watching him, her brows drawn together.

No. No, better to end it here.

His duchess opened her lips to speak and he stood and slammed open the carriage door, startling Valente, who had been setting the steps.

Raphael jumped to the ground and turned to hold out his hand to his duchess. “Come. Let us find rooms for the night.”

For a moment she sat and eyed him thoughtfully and he wondered if she would disobey him. But then she stood and took his hand and he was relieved. He grasped her fingers and had the insane notion that he’d never let her go.

She stepped down from the carriage, looked around the inn yard, and murmured, “Your men are causing a commotion.”

He glanced up as he tucked her hand firmly in the crook of his arm. “Are they?”

His Corsicans were mounted to protect the two carriages—the one he and Iris rode in and another carrying baggage and servants. His men circled their horses in the muddy inn yard as hostlers shouted and ran back and forth, trying to handle all the horses while the Corsicans swore at them.

“You travel like some Ottoman potentate,” his duchess said with a hint of disapproval.

He couldn’t help it. He bent low over her golden head and whispered into her ear, “No. I travel like a duke.”

He heard a snort from her, but chose to disregard it as he led her into the inn. Ubertino had already spoken to the innkeeper, and the man met them in the entryway.

The innkeeper was bewigged and smartly dressed in a brown suit and looked rather like a prosperous merchant. He had a broad smile on his face, and he began a low bow that faltered when Raphael walked into the light.

“Your … Your Grace.” The innkeeper swallowed and recovered, although his smile was less enthusiastic and his gaze seemed fixed on the right side of Raphael’s face in horrified fascination. “We are honored by your presence. I’ve made ready our best rooms for you and your duchess. If you’ll come this way I’ll show you to a private dining room.”

“Thank you,” Iris replied, and the innkeeper shot her a grateful smile.

The man led them past a common room and into the back of the inn. There he bowed them into a small but comfortable room with a crackling fire and a polished table. They’d hardly sat down before maids started hurrying in with platters of food.

The table was laid, the maids stared at his face and whispered, and then they were gone again.