But he wasn’t about to snap to her merest demand. She could bloody well wait.
He soaped his hair and dunked himself beneath the hot, bubbly water before slowly reaching for the razor. By God, he was bathing, and he wouldn’t rush just because she had arrived on his doorstep demanding he speak to her. But he had to tell Hawthorne something. The poor man was wilting in the steamy heat of the chamber.
“Tell Her Grace I’m indisposed at the moment and will be down within the hour,” Sebastian finally offered.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Hawthorne replied, bowing, turning, and hurrying from the room.
Sebastian spent the next several minutes doing his best to shave his shadow of a beard with the razor, using his fingertips to gauge where he needed to stroke. He’d been in something of a hurry before, but now he took his time, quite pleased with the thought of making her wait.
He was nearly finished shaving when another knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” he called, more than a bit disgruntled at having been interrupted again.
The door opened slowly, and Hawthorne stepped inside. As before, the butler had a stoic look on his face and kept his eyes trained on the far wall. “Your Grace,” he began. “I regret to inform you that Her Grace has demanded that you come down from whatever indisposition you’re—ahem—entertaining and meet with her immediately.”
“She said that?” Sebastian shot out, his nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing.
“Yes,” Hawthorne replied, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “Her exact words were, ‘Tell him I’ve no intention of waiting while he sneaks his latest mistress down the back staircase.’”
Sebastian clenched his jaw until a muscle ticked in his cheek. That sounded exactly like her, quick to assume and quicker to judge. Wouldn’t she be horrified to know he’d merely been in his bath when—
Wait a moment. Sebastian stopped, poking out his cheek with his tongue. If she was going to be demanding, he would give her precisely what she wanted. “Fine,” he snapped. “Escort her up.”
“Your Grace?” The servant’s eyes flared with what appeared to be panic. “Here?”
“You heard me, Hawthorne.” A calculating smile curled Sebastian’s lips. “Escort my wife up here, directly. I look forward to her visit.”
Chapter Three
Veronica followed Hawthorne up the sweeping marble staircase that led to the second floor of Sebastian’s opulent town house. The poor servant had come back down and informed her in a voice that could only be described as distressed, “His Grace has indicated that if you’re not inclined to wait, you may come up to his bedchamber.”
Veronica had fought the urge to allow her jaw to drop. Instead, she’d narrowed her eyes and contemplated the matter. What was Sebastian up to? She had expected little from him, but he was clearly attempting to call her bluff. And she wasn’t about to let him get away with it. If he wanted to embarrass himself and his mistress by inviting his wife to enter the room, she would surprise them both. After all, Veronica had long ago stopped being hurt by the notion that he shared his bed with another woman. Mostly. Although she’d never actually witnessed it before. This would be a first.
Regardless, she refused to allow Sebastian to get the upper hand, and she did not intend to cool her heels in the drawing room any longer, waiting for his exalted presence. She hadn’t been able to leave for London until much later than she’d hoped this morning. As a result, it was nearly nine o’clock, and it had been a long day. She wanted this over as quickly as possible. She would march directly upstairs and say what she had to say.
“This way,” came Hawthorne’s tortured voice as they reached the top of the stairs and he turned to the right.
“Yes, I remember,” she said, before biting her lip. She hadn’t meant to be rude to the unfortunate servant. It wasn’t his fault his master was a horse’s arse.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he replied. If Hawthorne—the epitome of skill and polish—was turning red, she would never mention it. She regretted he was forced to be in the middle of this unfortunate little scene.
When they arrived at the bedchamber door, Hawthorne knocked, while Veronica experienced an unexpected moment of dread. Had she been wrong to come here? Had she been wrong to taunt Sebastian? Had she been wrong to insist he see her immediately? It was one thing to be perturbed in the drawing room, but it was quite another to be standing in front of the man’s bedchamber door—a bedchamber in which they’d had many nights of unforgettable lovemaking—about to see him tangled in the sheets with his light-o'-love. Terror clutched at her middle.
Veronica nearly turned and scurried back down to the drawing room. But that would give Sebastian the upper hand in the negotiations that were soon to follow, and she would die before she did that. No. Whatever she was about to witness behind that closed door was her own blasted fault. She swallowed and forced herself to lift her chin. Besides, he should be the one embarrassed by his behavior. She had done nothing wrong.
“Come in,” came a voice she would never forget. Deep and authoritative, with a hint of arrogance and a trace of humor. It still sent an unwanted tingle down her spine. She blew out a deep breath. She’d had hours in the coach today to prepare for this moment…but somehow, she still wasn’t prepared. She wiped her sweaty gloved palms on the violet pelisse she’d refused to remove downstairs. She hadn’t intended to stay long enough.
Hawthorne pushed open the door and stepped inside while Veronica waited behind the servant. She set her blurred focus on a painting of a hunting scene on the far side of the room while the butler said, “Her Grace, the Duchess of Edgefield, to see you, Your Grace.”
Then she took a step. First one, then another, until she was standing fully inside Sebastian’s bedchamber for the first time in over two years. The familiar scent of his soap, the same scent she’d licked off his sweaty neck on more than one occasion, nearly sent her to her knees. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to swing her gaze to the side…to look at him. Whatever there was to see, she might as well get it over with.
She frowned. He wasn’t in bed. Her eyes scanned the wide mattress with the familiar dark-blue coverlet. It was not only empty but entirely made as if it hadn’t been used at all in the last, say, hour. Her gaze continued around the room until it alighted on him.
And that’s when her jaw dropped. She couldn’t help it this time.
Standing near the wardrobe, a fire crackling in the large hearth behind him, was her estranged husband. And the man was wearing nothing more than a white towel slung low around his hips. She allowed her gaze to travel from his bare feet, up his strong calves, to his thighs outlined by the towel, then along his muscled abdomen, to his chiseled chest and wide shoulders. She swallowed. Hard. Oh, this had been a bad idea. She shouldn’t have come up here. Still, she couldn’t force her gaze away.
Instead, she continued her perusal. His dark hair was wet and an unmistakable smirk—one she also knew too well—rode his handsome, firmly molded lips. His eyes glowed like emeralds beneath his unfairly long black lashes.
“You may go, Hawthorne,” Sebastian said, pulling a fresh white cravat from the wardrobe in front of him.
