Page 35 of Five Nights to Claim His Duchess

She had no notion how long he had been standing there. She had no notion how much he had heard, and the not-knowing was very much worse than knowing would have been. Her arms had already gone crossed over her chest, and her knees had come up, and she had made herself as small as a woman could be in three feet of water, and the whole of her was scarlet, and none of it was doing the smallest good.

He came in.

“Duchess.” He did not appear to be in any hurry about it. “We are married.”

“Yes.” Her voice came out somewhere near the ceiling. “Yes, forgive me, Your Grace. I only—” She swallowed. “It takes a while.”

“So I observe.”

He had stopped beside the bath. He was looking down into the water, and she watched him look, and there was nothing in his face at all except a kind of unhurried interest, which was somehow far worse than a smirk would have been.

The water was cloudy with oil. There were rose petals on it. There were a very great many rose petals on it, because she had asked for them. She asked the girls to send up the good scent as well. She sat in it for three-quarters of an hour going soft, warm and sweet as a pudding.

“I came to speak with you,” he said.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Are you preparing for something, wife?”

Diana turned so red that she could feel it in her ears.

She had told Mrs. Fletcher she wanted a bath and had not said why, and had asked for the rose water and had not said why, and had sat there in it thinking about his hands and telling herself she was merely being clean. In truth, she was hopeful for this night.

“No,” she said.

“Mm,” said the Duke of Rosewood.

He smiled. It was not a large smile. It did not need to be.

Then he turned his back to her and looked at the fire instead.

“You may cover yourself.”

She was out of that water so fast that half of it went on the floor. Her robe was three steps away on the chair, and she had it round her and knotted. Her hair was dripping down her back, and her feet were slipping on the boards. She gathered up what remained of her dignity and made for the door when he picked her up.

Diana made a sound that was not a word.

He had turned round and stooped and got one arm behind her knees and one at her back and lifted her clean off the floor, and her arms had gone round his neck without consulting her, and she was soaking, and he did not appear to have noticed.

“Your Grace—” She was staring at his throat, which was as far up as she could look. “Your Grace, I am wet⁠—”

“Yes,” said Valentine. “I shall see to it that you remain so.”

Diana’s mouth opened and nothing whatever came out of it.

He carried her the length of the passage, shouldered the door of the chamber open, and crossed the room, past the bed, which she had been watching approach with her heart going like a bird, and set her down on the long table beneath the window.

Then he straightened. And looked at her.

“We shall not be using the bed tonight, Duchess,” he said.

Diana shivered.

He seized her waist with both hands, the grip firm and possessive, drawing her flush against the hard length of his body. Diana’s lashes fluttered shut as his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that enveloped her utterly, yet it was laced with that ducal restraint that only heightened her longing. His arms wrapped about her, one hand splayed wide at the small of her back, pressing her nearer until there was no space left between them. Her own hands rose instinctively to wind about his neck, fingers burying into the thick, dark hair at his nape. She was still dripping from the bath, rivulets of scented water soaking into his shirt and waistcoat, but he seemed not to mind; if anything, the deep, appreciative rumble that vibrated from his chest told her he relished the evidence of her abandon.

His lips left hers to blaze a trail along the delicate line of her jaw and down the slender column of her throat. Diana closed her eyes tighter, a soft, involuntary whimper escaping her as wave upon wave of sensation assailed her: the warm press of his mouth, the faint graze of teeth, the heated whisper of his breath against her damp skin.

Lust grew into an insistent ache that radiated outward, making her thighs tremble and press together in a futile bid for relief. Merciful heavens, how can he reduce me to this? she thought, half-dazed with wonder and desire. She craved him with a ferocity that both thrilled and terrified her, this man who saw her so clearly, who commanded her surrender with nothing more than a look and a word. Her body burned for more: for his hands everywhere, for the feel of him, for the promise of completion she sensed he alone could grant.