Page 111 of Stolen and Seduced By the Duke

"I see you everywhere. I catch your scent everywhere. No matter where I go in this house, you are there with these blasted flowers you placed, and I can do nothing to quiet the desire you stir in me."

Margaret stopped breathing for a moment.

She had expected anger. She had expected another lecture about propriety, perhaps even that maddening calm dismissal he used whenever emotions became inconvenient. She had not expected this.

Pierce Sterling, the man who guarded his feelings as fiercely as he guarded his secrets, was standing before her and admitting that she haunted him. Margaret's heart began beating so violently that she was certain he could hear it. All the jealousy, fear, and uncertainty she had carried since he returned from his journey seemed to collapse beneath the weight of those words.

"I thought..." Her voice faltered, and she lowered her gaze because suddenly she could not bear the intensity of his eyes. "I thought you were growing tired of me."

The confession was barely louder than a whisper, but Pierce heard it. His expression softened, and for once there was no impatience in his face, no cold authority, no duke standing behind a carefully constructed wall. There was simply a man looking at his wife as though she had said something impossible.

"Tired?" he repeated, almost incredulously. He stepped nearer and lifted her chin gently until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. "How could I ever..." His voice trailed off, and his eyes moved over her face. "Look at you."

The simplicity of those words nearly undid her. Margaret felt tears prick her eyes again, but they were no longer tears of anger. They were tears of relief, of longing, of the unbearable sweetness of finally hearing what she had been too frightened to ask.

Then Pierce pulled her into his arms.

Margaret gasped as his embrace closed around her, strong and warm and certain. The next moment his mouth found hers, and every thought she had been attempting to arrange into sensible order vanished. She clutched the front of his coat, feeling the hard strength beneath it as he kissed her with a passion that made her knees weaken. She had missed him. Good heavens, how she had missed him. She had missed his touch, his warmth, his presence beside her at night, and even his infuriating habit of making her want to argue simply because arguing with him meant having his attention.

Her fingers tightened against his coat as she returned the kiss, rising instinctively towards him. Pierce's arms drew her closer, and Margaret felt the familiar dizzying sensation of being completely surrounded by him. There was no ball, no Lady Darren, no mysterious journey south, and no poisonous whisper about another woman.

There was only Pierce, kissing her as though he had spent the entire evening fighting the same longing she had been trying to conceal.

CHAPTER 28

When they finally parted enough to breathe, Margaret remained in his arms. Her heart was still racing, and she could scarcely remember why she had been so determined to march upstairs and lock herself in her bedchamber.

"You are still an oaf," she whispered breathlessly, though the words lacked any true conviction.

Pierce's mouth curved. "And you are still troublesome."

She smiled despite herself. "Then we are both unfortunate."

"Extremely," he murmured, tightening his arms around her.

Margaret closed her eyes, allowing herself, for once, to believe him. Perhaps he did not know how to love gently. Perhaps he did not know how to reassure her without first making her furious. Perhaps he would always be secretive and stubborn and maddeningly controlled. But he had looked at her and told her she drove him mad, and that was enough to quiet every frightening thought in her heart.

Pierce bent and swept her into his arms. She gave a startled little gasp, instinctively winding her arms around his neck as he carried her from the entrance hall towards the staircase.

"Pierce," she protested, though there was very little protest in her voice, "I can walk perfectly well."

He glanced down at her, one blue eye and one green eye gleaming with amusement beneath his dark brows, and replied, "I know," before continuing upstairs as though her opinion on the matter had never been requested.

Margaret ought to have been annoyed by his high-handedness, yet the warmth of his arms beneath her and the steady strength with which he carried her made her heart beat faster. After all the uncertainty of the evening, after all the foolish fears that had tormented her, there was something wonderfully reassuring about being held so securely by the man who had become her husband.

Once they entered his bedchamber, Pierce set her gently upon her feet and closed the door behind them. Margaret watched him with growing curiosity as he turned towards her and said, "Put your mask back on."

She blinked at him, certain she had misheard. "My mask?" she asked, touching the masquerade mask still dangling from her fingers.

Pierce nodded, his expression far too serious for whatever mischief he was contemplating. "Just do as I say."

Margaret narrowed her eyes at him but obediently lifted the mask and settled it over her face. Pierce then reached for his own simple black mask and secured it in place, and the sight of him suddenly transformed her husband into the mysterious stranger she had first encountered at his masquerade. Her pulse quickened. She remembered that night, the reckless kiss she had intended to steal, the danger she had been desperate to escape, and the very different danger she now faced in the privacy of his chamber.

"I have a series of instructions for you," Pierce announced, stepping closer.

Margaret sighed dramatically, folding her arms. "Not more rules and instructions." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously behind the mask as she added, "You do seem determined to organize every part of my existence."

A faint smile touched his mouth. "This is different," he assured her, and there was something in his voice that made her stomach flutter. "This isn't about routines and schedules."