Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

“Must you constantly adjust the ledgers while we break our fast?” Arthur asked, though his tone held more affection than censure as he watched Isolde frown at the household accounts. “Crawford looks positively scandalized by such impropriety at the table.”

“Hmm?” She didn’t look up, absently reaching for her teacup.

But before she could grasp it, Arthur’s hand closed over hers, his thumb stroking her inner wrist in a way that made her breath catch.

“Arthur, I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Are you?” He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her pulse point. “How fascinating that you can focus on numbers when I can think of far more entertaining pursuits.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she scoffed, but she made no move to reclaim her hand, a flush creeping up her neck as his lips traveled to her palm.

“So you’ve mentioned.” He pulled her chair closer to his, ignoring Crawford’s carefully averted gaze. “Several times last night, if I recall correctly.”

“Arthur!” Her scandalized whisper only made him grin wider. “The servants⁠—”

“Are well aware that their Duke takes such good care of his Duchess.” He stole a bite of toast from her plate, delighting in her indignant huff. “I caught Mrs. Phillips sighing just yesterday.”

It was true. The entire household had noticed the change between them—the lingering touches, the shared glances, the way neither could seem to go more than an hour without seeking the other out.

Just last week, he’d interrupted an important meeting with his steward because he’d heard Isolde laughing in the garden and simply had to see what had amused her so.

“The accounts won’t balance themselves,” she protested weakly as he began trailing his fingers up her arm.

“Let them remain unbalanced.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear. “I can think of far better ways to spend the morning.”

“Can you, indeed?” But she was already tilting her head to allow him better access to her neck. “And what would those be, Your Grace?”

“Shall I demonstrate?” His hand found her knee beneath the table, and he delighted in her sharp intake of breath. “Perhaps in the music room? You did mention wanting another lesson…”

“The last time you offered to teach me how to play the piano, we never actually made it to the keys.”

“I don’t recall hearing any complaints.” He nipped her earlobe, savoring her shiver. “In fact, I distinctly remember quite a lot of encouragement.”

Crawford’s pointed cough made them spring apart like guilty schoolchildren. “Will you need anything else, Your Graces?”

“No, thank you, Crawford.” Isolde’s voice was admirably steady despite her flushed cheeks. “That will be all.”

The moment the butler was out of the room, Arthur pulled her onto his lap, sending her papers scattering.

“Now then, about that music lesson…”

“You are impossible.” But she was already melting against him, her hands sliding into his hair. “What happened to the stern, proper duke I married?”

“He discovered that his wife is far more tempting than propriety.” He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “Far more intoxicating than duty.”

“Arthur…”

The way she said his name, half sigh and half surrender, made his blood sing.

“Come with me.” He stood up, keeping her in his arms despite her squeak of surprise. “The accounts can wait.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere.” He carried her toward the door, not caring if the entire household saw them. “I find I can’t bear to be parted from you today.”

Her laugh, bright and uninhibited, echoed through the morning room. “And what about your duties? Your meetings?”

“Damn them all.” He set her on her feet only to press her against the corridor wall, his hands already working at the buttons of her morning dress. “I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Here?” She arched into his touch despite her scandalized tone. “In the corridor?”

“Would you prefer the library again?” He smiled against her throat. “Or perhaps the conservatory? I believe we haven’t christened that room yet…”

“The conservatory?” Isolde’s breath caught as his fingers traced the edge of her bodice. “Someone might see.”

“Let them.” Arthur’s lips brushed her ear, sending shivers down her spine. “Perhaps they’ll learn something.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Someone’s feeling bold.”

“Bold?” He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm that made her pulse race. “Or simply making up for lost time?”

“Lost time?” Her fingers played with the buttons of his waistcoat. “And how exactly do you intend to do that?”

“I can be quite thorough.” His voice dropped to a low rumble that made her knees weak.

“Promises, promises,” she whispered, but her eyes had darkened with desire.

His hands settled on her waist, drawing her flush against him. “Shall I demonstrate?”

The challenge hung between them, electric and promising. Arthur’s fingers found the first button of her dress, his touch deliberate and slow.

“Well?” he murmured. “Are you going to stop me?”

“Stop you?” Isolde’s fingers traced the line of his jaw. “I am not sure I want to.”

Arthur’s laugh was low and dark. “Dangerous words, wife.”

His lips found the sensitive spot beneath her ear, and she gasped. Her hands, seemingly with a mind of their own, began working on the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Eager, are we?” he murmured, nibbling a path down her neck.

“Someone has to be,” she retorted, pushing the waistcoat off his shoulders. “You are wearing far too many clothes.”

“Is that a complaint?” His fingers deftly worked the buttons of her dress, each one revealing more skin.

“Merely an observation.” Her breath caught as his lips followed the path of each newly exposed inch. “A duchess is allowed her opinions.”

“Indeed she is.” His hands slid the dress down, letting it pool at her feet. “And what is your opinion now?”

Isolde stood before him in her chemise, challenging him with her eyes. “I believe you are still overdressed, Your Grace.”

His shirt joined her dress on the floor, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other - hunger and promise shimmering between them.

“Shall I continue?” Arthur’s fingers hooked into the straps of her chemise.

“Please,” Isolde whispered, “do.”

When her chemise fell to the floor, Arthur pulled her close. He kissed down her neck and licked the hollow at the base of her neck.

Bending his head further to take her nipple into his mouth, Isolde arched against him. She nipped his shoulder gently and then eased her hands down his torso until she found the trail of hair. She grasped him tightly in her hand.

“Yes,” he groaned.

Once more, he bent his head to kiss her softly and deeply, his hands moving sensually over her body, exploring every curve. His fingers touched her between her thighs. She spread her thighs wider and gasped against him.

“Please, Arthur,” she pleaded, her voice filled with desperation.

With each smooth glide of his fingers into her moist opening, his own desire intensified. Mimicking his movements, she wrapped her fingers around his firm, solid girth.

Arthur pushed her against the wall and used his knee to spread her legs wide. He gradually eased himself into her, savoring every inch. He began to thrust inside of her.

Her eyes closed and her head leaned back, a flush spreading across her chest.

When she screamed out his name, he couldn’t hold back. He thrust deeper inside of her and felt his own release.

Arthur’s arms remained around her, supporting her as her breathing slowly steadied. He pressed a kiss to her temple, marveling at how perfectly she fit against him, how vulnerable and strong she looked in the aftermath of their passion.

“So,” Isolde murmured against his chest, “I believe the conservatory is now officially christened.”

“Scandalized some ferns, did we?” He pressed a kiss to her temple, his hands smoothing her rumpled dress.

His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of her hip, still unable to believe how completely she had surrendered to him.

Outside, sunlight filtered through the conservatory’s glass, casting them in a warm, intimate glow. The scattered plants seemed to lean in, conspiratorial witnesses to their passionate moment.

“Shall we return to the house?” Arthur asked, though neither of them seemed in a hurry to move.

“Mmm,” Isolde nestled closer. “In a moment.”

And in that moment, Arthur felt something he’d never expected—complete, absolute contentment.

Later that afternoon, Arthur found himself unable to concentrate on his correspondence. Every scratch of his quill reminded him of the delicate way Isolde had reviewed the household accounts that morning. Every shift in his chair reminded him of how perfectly she fit in his lap.

A knock at his study door made him look up, his heart full of hope.

“Your Grace?” Crawford appeared, his expression schooled to reveal nothing “Her Grace asks if you’d like to join her in the garden. She’s having tea there.”

Arthur was on his feet before the butler finished speaking. “Tell her I’ll be there shortly.”

He found her beneath a white rose arbor, an open book in her lap as she absently stirred her tea. Sunlight filtered through the climbing roses, casting dappled shadows on her face. The sight stopped him in his tracks.

“Are you going to stand there the whole afternoon?” She didn’t look up from her book, but a smile played on her lips.

“Perhaps.” He moved behind her chair, letting his hands rest on her shoulders. “The view is particularly enchanting today.”

“Flatterer.” But she tilted her head back to accept his kiss.

“What are you reading that’s more interesting than your husband’s company?”

She showed him the spine—poetry, of course.

“Ah.” He began massaging her shoulders, feeling the tension melt away beneath his touch. “More romantic verses?”

“I’m assembling quite the collection.” She tilted her head back to look at him. “Though I suspect you secretly enjoy them as well.”

“Do you now?” His thumbs kneaded a particularly tight spot, making her sigh. “What makes you think that?”

“I’ve seen your library.” She set the book aside, reaching up to catch his hand. “The romantic volumes are far more worn than the ledgers. I bet the ton would be scandalized by your love of romantic poetry.”

“Perhaps I simply inherited them.” But his eyes sparkled with amusement as he pulled her to her feet. “What would the ton say if they could see their proper Duchess now?”

“Probably the same things they say about their rake of a duke being thoroughly domesticated.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Crawford told me you’ve barely left the estate in weeks.”

“Why would I?” He brushed his lips across her temple. “Everything I want is right here.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them, too close to feelings he wasn’t ready to examine. But Isolde simply smiled, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him properly.

“Your tea will get cold,” she murmured against his lips.

“Let it.” He deepened the kiss, one hand tangling in her carefully arranged hair. “I’m developing quite a different appetite.”

A discreet cough made them look up to find a footman hovering nearby, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.

“Yes, James?” Isolde asked, her cheeks pink despite her steady voice.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Mrs. Phillips requires your approval for the order with the butcher.”

Arthur tightened his hold on her waist. “Tell Mrs. Phillips that Her Grace is busy.”

“Arthur!” Isolde was laughing as the footman beat a hasty retreat. “You’re making the servants uncomfortable.”

“Let them be uncomfortable.” Arthur nuzzled the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “I find I care very little for anything beyond this garden, this moment, this⁠—”

The distant sound of the dinner gong startled them both.

“Has it really grown so late?” Isolde glanced at the setting sun. “We’ve been out here for hours.”

“Time flies by when one is thoroughly distracted.” Arthur offered her his arm with a flourish. “Shall we scandalize the servants further by arriving to dinner together?”

Her answering smile made his heart flip in his chest. “Lead on, Your Grace.”

As they walked back to the house, Arthur wondered how he’d ever thought this marriage would be merely one of convenience.

Nothing about Isolde—from her quick wit to her tender heart to the way she fit so perfectly against him—was convenient.

Later that evening, they sat across from each other at the dining table, though Arthur had insisted their places be set closer together rather than at the traditional opposite ends.

The candlelight caught the gold in Isolde’s hair, making it shimmer like honey.

“You are staring again,” she said without looking up from her soup, though a smile played on her lips.

“I’m admiring my wife. Surely that’s allowed?” He reached for his wine glass, deliberately letting his fingers graze hers. “Besides, I have several weeks of missed dinners to make up for.”

A blush bloomed across her cheeks. “You make it sound as though I was the one avoiding you.”

“Weren’t you?” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Though I must say, your timing was impressive. I recall many a morning when you’d breakfast in your room.” “Perhaps I was simply eager to perform my duties.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” He raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were running from my rakish charms.”

Crawford appeared to clear away their soup bowls, his face a mask of proper indifference—though Arthur could have sworn he saw the butler’s mouth twitch.

“The fish, Your Graces,” Crawford’s voice was perfectly steady as he presented the next course.

“Thank you, Crawford,” Isolde’s voice was equally steady, though her cheeks flushed. “Everything is lovely this evening.”

“Indeed,” Arthur murmured, his eyes never leaving her face. “Particularly lovely.”

Once Crawford had withdrawn, Isolde gave her husband a mock stern look. “The servants will be trading whispers in the kitchen tonight.”

“I rather thought they’d be relieved that their Duke and Duchess are finally acting like a proper married couple.” Arthur leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Though I suppose what happened in the library earlier wasn’t quite so proper.”

“Arthur!” But she was laughing now, the sound bright and uninhibited in the dining room. “You’re impossible.”

“So you keep telling me.” He captured her free hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Yet, here you are, dining with impossible me.”

“Yes, well.” She turned her hand to cup his cheek. “Perhaps impossible isn’t so bad, after all.”

After dinner, they settled in the small parlor, where a fire crackled cheerfully in the grate. Rain had begun to patter against the windows, making their cozy corner feel even more intimate.

Isolde was curled up against Arthur on the settee, her head resting on his shoulder, when a gray furball sauntered into the room.

“Well, hello there.” Isolde straightened, delighted as the cat leaped gracefully onto the settee between them. “I didn’t know Meadowell had a resident cat.”

“Ah, yes.” Arthur’s voice softened as he reached out to scratch behind the cat’s ears. “Found this little one half-drowned in a drainage ditch last spring, barely bigger than my hand. Some fool had tossed a sack of kittens in the stream.”

The cat began to purr, rubbing its head against Arthur’s hand before turning to inspect Isolde with curious yellow eyes.

“You rescued it?” Isolde smiled, watching her supposedly rakish husband gently touch the small creature. “What’s its name?”

“I, ah…” Arthur looked almost sheepish. “I never actually named it. It seemed presumptuous to name something that clearly owns the place rather than the other way around.”

“We can’t have that!” Isolde held out her hand, letting the cat sniff her fingers before stroking its soft fur. “Every creature needs a proper name.”

“And what would you suggest?”

The cat chose that moment to sprawl across their laps, clearly claiming them as its new favorite resting spot.

“Mozart,” Isolde declared after studying the cat’s imperious expression.

“Mozart?” Arthur chuckled. “Rather grand for such a little creature.”

“Says the duke who spends his days rescuing strays,” Isolde teased.

“Only this particular stray,” he admitted, drawing her closer with his free hand. “Though I must say, his advice has proven remarkably sound.”

As if in agreement, Mozart began licking its paw methodically, the picture of dignified satisfaction.

“Clearly wiser than its rescuer,” Isolde murmured, leaning up to kiss Arthur’s jaw. “At least about some things.”

The newly-christened Mozart chose that moment to knock over Arthur’s brandy glass, and they both lunged forward to save the carpet.

“Though perhaps,” Arthur added dryly as Isolde laughed, “his wisdom is somewhat selective.”