Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(41)

He turned and went to his traveling trunk, then knelt to open it. Inside, under a layer of folded banyans and pairs of breeches, he found his sketchbook and pencil case. Then he picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down next to the bed.

And began to put on paper what he couldn’t say in words.

Iris woke to the sound of a rooster crowing.

She blinked, for a moment confused at the unfamiliar bedroom, until she remembered that they’d stopped at an inn.

At the same moment she felt the weight of an arm slung over her waist, the heat of a body—an obviously male body—against her own. Raphael might not want to bed her during the day, but his body betrayed him in sleep: she could feel his erection against her hip.

She inhaled, but before she could even think of what to do he was moving away.

“We should rise,” Raphael said, his voice deep with a morning rasp. “Best we resume our journey as soon as possible.”

She sat up and turned to see him pulling on his breeches, his broad back bare, the muscles in his shoulders shifting as he worked. Had he slept next to her in only his smalls?

She shivered at the realization and mourned her foolishness in not having woken earlier.

He scooped up a pile of clothes and his boots before finally turning to look at her, his jaw shadowed by morning stubble, his crystal eyes unfathomable. “I’ll dress in the next room.”

And then he was gone.

Well.

Iris rose and set about her meager toilet with the help of one of the inn’s maids, who arrived with hot water, all the while contemplating her husband and his possible reasons for not wanting children. Then she went down into the private dining room and ate a solitary breakfast of eggs, buns, and gammon. The meal was probably quite good, but she couldn’t taste it. Instead she sat staring at the ruby ring. She put aside her fork and took off the ring, laying it on the table. It was so small—a thing easily lost. Perhaps she should give it back to Raphael.

Perhaps she should stop tilting at windmills.

No.

She could not give up her dream of children—of a baby—without a fight. Previously she’d thought that he was physically repulsed by her, but that kiss he’d given her among the daffodils had put paid to that notion. Raphael might not want to admit it, but he wasn’t at all repelled by her. That meant her only problem was simply that he didn’t want children.

He said he didn’t want to continue his line, but that was ridiculous. His father might’ve been a disgusting, dissolute roué, but Raphael wasn’t. As far as she could see there was absolutely no reason he shouldn’t father children, if that was his only argument.

Really their marriage would be much more content if Raphael took her as a husband should a wife. Certainly she would be much more content.

Now she only had to convince him of that fact.

Iris put the ruby ring back on with a decisive twist.

When she went out to the inn yard she was disappointed to find that Raphael had decided to ride with his men. She spent the morning all by herself in a jolting, lurching carriage.

But after they’d stopped at midafternoon for luncheon at an inn, he met her at the carriage.

He bowed as she neared, and held out his hand to help her into the carriage. “I hope you found the luncheon to your liking, ma’am?”

She smiled sweetly as she took his big hand. “I did indeed.”

Since she’d dined alone she’d had plenty of time to think.

And plot.

As if sensing her thoughts he eyed her smile a trifle cautiously as he handed her up. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He stepped inside, knocked on the roof to signal the drivers, and sat across from her.

Iris busied herself settling a lap blanket across her knees as the carriage lurched into motion.

Then she looked up and beamed at her husband. “Have you had many lovers?”

His crystal eyes widened. “I … What?”

“Lovers.” She gestured airily with one hand. “I’m given to understand that many gentlemen sow their wild oats, as it were, before marriage—or indeed afterwards, though I do hope you shall not, for I do disapprove of infidelity. It leads to deep unhappiness in most cases, I think.”

His black brows were knitted, rather as if she were speaking in a foreign language he was trying to decipher. “I don’t plan to break my marriage vows.”

“Lovely,” she said. “Neither do I. I’m so glad we’re in accord on that subject.”

He cocked his head and said in a voice that sounded very like a growl, “Are you mocking me?”

“Oh, I would never,” she said very earnestly. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

“Which was?”

“Lovers? How many?”

He stared at her for a very long moment. “None.”

Oh … this was unexpected. She kept herself from showing surprise only by the strongest of self-control.

She cleared her throat delicately. “You’re a virgin?”

“No,” he snapped, “but the women I’ve bedded would not fall into so romantic a category as lovers.”

“Ah.” Iris could feel heat on her cheeks, but determinedly kept her gaze locked with his. Her marriage depended on this conversation, and she wasn’t about to be put off by missishness over the subject matter. “And were there many?”