Either O’Rourke was lying, or he was intentionally offering Hudson incorrect information. The latter made sense if he truly believed Hudson guilty of Mrs. Ainsley’s murder. As for the former, it defied logic or reason. If O’Rourke was lying, it would have to be for a reason. And that reason could not be good.
Hudson sighed and poured himself another measure of brandy, knowing it would offer him no clarity. Only a temporary respite from the mayhem which had become his daily life since Maude’s killing.
After spending the day investigating with Elysande, he was exhausted. They had shared a quiet dinner, after which she had retired for the evening. He had spent the hours since recording the information they had gleaned thus far. All he had was an anthill of evidence and a mountain of questions.
Wearily, he finished his brandy and made his own way to his chamber. As he passed his wife’s closed door, he told himself to keep walking. He had promised her three months without consummating their marriage, and he was a man of honor, damn it. He still intended to uphold that vow, even if doing so grew more difficult by the day. By the day? Hell, he may as well be honest. By the hour, the minute, the very second.
Elysande was intriguing and multifaceted in a way he had never supposed when he had first met her in the Brinton Manor salon. Not just lovely but intelligent and courageous, she was more than he could have hoped for in a wife. She had steadfastly remained by his side, despite the toll he knew the ghoulish scene of Maude’s murder must have taken upon her.
For all those reasons, he moved into his own chamber, endeavoring to make as little noise as possible in case she was not yet asleep. He decided against calling for Greene. No need for him to be tended to this evening. All he wanted was to remove his clothes, climb into his bed, close his eyes, and forget everything.
The brandy was meant to help him do that. But this evening, it had decidedly failed to conduct its duty. He shucked his coat and waistcoat, removed the necktie he had donned for dinner, and toed off his shoes. The man he saw reflected in the looking glass was wild, his jaw dark with unshaven whiskers, his hair in need of a trim. In nothing but his white shirt and trousers, he resembled more the man he had once been than the duke he was becoming.
That was when he heard it.
A loud thump from the bathing chamber next door. His heart leapt in his chest.Elysande.What manner of noise was that? Good God, if anything were to happen to her, he would not be able to bear it. His feet flew over the floor, and without thought, he threw open the door adjoining his chamber to the shared bathroom. The fear that had been rising within him dissipated instantly, replaced by a raw, nearly violent surge of lust.
She was not in distress at all.
Rather, she was emerging from the bath.
Naked.
Dripping.
Creamy and pink and soft and curved in all the right places.
Chapter 11
His first thought was one of gratitude for whichever former Duke of Wycombe had seen fit to convert the dressing room between the lord and lady’s chambers into a bathing chamber. He was certain the poor chap could not have afforded it, and yet, here it was, bringing him the sight of his beautiful wife, wet and perfect in every way.
The weight of the last few days fled him. He forgot about anything and everything but this gorgeous, enigmatic woman he had inexplicably wed. They had both married for practical reasons. But their union was quickly becoming so much more than a marriage of convenience, and he was powerless to stop it.
His hungry gaze traveled over her bare shoulders to her full, pretty breasts. Perfect for his palms. The sweep of her waist, the fullness of her hips, those creamy thighs and the dark thatch of curls covering her mound. Christ, even her knees were worthy of worship, to say nothing of her calves and her ankles.
“Oh!” she said, her eyes wide and startled, the long, dark lashes shielding the emotions in her honey-brown eyes.
He had startled her, which had not been his intention. Nor was it to intrude. But now that he was here, how the hell was he supposed to go?
“Forgive me,” he managed to say. “I did not mean to give you a start.”
She reached for a towel, hastily wrapping it around herself and ending his view of paradise. “I thought you were in the library.”
He would have gladly offered to dry her off with his tongue, but he was not certain how the offer would be received just now. “I was, but I grew weary of running circles in my own bloody head. I retired to my chamber, intending to sleep. But then I heard a thump, and I came to investigate.”
It was silly of him, he had to admit. Likely down to his nerves after the shock of finding Maude Ainsley dead in his bed. But he would not think of that. He forced the gruesome, gory memories from his mind, for they had no place here with Elysande, who was everything peaceful and wondrous and good.
His.
How had he been fortunate enough to wed her?
“The thump was me,” she said. “I dropped the book I had been reading, and I could not reach it without getting out of the tub.”
Even hidden beneath the towel, the swells of her breasts and hips were undisguised, calling to his hands and mouth. But no, he had not rushed into her chamber for seduction.
He still intended to uphold his end of their marriage bargain. He had to. Did he not?
Yes, said his mind.
