“I enjoy reading engineering journals,” she admitted.
His brows rose. “Engineering? I would not have guessed.”
She was accustomed to such a reaction. All the papers she read were written by men. Women—particularly ladies such as herself—were not meant to take an interest in what was considered a masculine science. They were not supposed to dirty their hands, take pride in understanding the flow of electricity, or create inventions of their own.
“Since the time I have been a girl, I have been interested in the way things work,” she confessed. “I always preferred my father’s workshop to the ballroom. There. You have my secret. Electricity fascinates me, and I have long been determined to create inventions of my own. My latest attempt is an electrical frying pan, which I am hoping to place at the exhibition for the London Society of Electricity.”
“You intrigue me, Elysande. You are not at all what I supposed you to be, are you?”
“I hope I am not what anyone supposes me to be.” She smiled. “My inventions are my sole secret, however. As my sister Izzy will attest, I am terribly boring.”
“You have only one secret?” he asked, sounding curious. “Surely there are more. There is much mystery about you.”
His gaze was impossible to look away from, burning into hers. “I could say the same for you.”
“I have no mysteries save the two I cannot seem to solve.”
He was speaking of the escape and the murder, of course. They hung in the air with a heaviness which could not be escaped. She could almost sense his inner war with himself. He was trapped between two worlds, the one he had known and the one he was now meant to inhabit as the Duke of Wycombe.
In that, they were not so very different. She, too, was having difficulty adjusting to her difference in circumstance. No longer living with her parents, a wife without a husband, an inventor who had yet to perfect her prototype. The end she sought to achieve always seemed just beyond her reach.
She searched his gaze. “But those mysteries are no longer yours, are they?”
“Not in the way they once would have been,” he acknowledged, inclining his head. “But the responsibility weighs heavily upon me. Especially considering Mrs. Ainsley and what happened.”
The mention of the other woman had her tensing, and it cooled some of the tingling ardor attempting to overtake her. “You did not invite her to your rooms, Hudson.”
Although she offered it as statement, she could not deny there was something of a question lingering there. She needed his reassurance. Needed to hear him tell her once more that there had been nothing between himself and the murdered woman since well before their marriage had begun.
“Of course not.” He swallowed, the action causing the protrusion of his Adam’s apple to bob and catch her attention. “I swear to you, Elysande. I cannot change my past, but I promise I will do my utmost to be the husband you deserve.”
She had never seen him so earnest. “And I will do the same to be the wife you deserve.”
“I am sorrier than I can say that this is the manner in which our marriage has begun.”
He could not be sorrier than she was. They had started as strangers with a common need: to wed. His reason had been to obtain her dowry, and hers had been to allow her sister to finally marry her Mr. Penhurst. But she had made requests of him that had put them at odds. Her desire to complete her prototype had pushed him away as surely as his need to resume his old life had.
Perhaps they were equally culpable.
“As you said, we cannot alter the past. All we can do is move forward.”
As she said the words, she realized she was saying far more, that there was a deeper story lurking beneath the surface. Reuniting with him, even with the terrible death of Mrs. Ainsley looming over them like a pall, had shown her how much she had longed for him.
As if Hudson sensed the hidden meaning, he moved nearer, his trousers brushing her skirts. He trailed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, and she turned into his touch, reveling in the heat and roughness of his caress. His were not the silken and soft hands of a lord but those of a man who had worked his way through the world.
She appreciated that, much as she appreciatedhim. And with his scent wrapping around her, that blue-gray gaze melding with hers, his touch on her, how could she not appreciate him? How could she not want him, yearn for him, ache for him, despite all that had come to pass?
The answer was painfully clear.
“Right now, all the moving I should like to do involves you and my arms,” he said roughly, his head lowering so the heat of his breath fanned over her lips in the promise of a kiss. “Specifically, you moving into them. I shall understand if you do not want that, Elysande.”
He was asking permission, just as he had before. A gentleman who kissed like the very devil himself. And she wanted those kisses. Wanted his mouth on hers. Wanted him more than she had ever supposed possible.
Foolish, weak-willed creature, she chastised herself.
But she took a step, erasing the distance. Her breasts brushed against his chest, her hands settled on his shoulders, and they were pressed together, his warmth and vitality emanating from his big body and enveloping hers.
“Like this?” She was breathless, heart pounding, as she tipped her head back, holding his stare.
