Regarding the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  As Adam led Gabby up the stairs back to her room, he was cognizant of two facts.

  The first was that his wife was more than a trifle disguised. In truth, he was at fault for her tipsy state: to ease her nervousness, he’d refilled her champagne time and again during supper. At first, she’d seemed reluctant to talk about herself, but once she got into the flow of conversation, she lost her self-consciousness bit by bit.

  He’d led her along with questions. What was she like as a girl? What was her family like? What were her favorite hobbies?

  Once she relaxed, he broached more intimate topics. How did the two of them meet? What was their courtship like and how did he propose to her? Who were her suitors before him? (Married or not, it was always good to know one’s competition.)

  He’d listened in rapt fascination as, like the Persian queen in Max’s book, she wove a spell with her stories. Her accounts were so uniquely her, sparkling with the colorful, artless gems of her observations. She was intelligent, amusing, and often self-deprecating. He’d had to hold back a snort when she described their first encounter as that of a sleek panther (him) coming upon a plump pigeon (her).

  She spoke candidly of being the only child of a father who spent the bulk of his time at his bank. Adam’s chest tightened when she didn’t blame Billings for his absence but herself for not being the son he’d wanted or an accomplished daughter. She described herself as a “carroty-haired, pudgy, and bran-faced” girl during her adolescence. Although she didn’t get into the details, other than to say that she “wasn’t popular” with her peers, he saw the pain in her expressive eyes.

  He was beginning to see the source of his wife’s shyness. To understand that beneath her sweetness and self-effacing humor lay a core of aching insecurity. And he was rocked by a strong surge of protectiveness.

  They reached the top step, and she stumbled, giggling. As he caught her against him, he thought grimly of the second conclusion he’d arrived at tonight.

  The man he’d been in the past had been a right arse.

  Halfway through the second bottle of champagne, Gabriella had confided that they’d never spoken like this before. That the “old Adam” had believed in moving forward and leaving the past where it was. And being “ever so honest,” he’d apparently told her from the start that he didn’t believe in sentimental notions of romantic love.

  Flummoxed and disgusted in equal measure, he, the present Adam, couldn’t fathom spewing such nonsense. He’d only known Gabby for a month, and already he knew that she was a rare treasure. God’s blood, she was the kind of woman that any cove with the good fortune to find would hold onto with both hands and fight to the death to keep.

  He’d taken a blow to the brains, but he still had brains.

  “This was ever so much fun.” Snuggled under his arm, Gabby smiled dreamily up at him. “We should do this more often. I don’t know why we haven’t.”

  Because I used to be an ass, apparently?

  How had he allowed her to harbor such misconceived notions about herself? A woman like Gabby should see herself as a queen. She should know that she was beautiful, one of a kind. And if she didn’t, then it was his damned duty as her husband to convince her of her worth. Just as she conveyed his worth through her attention to his every need, her tenderness as she’d nursed him, and her unconcealed pride in him and his accomplishments.

  He tucked her closer, guiding her to the door of her bedchamber. “We’ll do this as often as you like, sweetheart.”

  “Sweetheart…that’s lovely.” Twin lines appeared at the inner edges of her eyebrows, making her look like a puzzled faerie. “You never used to call me endearments. You don’t prefer them.”

  “Well, I prefer them now,” he said firmly.

  He led her inside, where her maid was waiting.

  “I’ll take care of Mrs. Garrity. You may go,” he said.

  The maid’s hesitation showed her concern for her mistress. All the servants, he’d noticed, were protective of Gabby. She had that effect on people: they cared about her because she was so bloody nice. And her genuine regard didn’t distinguish between whether you were from the stews, middling classes, or the upper echelons.

  “Mrs. Garrity will need help getting changed.” The maid bravely held her ground.

  “That’s ever so good of you, Nell, but I’ll manage.” Gabby plopped onto her turned-down bed with a drunken lack of inhibition. “It’s late, and I’m certain you’re sleepy. Me, too, actually.”

  At her huge, unladylike yawn, Adam had to hide a grin.

  The maid departed. Alone with his wife, who was now singing a children’s lullaby off-key, Adam thought ruefully that things had not gone as planned this evening. He’d wanted to seduce Gabby with an intimate dinner; instead she was utterly foxed. And the ache in his groin was momentarily surpassed by another ache…higher up. In the vicinity of his heart.

  Grabbing the nightgown that hung on the dressing screen, he strode over to the bed.

  She looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Her cheeks were charmingly flushed, and her hair had come undone, tendrils of fire trailing across the linen sheets. She was the very picture of wanton innocence.

  That image flashed in his head again: the reclined goddess, clutching a bouquet of roses…a painting, it had to be. Where had he seen it?

  Seeing that his wife was falling asleep, he shook off the puzzling memory. “Time to get you ready for bed, pet.”

  She stretched languidly. “I’m already in bed.”

  If it were any other woman but his guileless bride, he might have thought she was flirting with him. God knew her sultry smile hit him in his cock. Even as his member throbbed with interest, he reminded himself that not only was she foxed, she was far more vulnerable than he’d first realized. He would not take advantage of her.

  “Up you go.” He hoisted her to her feet, catching her when she swayed. He steered her hands onto the bedpost. “Hold on while I undress you.”

  He made quick work of the tiny buttons on the back of her frock. Tossing aside the blue velvet, he started on her corset strings. God’s blood, the knots were tight. How did she breathe with this blasted thing on?

  When he freed her from the heavy cage of whalebone and stiffened fabric, she sighed with pleasure. “You’re even faster at this than Nell.”

  She was looking at him over her shoulder, the pose unintentionally and unbearably erotic. Especially since he’d just rid her of her petticoats and all she was wearing was a fine linen chemise and white silk stockings. In the firelight, her shift was nearly transparent. He swallowed as he took in her generous backside. Her rounded hips were made for a man’s hands to hold onto, her lush, peach-shaped arse the perfect cushion for his pounding hips.

  Christ, she would tempt a saint—and he was no saint. He was a sex-starved husband who’d been lusting after his wife for weeks. His erection threatened to tear through his trousers.

  She’s soused. Get yourself under bloody control.

  “Sit on the bed,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll help you with your stockings.”

  Obediently, she plunked herself back onto the mattress. He knelt on one knee and, taking a deep breath, reached beneath her shift to her garter. His throat convulsed as his fingers brushed her smooth, silky thighs. As he worked on unhooking the garter, her chemise slid up, bunching at her hips, giving him a glimpse of her thatch, which was—God help him—the same fiery shade as the hair on her head.

  With a shuddering breath, he focused on the exquisite torture of rolling her stocking down her shapely leg and over her delicately arched foot. Lust gripped his stones, the pressure shooting up his cock. A drop of wetness leaked from the tip.

  Then he had to repeat everything with her other leg.

  “This is ever so kind of you,” she said with a tipsy giggle.

  “That’s me. Kindest man alive. Let’s change you into your nightgown.”

  Her hands stretched obediently upward. With a prayer for willpower, he pul
led the chemise up and over her head.

  Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

  He didn’t know if a man could spontaneously combust but he was about a hair’s breadth from doing so. From unloading his cannon like an untried lad. Just from looking at his naked wife.

  He expelled a ragged breath. “You’re magnificent.”

  With a snort of laughter, she fell backward onto the bed. She grew silent, her eyes closing, and he wondered if she’d passed out. The only thing she had on was the diamond bracelet and her plain gold wedding band, and satisfaction mingled with lust as he saw those symbols upon her, marking her as his.

  Just as he was about to tuck her in, she lurched up on her elbows.

  She peered at him through her lashes. “Are you going to make love to me?”

  Bloody hell, yes, his brain shouted.

  “Not tonight, sweetheart,” he forced himself to say.

  “I didn’t think so.” She collapsed onto the mattress again, yawning languorously. “It’s not Wednesday, after all.”

  “What does that matter?” he asked, confused.

  She curled onto her side, mumbling drowsily, “You only make love to me on Wednesdays. That’s the schedule.”

  He had a schedule for making love to his wife? What kind of godforsaken idiot had he been?

  Dumbfounded, Adam stared at his naked, dozing spouse, emotions tangling inside him. Yearning, desire, and more. A recognition that it would take more than a simple seduction to get his marriage back on course. If he wanted this relationship to be real, then he had to get re-acquainted with his wife and vice versa…or perhaps they would be getting to know each other for the first time.

  While he couldn’t change the past—hell, perhaps it was for the better that he couldn’t recall what a fool he’d been—he did have power over the future.

  Reaching for the coverlet and blankets, he tucked them securely around Gabby. He kissed her brow; she murmured something, looking so sweet and beautiful that it was difficult to leave her.

  But he did, his mind on his next move.

  19

  The next morning, Gabby stopped outside the closed door of Adam’s study.

  She raised her hand to knock, pausing at the last second. A part of her was tempted to just sweep the events of last night—whatever they happened to be—into the darkest depths of the Bin of Blissful Ignorance and go on her merry way. That is, directly to the kitchen, where she would ask Chef Pierre for an entire cake and a fork.

  A new and wiser voice told her that cake wasn’t the answer. Nor was the Bin of Blissful Ignorance, which, frankly, was overflowing. There was no hiding from the fact that she’d awoken without a stitch on and with no memory of how that had come to be. The only thing she did know was what Nell had told her this morning: “The master took care of you last night, ma’am.”

  Adam took care of me…in what manner?

  Gabby’s marriage had enough uncertainty; her nerves couldn’t handle any more.

  Sweet heavens, get it over with. Just as her fist was poised to knock, the door opened. She scooted back with a startled squeak, dropping her hand to her side.

  “Good morning, my dear,” Adam said.

  Framed by the doorway, he was the picture of elegant masculinity. His dark hair gleamed in its restrained style, his chiseled features radiating vitality. He was in his shirtsleeves, his silver-grey waistcoat hugging his trim torso, his dark trousers perfectly fitted to his sinewy legs.

  “I, um, don’t wish to bother you—” she began.

  “You could never be a bother, pet.” Was that a knowing glint in his eyes? His slow smile caused her belly to flutter. “After last night, however, I didn’t think you would be up this early.”

  After last night. Pulse leaping, she was about to reply when she heard another voice.

  “Good day, Mrs. Garrity.”

  Henry Cornish, Adam’s portly man of business, was standing behind him. Adam had once told her that the solicitor’s jolly manner and penchant for eye-catching waistcoats—his current one was a florid shade of puce—came in handy during negotiations. Opponents often underestimated him…until it was too late.

  He was one of Adam’s long-standing retainers, and Gabby had always liked him.

  “Hello, Mr. Cornish,” she said with a smile. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “I was on my way out, ma’am. It is a pleasure to see your husband back on his feet, all thanks to you, I understand.” He winked at her. “Nothing like a pretty wife to get a man on the mend, eh?”

  Gabby blushed.

  “If you’re done flirting with my wife, Cornish,” Adam said mildly, “I’ll remind you that I want a report on the underperforming assets as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll have it ready within the week, sir.” With a bow, Cornish departed.

  “Underperforming assets?” Gabriella asked.

  “Cornish and I spent the morning reviewing my portfolio.” Adam ushered her into the study. “As impressive as it was, I noticed that several businesses—banks, mostly—have been reporting losses on a consistent basis. According to Cornish, when he brought up the idea of selling them in the past, I refused. He’s going to look into whether I knew something about these businesses that doesn’t show up on the profit ledger.”

  “Should you be working?” she asked worriedly. “Dr. Abernathy was quite specific that you should wait at least another week. The strain—”

  “The strain of knowing that I’m losing money and not doing anything about it is more likely to cause a relapse than a few hours with Cornish.” Adam led her to the seating area by the hearth. “Shall I ring for tea?”

  “No.” She bit her lip, torn between her wifely duty to remind him to rest and the need to address what had brought her here in the first place. “I won’t bother you for long.”

  “As I’ve said, pet, you could never be a bother. Come, sit.”

  As her bottom made contact with the studded leather sofa, she flashed to another time she’d been here, her cheek pressed against this same cushion as Adam had put his mouth on her and taken her from behind. Heat swirled from her core, spreading through her limbs, burgeoning under her skin.

  “You look warm.” Adam took the seat beside her. “Is the fire too high?”

  “It’s fine.” Clearing her throat, she told herself to get it over with. “I’m afraid that I, um, had too much champagne last night. The evening was rather a blur.”

  His brows lifted. “How much do you remember?”

  “Um…nothing after the truffle soufflé.”

  “At least you remember the soufflé.” His lips twitched. “I understand that the chef went to great lengths to prepare that dish.”

  Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she blurted, “Did something happen last night?”

  “A number of things, I should say.”

  “After supper, I mean. Did we…”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  She let her fears out in a rush. “How did I end up in my bed without any clothes on?”

  “Well, I helped you up the stairs and removed said clothes.”

  “After that, did we…um…you know…” She wetted her lips.

  His gaze on her mouth, he said, “You’re referring to conjugal activities?”

  “Yes,” she nearly shouted.

  “Then no, we didn’t.”

  Before she could enjoy the relief, he said, “Should I be offended that you thought you might not recall that I made love to you?” He cocked a brow. “Was my lovemaking forgettable in the past?”

  Her cheeks flamed. “No…no, of course not.”

  “Did you enjoy being in my bed?”

  Her heart was beating so fast she feared it might burst from her chest altogether. She couldn’t look away from the heat in his eyes, the smoldering question that demanded an answer.

  “Yes.” The admission whispered from her lips.

  He cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing the smooth edge to the point of her chin. Then it sk
ated lower, over the quivering arch of her throat. His touch rested upon her pulse, just above her lace-trimmed chemisette, as if measuring its wild beat. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, the harsh yet sensual curve filling her with yearning.

  She missed Adam’s kisses. A month’s worth of kisses that, since their marriage, she’d never gone without. His cologne, that subtle alchemy of man and spice, fed her hunger, and she could almost feel the firm pressure of his mouth on hers, the taste of him upon her tongue...

  “I want to take you somewhere,” he murmured.

  “Where?” she asked dazedly.

  “Outside of London. According to Cornish, I own a host of properties in the countryside.”

  She tried to wrest her senses from the grip of wanting. From her husband’s animal magnetism.

  “Buying estates was a hobby of yours,” she managed. “You’ve collected so many that we haven’t stayed at half of them.”

  “That’s one hell of a hobby.” Smiling wryly, he said, “What about the hunting lodge in Hertfordshire? Have you been?”

  She recalled the cozy, Tudor-style manor. “Yes, I visited several times to oversee its refurbishment. We kept saying that we would bring the children, but there never seemed to be the time.”

  “For this trip, I’d like to take you alone. We’ll go for a few days and have privacy to get reacquainted. The children will be fine here under Miss Thornton’s capable watch.”

  I’ll be alone with Adam. In the country. No distractions, just him…and me.

  Her insides quivering like an aspic, she said, “What about your injury? I’m not sure you ought to be travelling—”

  “My wound is fine, sweetheart. But I have other aches that only time alone with my wife can heal.” He took her hand in his. “What do you say, Gabby? Will you go on this journey with me? Give us a chance to get to know one another again, as we are now?”

  Reasons not to go burst through her head like released doves. The children, his health, her father…and so on and so forth. Yet looking into the dark mirror of her husband’s eyes, she saw them for what they were: excuses.

  Excuses because she was afraid of the burgeoning intimacy between them, the changes that were exhilarating and frightening at the same time. Changes that threatened to tear down the walls of the past. The walls that had felt safe, yes, but that had also established a distance between them. Was she ready to get to know her husband without the security of retreat?