“No,” he said softly. “Don’t you realize?” He lifted his eyes and looked into the depths of her clear, widened gaze.
“What?”
“This is a badge of honor.” He bowed his head and kissed the discoloration, then raised his head, smiling. “You look frightful. Much too pale. I shall see you tomorrow. In the morning, after a stop at Ryleigh”—he tugged on the hair at his chin—“I shall set out for Doctors’ Commons.” He made a quick exit to her sitting chamber, lest he do something disgraceful, like ignore the fact they weren’t already wed.
Temptation was the very devil.
~~~
Rebecca sank down on the bed, despair filling her. Why did Sebastian have to turn heroic so suddenly? It left her confused and unsure. She was never confused, and certainly not unsure. Marrying a duke would threaten her independence, her causes for those less fortunate who truly needed her. Those like Finch Cromwell would continue to rule the stews if someone didn’t stop them.
She considered herself the voice of the persons that Finch Cromwell and those like him used and exploited and hurt.
The noose grew tighter.
Twenty-One
The next morning Sebastian woke with a crick in his neck. Light came through one tall unfamiliar window he squinted against. It took him a moment, and an erection, to remember he was asleep outside Rebecca’s bedchamber. The settee, thankfully, did not have arms, allowing him to stretch out instead of being curled up like a bear squeezed into a hole carved out from a mole. Slowly, he rose to sitting, rolling his head side to side and wincing at the cracking.
This room matched her bedchamber in its simplicity and restful color scheme. He would have thought an Amazon preferred something more bold in the way of furnishings and trophies.
Apparently, he had much to learn when it came to women warriors.
Sebastian lowered his bare feet on a Turkish carpet pattern in light yellow and green. The wood was stripped oak, and the settee hadn’t been horribly uncomfortable, at least not compared to the one at The Hanging Moss.
His gaze was drawn to a painting over the ornate fireplace. An amateurish work that resembled the Highlands in summer. He pulled on his stockings and boots, pulled his sadly wrinkled cravat around his neck, and tied a simple knot, then slipped on his waistcoat and coat. He went and stood before the painting. He knew instinctively Rebecca was the artist. This was not a work worthy of a museum, but he liked it and suspected that Rebecca cherished it. He wondered when she’d had the occasion to visit Scotland. The brilliant green grasses were dotted with dabs of lavender and heather. There was a longing and delight that reached out and touched the viewer. At least it touched him.
He shook his head at his fanciful thoughts and moved to the adjourning door to the bedchamber, pushed down the latch and peered in.
Rebecca slept soundly. Something she desperately needed despite her protestations the night before. He strolled quietly to the bed and stood there a moment, taking her in, thinking how inappropriate a wife she was for a man in his position. An Amazonian woman who championed children, animals and, apparently, Gabriella.Not men, he reminded himself. She was nothing like anyone he’d ever known. And he was a person who protected his standing in society, craved structure, obedience—something she would never adhere to. Was he wrong in forcing this union?
He leaned over and brushed the hair from her face, studied the scar on her temple. She would jump into the fray for her cause and fight to the death. The very idea set his cautious, disciplined equilibrium askew. But their circumstances had changed. The duchess charging their chamber at The Hanging Moss had set them on an irreversible course. Honor and his name would allow no different.
Life with Rebecca would not be one of tranquility, something which gave him pause. Her impulsiveness would create havoc in his well-ordered existence. But never, never would she be uninteresting. This union did not bode well for his reputation, but seeing her now, like this? He couldn’t make himself care. He wanted her. She gave him life.
There would be talk, but as a duke he was not powerless.
Her eyes fluttered open. “What is it?” she said, her voice full of sleep. Her eyes widened. “What are you doing in here?”
Sebastian leaned over, caging her between his arms, excitement thrumming his veins. “I’m leaving. I shall have to dress a bit more formally than a wrinkled cravat and a travel worn coat to meet the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
That drew her quick smile, but it quickly disappeared.
He laid his lips on hers, drew in the soft lavender that was so prevalent. So her. “Will you wish me a safe journey?” It was a taunt unworthy of him. He hadn’t the slightest idea what made him ask such a thing.
“Men don't need reassuring of that sort.” She scooted deeper within the coverlets. “I do believe you may be touched in the head.”
“Just as I suspected,” he said, struggling to keep his tone light, though he feared his irritation bled through. “Your avenging only extends to those of your choosing. Not a true warrior at all, are you, my lady?”
“Sebastian,” she said with a touch of impatience. “What are you talking about? What is this nonsense about a warrior?”
“Sometimes men require saving, my lady. Perhaps it is you who is touched in the head.”
Her lips twitched. “Go away, Sebastian.”
The sight made him smile. “Obviously, you are not at your sharpest first thing in the morning. I’ll see you this afternoon for a ride.”
“A ride?” She started to rise, and he wrapped his arms around her.
