Page 56 of The Duke of a Thousand Desires

He had hastily washedin his closet and could wait for breakfast. He didn’t crave anything but her. Indeed, he was insatiable and had decided during the night that she had become as essential to him as food and air. Which did not justify consuming the whole of her at one time. In the throes of such intense longing, he had to remind himself again he could not afford to let marriage lull him into a disregard for caution.

He would continue his inquiry into Susannah’s death. But now Ravenna’s keeping took priority. He was coming to understand how easily a man could damage a woman’s heart, her body, her psyche, even a woman as fearless and intuitive as his duchess. The law gave a husband permission to control every aspect of his wife’s existence.

The servants brought hot water and towels to the bedchamber, built up the fire and quietly left like friendly ghosts.

He sat on a footstool while Ravenna soaked in a steaming bath, her hair rinsed, combed, and caught back in a knot. His soapy hands slid over her with studied gentleness. This was a ritual he vowed would become habit.

“You’re making me feel like a goddess,” she mused.

“Which to me you are.” The residue of lilac-scented soap outlined his forearms and chest. “I feel like an attendant in a bathing rite.” He dipped the sponge between her breasts, caressing the pointed tips until her head dropped back in enjoyment.

“What do you know about ceremonial bathing?” she asked, half-afraid of what he would answer.

“Only what one of my tutors taught me. The professor was enthralled with Greek mythology. He once showed my brother and me drawings of ancient Greek maidens who were bathed before marriage in a ritual to please the goddess Artemis. He was a lusty old sod now that I think about it.”

“I’m bathing after the fact. Moreover, I don’t have the least interest in placating any mythical deities.”

His gaze followed the descent of his hand to the apex of her thighs. Her lips parted in anticipation. “You have other interests?” he asked, slowly looking up.

“Sufficient unto this day is pleasing the mortal man who is moving that sponge where it doesn’t belong.”

“Hush for a minute,” he said, reaching back to the washstand. “Put this cloth over your eyes.”

“Whatever for?” she asked suspiciously.

“You are relaxed. It’s a good time to reflect. Go back in your mind to the night in the garden.”

She frowned. “Attempted murder isn’t as pleasant a topic as being compared to a goddess. I won’t be relaxed for long.”

“You were standing under the walnut tree,” he said. “A man dropped at your feet. What was he wearing? Did he speak to you? Can you see a face?”

“Yes,” she replied at length. “The face is yours. It is stark and handsome. And if you expect me to remember anything of that night, I shall not do so in the aftermath of having been reduced to a hedonistic state. Is it surprising that after you laid siege to my every sense, I have difficulty recollecting anything more complicated than my own name?”

“You do not have any difficulty expressing your thoughts.”

She pushed off the cloth to open her eyes and regard him in reproach. “I am bereft of any modesty. Allow me a short period of mourning to grieve the maidenly virtue that I have lost.”

He smoothed the sponge over her belly. “Modesty, as I should have explained, is a garment that we shall shed as we enter our private lives. When we are alone, we please no one but each other. And we do not necessarily have to do so in a manner that is considered polite.”

Isolde bentover the man curled under a blanket in the narrow bed. His light snores gave her pause. He looked exhausted, albeit dashing in the duke’s cambric shirt, snug trousers, his dark hair in a tangle. The scallywag deserved his sleep.

Should her concerns wait until daylight? She decided not. Murderers did not linger about waiting to be caught at one’s convenience. She must scour her heart of consideration and remember lives could be at risk. Hers and his. Lady R and the gallant duke.

She reached down tentatively to the sinewy arm that covered one side of his face. He awakened and instantly swung upright in a defensive reflex, his fist raised to her chin. His unfocused eyes apparently perceived her as an enemy.

“Mr. Timpkins!” She swung back like a professional boxer as his knuckles grazed the hollow between her throat and jaw. “Calm yourself. It is me.”

“Good God. Oh, hell, miss. I almost planted you a facer. What time of the day is it? I didn’t hit you, did I? I did. Here, let me have a look.”

“You did no damage by good fortune.” She retreated from the bed, concealing a reluctant smile. “It’s turning light. I apologize for this intrusion, but the head maid burst into my room a minute ago insisting that she’d sighted a strange man beneath her window.”

He scratched his shoulder. “Well, it wasn’t me. I’ve been out cold.”

“I know that,” she said in frustration, stepping over the hat on the floor. “I thought you should be alerted.”

“And you were right to rouse me.”

He threw off the blanket and stamped his booted feet to the floor. Thank goodness he’d not undressed for bed. “You will wrinkle the duke’s shirt and breeches sleeping in them like that,” she said softly.