Snatching up the decanter and two glasses, he headed to the adjoining door and knocked. No light shone under the door, but a candle near the bed would cast only shade.
His insides twisted, and the decanter wobbled in his grasp.
God, was he…nervous?
“Yes,” a soft Irish voice answered, and he grasped the handle whilst juggling the glassware. Thus, he must have projected the quintessential befuddled bridegroom as he lurched into the room.
He stopped dead.
The duchess’s bedchamber had remained unoccupied for aeons. His mother had vacated it when Father had died, citing too many memories, and even then, she’d moved into one of his smaller townhouses. She still used their family abode for soirées and came to dinner once too often, but he wondered if she was to thank for the fresh decor.
Immaculate silks festooned the bed in a deep rust and new furniture adorned the room: an elegant writing desk, a dressing table with huge mirror and a comfortable striped silk chaise. In the far wall, a fireplace glowed to counter the damp of London spring.
The lone item he did recognise was the walnut wardrobe, but the probable reason it hadn’t been removed was because it was the size of Piccadilly.
Aideen lay in the middle of the huge bed, reading a book by candlelight, wild black curls cascading around her. She wore a night robe, a frilly white concoction that obliterated any sight of her body, fastened tight to the neck.
She put the book aside and clasped her hands, lace now obliterating any view of even that skin. “Your Grace. I hope you had a successful afternoon?”
Was that sarcasm or genuine interest?
It annoyed him that he didn’t know, that he didn’t knowherwell enough to discern the truth. But then he wasn’t here for polite chit-chat.
His lust told him not to waste time. It ached to rip that frilly item from her, devour her whole.
But that wasn’t very ducal.
Tonight, he needed his control in more ways than one. In order to keep his future distance, he would need to maintain calm and full awareness of his body’s reactions and emotions. It would be all too easy to become carried away with the duchess. To utter words that should remain unsaid.
“Very,” he finally answered, rather stiffly even to his own ears. With care, he deposited the decanter and glasses on the writing desk. “Can I pour you a drink?”
Aideen nodded, although she also pointed to the bedside table and he noticed a cup of something.
“Tea?” he queried.
“Chocolate with brandy. Warms the cockles. But a glass undiluted would be…relaxing.” She licked her lips.
If she was trying to bring him to his knees then she was succeeding, so to curb the threat, he turned and decanted two glasses.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her push the coverlet back and swing her legs to the floor. The frilly robe enveloped her in a mass of ribbons and lace and frills and– It was hideous.
“Where did you get that robe?” he asked solicitously as she walked towards him. He’d never seen her in anything so horrific – normally her taste was impeccable, tight silks in colours that lit her skin and eyes.
Their fingers brushed as he handed her the glass.
Damnation, the merest touch set him afire. What would happen if they were skin to skin?
“Mrs Beckford’s bridal present.”
A deterrent? He took a sip of liquor.
“But,” she said, twisting a ribbon at the neck, “perhaps you might prefer Sophie’s wedding gift?” The ribbon parted, and the ridiculous frilly item slid from her shoulders.
He didn’t splutter his brandy – perhaps because his mouth had dried. Everything had headed south at the sight of Aideen.
A deep ocean-blue night-rail draped her body with alternate bands of gossamer and plain silk, begging his fingers to discover the secrets beneath. A low bodice framed pale skin and material clung sensuously to her curves, trailing her slender waist and full hips.
The curve of her breast was shielded by silk, but only sheer material swathed her legs.
