“The kind used to prevent pregnancy,” he explained.
Her lips formed an O. “That doesn’t sound...”
“Comfortable?” he offered. “It is not.”
“There is—” She bit her lip hard enough to induce pain and looked away. Hadn’t the duke heard the woman on the day of the procession? She was barren. “There is no need for precaution. I was married for eight years and did not bear a child.”
“If you are certain, I won’t use the wrapper.”
Her brow creased. “Certain?”
“Perhaps the fault was not yours.”
“Please do not mock me.” She drew her legs upward, a curling as much an outward display of protection as it was an inward defense.
He moved his body to catch her eye. “I will never mock you,” he vowed.
She sent him an accusatory glare. “You know the countess bore my late husband’s child.”
“I know the admiral claimed a child. Neither of us, I believe, are privy to the exact circumstances of the child’s birth.”
She sat straight. “Are you implying Octavia is not his?”
“Are you offended on behalf of your husband’s mistress?”
“Not on her behalf.” She looked away. On behalf of love, she supposed. Only a deep, abiding, and—yes—faithfullove could have caused Octavius to humiliate his family as he had.
And Octavia was an innocent, born into circumstances beyond her control.
The duke brushed aside her hair with gentle fingers. “Come back,” he said.
“I have not left,” she huffed.
“Your husband should have desired you.”
“He did.” Her lip quivered. “In his way.”
The duke leaned forward, surprising her with the lightest of kisses. Their first kiss, she realized with shock. His lips were warm, dry and infinitely tender. Tender, yes, but potent enough to vanquish thoughts of Octavius. From the moment his mouth touched hers, every inch of her body lit from within.
“Breathe,” the duke said.
Air entered her chest in a rush. Her inexperience became painfully clear. She was rabbit to his hawk, no matter how gentle his touch.
“With you,” she felt her cheeks heat, “I am not myself. I detest the power you have over me.”
He did not seem perturbed. “Power is the most ancient of aphrodisiacs.”
She had not been drawn to the duke because of his title.
She hadn’t even known he possessed a title at first. She’d been drawn to him because of the way he’d looked at her—as if she mattered, as if he understood.
He traced a lazy line up her arm before resting his hand on her shoulder. Her heart beat in a jagged rhythm, half terror and half anticipation—Persephone waking to discover she had been taken, against her will, to the underworld. Although, unlike Persephone, she had willingly entered the duke’s lair.
Ashbey represented darkness and heat and all things forbidden, and she wanted him with a power strong enough to stamp out both reason and virtue. Once before, she had done everything as she should. Misery had been the result. This time, she would do everything she ought not, and perhaps—
Perhaps what? What was the unspoken wish inside her heart?
“You’ve disappeared again.” His voice soothed.
