Her eyes widened, and her hands flew to her cheeks. “Peter. Lilly put his bed in my dressing room. He’s used to sleeping in here.”
“How very sensible Lilly is.” He eased her back onto the bed. “I can see why you have kept the maid on.”
He leaned over her, resting his hands on either side of her.
“Poor, Peter,” Nellie murmured, curling her fingers around Charles’s neck and drawing him down.
“But happy me,” he said as his mouth covered hers.
He lay beside her, delighting in every inch of her. The pulse at the base of her throat, the luscious feel of her heavy breasts in his hands, her rosy nipples hardening as he drew them into his mouth. He traced the delicate bones of her ribs, the soft swell of her belly, and down. Her skin was the color of clotted cream, a triangle of golden hair at the apex of her thighs, deeper pink at her moist center.
Nellie moaned and wriggled and clutched his head. After a brief flicker of concern for the risk to his hair clutched in her fingers, Charles lost himself in the wonder of her.
Chapter Fourteen
Nellie woke. Sunlightstreamed through the break in the curtains. She smiled and turned over, but the bed beside her was empty. It was not her bedchamber but his, filled with solid furniture and damask bed hangings. A swathe of the same silvery-blue damask decorated the row of windows.
Where was Charles? With a heavy sigh, she stretched and curled her toes, recalling every moment of their night of passion. It thrilled her and made her warm and wish he were here. He was an exciting yet tender lover. Her body felt slightly sore. She lay still, enjoying the wonderful, languid sensation which still lingered. It was as if her bones had melted.
She roused herself and threw back the blankets, stepping down from the high bed. Her dressing gown lay over a chair along with her slippers. She shrugged into it and tied the belt, then wandered into their sitting room. A pile of congratulatory letters, invitations to balls and parties, awaited her reply on the desk. Nellie turned away, and with a sigh, studied her messy hair in the gilt-edged mirror above the marble-topped bureau. Below it, on its polished surface, sat a vase of red roses, the exact shade of the rose thrown at Charles’s feet when they left the cathedral after the wedding. Who had thrown that rose? She had seen the Frenchwoman. It must have been her.
Disturbed, Nellie rang for Lilly. She shivered and rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. They were just flowers, possibly ordered by the housekeeper. Was she foolish?
But the worry still tugged at her. She couldn’t bear to think that Charles had done his duty as a husband, then left her with his heart and mind filled with thoughts of another woman. Might his mistress have sent these roses to remind him of her?
Their strong perfume made Nellie sick. She plucked a rose from the vase as the maid came in. “Who brought these, Lilly? Do you know?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Nellie opened the door to her bedchamber. With a welcome woof, Peter scampered over to her. She put the rose on the dresser and picked him up. “My poor boy. Were you lonely?”
A little while later, as Nellie sat brushing her hair before the mirror, Lilly carried in a tray and placed a cup of chocolate, a basket of hot rolls, and a pot of jam on a table. “Peter has had his walk and his breakfast, Your Grace.” She went to inspect the rose. “How pretty. Shall I put it in water?”
“No. I might press it in a book.”Or crush it underfoot.
“What shall you wear this morning, Your Grace?”
“The primrose, Lilly.” Nellie sat on the chintz armchair, holding the cup in both her hands, with the hope it would warm the cold, uneasy knot in her chest.
“I saw His Grace’s valet in the kitchen when I was making your chocolate,” Lilly said. “Mr. Feeley said the duke is in the library with his secretary.”
“Yes, he’s very busy.” Nellie lowered her head over the cup.
Charles must have dressed quietly in his dressing room so as not to wake her. Did he enjoy the night as much as she did? They had barely spoken, for she’d fallen asleep. She had never imagined men and women could give each other such pleasure. Her first night with Charles was very special to her. Whatever happened between them, it would always be so. But perhaps it was not that way for him, for he hadn’t felt the need to be there when she woke.
She would dress and take the rose down to Charles and ask him who sent them. The prospect filled her with purpose, which warmed her far better than the chocolate.
*
“Either you oryour legal representative must appear before the magistrate at Bow Street at ten o’clock this morning, Your Grace. Your solicitors, Crambery and Challener, have received sworn testimonies from two witnesses who saw Lord Ambrose swing a punch at you first. But Ambrose wishes to pursue it, nonetheless. The solicitors need to know if you will allow them to appear on your behalf. Or will you go yourself?”
“I’ll attend. I need to have this out with the plaintiff and his father, the Earl of Fairbrother, should he appear. The duchess is not to hear of this, Barlow.”
His secretary nodded. “Very well, Your Grace.”
“I’ll see to the mail before I leave.”
When it was put before him, Charles flicked through them. He frowned at a perfumed letter and slipped it into a drawer without opening it. Then turned to the rest. Invitations to routs, parties, and balls every night for a month.
