Page 21 of Five Nights to Claim His Duchess

He reached out and lifted her chin.

“This is the second night.”

She swallowed.

“Tonight, Duchess,” he said, “we shall do something interesting.”

The heat rose through her in a slow, scalding wave. She sat very still while he kicked off his boots. He took her by the waist and pulled her down into the bed with him, and she shut her eyes, and she waited for his mouth, and God forgive her, she wanted it, she wanted it so badly that her hands had curled into the sheets.

He turned her round and gathered her back against his chest and put his arm over her.

“We sleep like this tonight, Duchess.”

Diana’s eyes flew open. She twisted her head to look up at him.

There was a twinkle in his eye. He was laughing at her. He had known, the whole time, exactly what she was waiting for.

“Good night, Duchess,” he whispered.

Oh, Diana, she thought, burning to the roots of her hair. You did not even try to resist. You did not even think of it.

But his chest was warm at her back, and his breathing had already begun to slow and steady, and it steadied her too. Just before she went under, Diana understood, with a kind of quiet astonishment, that she was safe. That she felt safe. Here, in the arms of the beast of Rosewood, safer than she had felt in eight years.

And that was more dangerous than anything he had done to her yet.

CHAPTER NINE

“Driven out already? That was quick, even for you.”

Diana had one foot on the carriage step when the words reached her, and she did not trouble to look up. She knew the voice. It had a laugh underneath it that never came anywhere near being a laugh.

Her father made a sound of protest — “Octavia” — but it was a soft sound, and it did not mean anything, and Diana had learned long ago exactly what her father’s protests were worth.

Then the Duke came down behind her.

The change was quite something to watch. It went across Octavia’s face like sun across a field; the mouth softened, the eyes warmed, the woman rearranged herself between one breath and the next.

“Oh, dearest Diana.” She came down the steps with both hands out. “We have missed you so.”

Diana scoffed. She could not help it and did not much try.

She looked her stepmother over as the woman came closer, and what she saw did not surprise her, though it made something tighten under her ribs. Octavia was done up like a duchess herself. The gown was new, and French, and cost more than the whole of Diana’s trousseau; there were pearls at her throat and a bracelet on each wrist and a shawl of Norwich silk over her arm that must have run to thirty guineas. Beside her Levi looked like a man who had been dressed by somebody else and not recently. His coat was three years old. His wife was wearing the difference.

And she is beautiful, Diana thought, with a flat, tired honesty.

Octavia sank into a curtsy before the Duke. It was about four inches deeper than was called for.

“Your Grace. What an honor.”

She looked up through her lashes as she rose. Diana watched her do it.

“Madam,” said Valentine, and he looked away.

Her father led them to the drawing room. When the Duke sat, he reached out his hand toward her without looking. Diana took it and sat down beside him. Across the room, Octavia’s face crumpled. It lasted no longer than a blink, and it was gone before her husband could see it. Diana saw it.

“Your Grace.” Her father cleared his throat. “Might I ask the reason for the visit?”

“May a man’s wife not call upon her own family?”