Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

S leep seemed impossible. Beatrice had been trying for… well, it felt like hours, despite the slow crawling of the clock’s hands. She didn’t dare glance at the clock, in case she found herself facing the long, endless night before her.

She rolled onto her back, heaving a sigh. The quilted upholstery stretched out above her, the curtained four-poster bed seeming larger and larger by the minute.

She was tired, her bones aching, but sleep simply refused to come. Pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, Beatrice wondered for the hundredth time how it was that, despite sleeping in the most comfortable bed she’d ever known, she could not seem to actually sleep .

It didn’t help that the events of the day kept replaying in her head.

Why is it that my dearest friend gave birth to a baby—mother and baby are both safe and healthy, no less—and here I am thinking about something other than that? What sort of monster am I?

It was, of course, what happened with Stephen that lingered on Beatrice’s mind. His looks, his smile, the way his fingertips danced across her skin. The moments replayed over and over in her head. She could still feel the way her heart jumped and her skin tingled when he touched her, the way she responded, the way he’d reacted to that response…

Oh, it was too much. Beatrice shivered, the memory making the ache return to her gut again, the wanting rearing its hopeful head.

What was it that he said?

“Before we continue, Beatrice, I should ask whether you have been experimenting in my absence.”

“I should say not!”

“Not even by yourself?”

She hadn’t understood what he’d meant, of course. At the time, it had all been rather baffling. Even the books she’d read—which were few and far between—used flowery terms instead of plain talk when it came to the act between men and women, which had been exciting enough at the time. But Beatrice now found herself craving more details.

They’d been so limited , cramped in that carriage—which had previously seemed so roomy—with the constant fear of being discovered. The carriage locked from the inside, of course, but she was not sure whether Stephen had locked it. At any moment, the coachman or a passerby could have yanked open the door. She had to bite back a smile at the thought.

Why was the idea so exciting? Discovery would be mortifying, of course, but they were married. And to each other, no less. Society would reel from the scandal but ultimately recover. Probably.

Beatrice hadn’t even had the opportunity to remove her dress. The idea of baring herself before another person, at a time like that, made her shudder, but pleasurably so. He would take his time with it, most likely. He’d promised to.

And what about Stephen? Only a blind person could ignore the impressive swell of his muscles under his layers of clothing, broad shoulders matching a thick chest, tapering to an impressively narrow waist. She wondered idly what he did to keep himself so fit and strong—strong enough to have the muscles of a farm laborer.

Not that she could imagine him as a farm laborer, or indeed in any position where he was not in full control.

Since sleep was not coming anytime soon, Beatrice adjusted her position, propping herself up against the pillows, and turned her thoughts in a different direction.

She began by trailing her fingers over the soft skin of her stomach. It was an experimental gesture and did not feel like much beyond idly touching one’s own stomach. She let her fingers dance sideways, skimming over her ribs, upwards towards the curve of her breast, tucked demurely behind her chemise. The chemise was a little thinner and skimpier than a nightgown should be, but it was so much more comfortable. Those heavy nightgowns felt like winding sheets, tangling her up.

The touch made her heart skitter frantically in her chest, and her breath caught in her throat.

Chasing the new sensation, Beatrice held her breath and slid her hand lower, lower until she touched the apex of her thighs, just as Stephen had. She bit her lower lip involuntarily, tasting copper.

So that is what he meant by experimenting by oneself.

This felt like the sort of thing she ought to have learned in those shocking, seldom-read books she’d gotten from shady bookshops. She found herself conjuring up a picture of Stephen, that wry look in his eyes, that twisted smirk on his face. That infernal smugness of his, which made her unsure whether she wanted to kiss him or slap him.

Both, perhaps, one right after the other.

Beatrice adjusted her position, heart hammering and sleep further away than ever, and summoned her courage to try again. What Stephen had done, after all, could quite easily be done by herself. No doubt it would be more exciting with another person, but a spinster like her—ironically married to one of the most desirable dukes in England—ought to learn something about how to?—

The door flew open with a crash, and Beatrice flinched and jerked almost upright, her hands flying out from under the blankets, and let out a strangled screech.

A figure stamped in, bearing a candle, and did not look at her. He set the candle down on the dresser, the buttery glow filling the room, throwing long shadows in Beatrice’s direction.

It seemed that all of the blood in her body rushed feverishly towards her face.

“Stephen!” Beatrice gasped. “What in the world are you doing? I thought you had already gone to bed! Why are you here?”

Stephen flashed her a tight smile. “I’m going to bed, of course. In my room.”

She flushed, clutching the sheets up under her chin. “You’re mad.”

“No, my dear Duchess. I am not mad, just tired. And don’t worry, I don’t intend to cast you out into the halls at this hour. That bed is easily large enough for two.”

She clenched her jaw. “I told you to find another room.”

“Well, I don’t take kindly to being told what to do, Duchess .”

“As you so kindly keep saying, I am the Duchess. Not just your wife, but the Duchess of Blackwood and the mistress of this house. I’m already following far too many rules as it is.”

He took off his jacket, then his waistcoat. It was only when he fumbled with the waistband of his trousers that Beatrice finally understood that he intended to strip off and crawl into bed with her, that he really meant it.

“If you think I’d let you lay a hand on me after the day I have had,” she snapped, “you’re mad.”

If she concentrated very hard, she could almost make herself believe that she wouldn’t allow him to touch her again.

“Fear not,” Stephen said, not even looking at her. “I only want to sleep. And, as I said, the bed is easily large enough for two. You won’t even know I’m there.”

She swallowed dryly. “A gentleman would sleep on the floor.”

“I’m not a gentleman. In fact, I’m generally considered to be something of a scoundrel. Budge up, dear.”

He crossed towards the bed, tugging off his crisp linen shirt as he went. Beatrice’s eyes, unbidden, dropped to his naked chest.

She hadn’t been wrong about his impressive muscles. She had seen sketches of gentlemen stripped down to the waist before, but seeing it on ink and paper was entirely different from the real thing.

Stephen’s shoulders seemed broader than ever without the mitigating effect of his jacket. His chest was properly defined, strong and smooth, covered in a faint fuzz of dark hair. His waist was narrow, stomach rippling with muscles, and the glimpses she’d had of his back were every bit as impressive. There was a deep line curving down to the small of his back, starting from between his shoulders, and she found herself imagining what it would be like to trail her fingers down that curve. His skin would be warm and smooth under her touch, she just knew it.

Giving herself a quick, frantic shake, Beatrice snapped herself out of her reverie just as Stephen—naked from the waist up!—climbed into bed beside her. He’d brought the candle with him and set it on the bedside table.

“Get out,” Beatrice snapped. “Why can you not just find a guest room?”

“Why can you not find a guest room?”

“Because this is my room!”

“It was mine first.”

“Yes, and then you left for six months.”

He snorted. “What an interesting development! It seems that leaving something alone—like a room or a house—for a few months is equal to giving it up. Lawyers and judges all over the country will be fascinated by this. You shall have to explain it to them.”

“Oh, I give up. You are a wretch.”

“I have been told so before, yes,” he said comfortably, settling further down in the pillows.

“I will tell you one more time,” she said, trying to look resolute. “Get out of my bed and out of my room, or I shall scream.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Will you?”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes.

I have had a very long day, you wretched man. You have chosen the wrong time to call my bluff.

Drawing in a deep lungful of air, she opened her mouth, ready to scream at the top of her lungs…

A hand clamped over her mouth, and a weight pinned her down to the mattress. The scream died in her throat, and she found herself on her back, her eyes wide, staring into Stephen’s cool green eyes.

His hand was firm against her mouth, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough that she could not shake herself free. His free hand was wrapped around her wrist, pinning it to the mattress. Gradually, she became aware that his torso was pressed against hers, the warmth of his skin seeping through that embarrassingly thin fabric of her chemise. Heat rose to her cheeks and coiled in her gut, achingly full of desire.

I want him, she realized with a dizzying rush. I want him with me, in this bed, or in a carriage, or whenever he chooses. I just want him .

It was a rather embarrassing and very inconvenient realization. It could not have come at a worse time—with the man in question half sprawled on top of her.

“No screaming,” he said sweetly. “The servants are in bed, and we wouldn’t want to disturb them, would we? Just like I am not going to disturb you. No reason we can’t be civilized about all of this. Now, if I remove my hand, are you going to behave?”

She shivered.

He removed his hand experimentally, and Beatrice kept her lips pressed together. She wondered, briefly, what he saw when he looked down at her. Her hair was a mess, certainly, her eyes wide and vaguely outraged, and perhaps he was a little shocked at her wearing a thin chemise instead of a proper nightgown.

It hardly mattered, though, because she never did know what Stephen was thinking, and she was beginning to think that she never would.

For a moment, they lay like that, Beatrice fairly mesmerized by Stephen’s vivid green eyes. It took a moment for her to realize that he was staring down at her just as silently as she was staring up at him.

Abruptly, as if he’d forgotten he was pinning her down, Stephen released her wrist. When he drew back his hand, his fingers skimmed down the inside of her forearm. She shivered at the touch, and he must have noticed it.

“Goodnight, then,” Stephen said abruptly.

He pulled back, and Beatrice felt cold without the warm weight of him pressing her down into the mattress. Struggling up into a sitting position, she was just in time to see Stephen flopping down onto the pillows, curling up and turning away from her.

She opened her mouth, not entirely sure what she wanted to say and whether she should say anything at all.

After all, he’d made it abundantly clear that all he wanted was a bed for the night and nothing else. A man like Stephen, a man like Duke Blackheart, could go after what he wanted the moment that he wanted it, couldn’t he?

“Goodnight,” Beatrice managed, her voice faint and weak in the silence.

Stephen did not answer, instead leaning over to where the candle stood on the bedside table, flame guttering. He blew it out, plunging them both into darkness.

Stephen lay awake. He deserved it, really.

At the time, riled up by his argument—no, discussion— with his mother, already irritated by Beatrice’s refusal to budge on the matter of their room, and, of course, their intimate encounter in the carriage—which ought never to have happened—it had seemed entirely natural to storm into his old room and prove that he was just as stubborn as she was.

Perhaps it was the fire of whiskey fizzling through his veins that had emboldened him to stomp into his old room and insist on sharing the bed with Beatrice.

At the time, it had felt like a victory, but right now, Stephen felt like a prize fool.

He could not, of course, sleep.

How could he, with Beatrice lying next to him in that too-thin chemise, sprawled over the mattress, deep asleep, entirely unconcerned?

Stephen, however, was fairly aching with desire, and with no chance of quenching it anytime soon.

They are both wrong, he reminded himself. Our rules are in place for a reason. Yes, yes, very well, my rules! I am only thinking of Beatrice’s well-being. That is all. She doesn’t understand, but with time… well, with time, I think she might.

He wanted badly to regret what they’d done in the carriage, just like he wanted to regret the kisses they’d shared earlier. It could not, however, be undone, so he would have to commit to not repeating the mistakes. A little self-control was all it would take.

Glancing over at Beatrice, who was now curled up on her side, facing him, he acknowledged that he did not have a great amount of self-control at his disposal at the moment.

Through a gap in the curtains, Stephen could see that the gray pre-dawn light was filling the sky. It was possibly four o’clock in the morning—perhaps half-past four. Proper daylight and dawn were hours away, and not even the servants would be up and about yet. Still, there was no sense in lying awake for much longer. Sleep had evaded him that night, and there was nothing to do about it.

He got up carefully, gingerly sitting up in bed so as not to disturb his sleeping wife. Despite his best efforts, she shifted a little as he moved to climb out of bed. Murmuring something unintelligible, she pressed her face into the pillow and abruptly let out a low, breathy gasp, trapped in the clutches of some dream or another.

The noise made Stephen shiver involuntarily.

Good heavens. I’m in deeper than I thought.

She did not stir again, and he slid out of bed without disturbing her further.

Stephen’s clothes from last night were scattered across the floor. He had a feeling that if he searched his old wardrobes for his clothes, he would find them gone. He would have to ask Mouse later where Beatrice had put them, and what had become of the boxes and suitcases that were so rudely abandoned in front of the house.

Dressed for the day and intending to take a long, refreshing ride before breakfast, Stephen hesitated at the door only for a moment. Peering back into the darkened bedroom, he could make out the form of Beatrice, her red hair glinting even in the gloom.

With a pang in his chest that he did not entirely understand, Stephen resolutely turned around and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.