Duke of Desire

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  “That is …” She inhaled and mentally rolled her eyes at herself. Ninny! Get on with it. “Since you’re ill I thought it best that I make up the bed in the maid’s room so that you could rest comfortably in the bed by—”

  “No.”

  “Yourself …” She trailed away and straightened from tucking a sheet in at the side of the bed.

  She turned to look at him.

  He was facing her quite calmly, but with an implacable expression on his face. “You are my duchess. You will sleep in this bed with me.”

  She felt her lips part in confusion. He’d just told her that he couldn’t stand her touch. What was he thinking? Cautiously she said, “You’re still recovering. I don’t want to disturb you.”

  “Your presence does not disturb my sleep.”

  “Don’t you think we should discuss this?”

  He cocked his head. “I was under the impression, madam, that that was what we were doing.”

  “No.” She realized that she’d balled her hands into fists and quickly let them relax. She couldn’t let him distress her so. “You made a decision and stated it. That hardly constitutes a discussion.”

  “Bickering will not change my mind,” he said with breathtaking arrogance. He stood and Ubertino hurried over to help him. “Now, if there is nothing else, I think I shall retire.”

  Oh, for goodness’ sakes! She really ought to tell the man that this was no way to conduct a marriage—and she would’ve had it not been for the drawn expression on his face.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough to inform Dyemore that he was going to be in for something of a shock if he thought she was going to simply roll over and show her belly every time he stated his mind.

  Tonight she pressed her lips together and turned to help Nicoletta finish spreading the coverlet.

  “Thank you,” Dyemore said from very close.

  He loomed behind her and she froze a moment before sidling rather awkwardly along the bed to give him room to get in.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ll just change in the maid’s room.”

  Behind her there was a choking sound.

  She turned, puzzled.

  He was half on the bed, as if caught somehow in the act of crawling in, his down-bent face obscured by his long hair.

  “What—?”

  Dyemore gave a whistling wheeze, and suddenly Iris knew something dire was happening.

  She ran to his side to place a hand on his shoulder, and looked into his face.

  His eyes were white rimmed and his lips were turning blue.

  “Dyemore,” she said. “Raphael.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. He just stared fixedly and made that terrible whistling sound. His body felt like stone.

  Then Nicoletta was beside her, pulling her away and shouting for Ubertino. The manservant wrapped his arms around his master and bodily lifted the taller man from the bed, half dragging him away, nearly across the room, toward the fireplace.

  Somehow that broke the spell.

  Dyemore drew a rattling breath and rasped, his face gray, “Get it out. Now. Get it out. Get it out.”

  “What?” Iris asked, stunned by his rage, the ice in his eyes.

  “Cedarwood.”

  She stared at him. He leaned against the mantel as if he might fall at any moment, and she didn’t understand. Cedarwood? What—?

  He bared his clenched teeth and with one broad stroke swept everything from the mantel. The gold clock, a vase, two china shepherdesses, and a pot of spills fell to the floor with a crash.

  Dyemore glared at her and snarled, “Now.”

  She jumped at his fury and spun to see Nicoletta already tearing the bed apart. Iris just had time to snatch up the new sheets before Nicoletta took her arm and dragged her from the bedroom, then shut the door behind them.

  Panting in the corridor, eyes wide, Iris looked at the maidservant, expecting a smug expression. Nicoletta had tried to warn her not to use these sheets. She’d known something about this.

  But instead the Corsican woman merely stared back with sad eyes. She shook her head and then did something entirely unexpected.

  Nicoletta leaned forward and patted Iris’s cheek gently.

  The maidservant shook her head again and, after taking the sheets from Iris, trudged away.

  From within the bedroom Iris heard a crash and her husband shouting in Corsican.

  For a moment she simply stood there in the dark corridor, her heart stopped, the duke roaring huskily behind her like some beast out of one of her childhood nightmares.

  Despair wrapped chilly fingers around her throat.

  Then she brought her hand before her face and looked at the ruby ring on her little finger. Delicate. Lovely. Eternal.

  She breathed again.

  Dyemore was no beast. No Bluebeard. No fairy-tale nightmare.

  He was a man—a man in pain.

  And she was going to pull herself together and help him.

  She was already moving toward the stairs.

  He hadn’t liked the sheets. Something to do with the cedarwood scent had driven him to this crisis. Nicoletta had tried to give her the worn-out sheets—the ones not stored in the cedarwood cabinet. Therefore she needed to go down and find those sheets and return to her husband.

  Because they were married now, and that meant she was tied to this man until death decided to separate them.

  No, it was more than that.

  Dyemore had saved her at great risk to himself, and she’d rewarded him by shooting him. He’d nearly died from that wound—continued to be ill from that wound. She owed the man.

  And more still.

  It didn’t matter that he was maddeningly autocratic, unsmiling, and abrupt. Or even that she found him to be the tiniest bit frightening. He’d asked her about her childhood. Engaged her in discussion. Was interested in her opinions on Polybius’s Histories—and even when he didn’t agree with those opinions, he’d respected them.

  His cool gray eyes as he’d watched her face during their debate had been intent and focused, as if she was the only thing he cared about at that moment. She’d had his entire attention.

  And that? That was worth fighting for.

  Even if they never had a real marriage.

  She rounded the corner to the kitchens, only to almost run into Nicoletta.

  The maidservant rocked back on her heels, and Iris saw that she had the worn sheets in her arms—the ones not scented by cedarwood.

  Iris held her arms out.

  Nicoletta looked at her … and then smiled and gave her the unscented sheets.

  “Thank you, Nicoletta.”

  The maid was already turning away, back to the kitchens.

  Iris retraced her steps until she was once again at the bedroom door. She raised her hand to tap, then thought better of it and simply pushed the door open.

  She halted when she saw the duke. His pose was eerily familiar, though she couldn’t quite place in what way.

  Dyemore was still by the fireplace, sitting on the floor, his back against one of the chairs. One knee was drawn up, his elbow resting on it, his hand propping up his head, his hair draped over his down-bent face. He should’ve looked weak, a fallen man. Yet even in extremis he reminded her of nothing so much as an ancient hero, battling overwhelming odds. He’d been knocked to his knees, but he would struggle upright again soon, pick up his shield and sword, and march back into the conflict.

  She frowned at her own fanciful thought. How terrible it would be if the duke was always at war, never resting.

  She shook her head and glanced at the debris of Dyemore’s wrath, scattered on the floor.

  Ubertino was across the room with a glass of wine in his hand. The manservant frowned at her entrance.

  Iris hurried to him. “Come. Help me to make the bed again.”

  She held out the sheets, and though he looked dubious he set down the glass of wine and did as she indicated.

  When the bed was remade she t
ook the wineglass and approached Dyemore. “Your Grace, the bed is ready and I have a glass of wine here.”

  She waited, but there was no answer.

  It wasn’t to be as easy as that, then.

  She retraced her steps to place the wine by the bed and then knelt by his side. “Dyemore.”

  His raven hair obscured his features, and his broad shoulders, clad in black silk, slumped as if he bore a great weight. At that moment he looked so much like Hades, forever alone and exiled, it made her heart ache.

  Hesitantly she touched his shoulder.

  He started, then stilled.

  She swallowed and whispered, “Raphael.”

  “You came back.” His voice was hoarse—from the shouting?

  “Yes.” She bit her lip. “Come to bed.”

  “I cannot,” he said so low she had to bend closer to hear. She saw that his eyes were squeezed shut. “Cedarwood. The smell of it. I cannot.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m sorry, I did not know before, but now I do.”

  “Is it gone?” he husked.

  “Yes.”

  One gray eye opened, staring at her warily. She felt as if she were looking at a wild thing—some animal much more powerful than she, deciding whether to trust her or to devour her.

  He must have made a decision, one way or the other, for he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and stood. His face was gray, highlighting the livid scar, and she wondered what had happened to make him so wounded—both on his face and on his soul.

  She rose as well, keeping her shoulder under his arm, wrapping her smaller arms around his waist to steady him. “Come. It’s only a little way to the bed, Your Grace.”

  “I prefer that you call me Raphael.” When she was this close, pressed against his side, his voice seemed to resonate through her.

  She glanced at him, startled, but he had his head up, his eyes straight ahead. “Then I will, if that is what you wish.”

  She waited for a sarcastic retort, but he merely shot her a sideways glance before climbing into the bed. He hesitated for a fraction of a second as he was laying his head on the pillow. Had she not been watching—had she not seen the breakdown only minutes before—she would have thought nothing of it.

  Then it was over and he lay still. “Will you come to bed with me?”

  She caught her breath, glancing quickly at him, but his eyes were closed now. Had this been any other circumstance she might think that an invitation.…

  Since it so obviously wasn’t an invitation, but was instead a very straightforward and simple question, she should stop waffling and answer the man. “Yes. I’ll just … erm … ready myself in the other room.”

  She let herself into the maid’s room, closing the door behind her. Iris blew out a breath, feeling like a fool. The fact was, she’d spent the previous night in the chair, and the first night when she’d slept with him in the bed, they’d both been near dead to the world.

  Tonight felt very different.

  But after his bad turn earlier she didn’t want to argue the matter.

  Her lips twisted as she reminded herself—firmly—that he’d made quite plain that he wouldn’t touch her. There was nothing to be nervous about—nothing to be frightened about. Even if she still had some lingering attraction from the sponge bath, she thought bitterly, he wouldn’t be moved to consummate their marriage.

  Quickly she took down her hair, brushed it out, and undressed, leaving on her chemise—which had been mended very competently by Nicoletta.

  She opened the door to the bedroom and saw that Ubertino had left and only one candle still burned in the room. She tiptoed around the big bed to the side that was apparently hers and got in as gently as she could. The duke—Raphael—didn’t move.

  Perhaps he was already asleep.

  She blew out the candle and settled on her side, very near the edge of the bed, facing away from him.

  In the darkness she heard his voice. “Good night, Wife.”

  Her eyes drooped, her mind spinning away drowsily. Until her thoughts lit upon the way Raphael had been sitting when she’d first entered the bedroom.

  He’d sat in the same pose as the little boy in the old duke’s sketchbook.

  He lay awake and stared at the fire’s embers, keeping the dreams at bay.

  Cedarwood.

  It clogged his nostrils still, acrid and sharp, making his head ache, seizing the breath from his lungs, tearing sanity from his mind.

  Cedarwood.

  The linens had always stunk of it, and his father’s room had reeked with the scent.

  She must think him insane. Or a weakling.

  He was, in a way. He’d not finished what he’d set out to do so many years ago. By his own estimation that made him a coward.

  Cedarwood.

  Once, sitting down at a dinner party, he’d happened to smell it on the clothes of the man next to him. Raphael had staggered out of the room and barely made it into the garden, where he’d vomited into the shrubbery. And left without apology to his host. He hadn’t been able to bear returning to that room and that scent.

  He could hear his wife’s gentle breaths behind him. She’d edged as far away from him as possible in the big bed. Perhaps she feared him. Or was disgusted by him.

  He should have let her sleep in the dressing room.

  But something proud within him couldn’t do that. She was his duchess. Even if he was tainted, even if theirs might never be a normal marriage, he wanted her here.

  With him.

  In the room that had belonged to his mother. The only room in the abbey in which he’d felt safe as a boy.

  He turned finally, moving slowly, his shoulder aching. She’d sewn the wound closed, Ubertino had told him, and he wouldn’t be surprised if his movements earlier had torn something open. At the moment he didn’t care.

  He only wanted to rest.

  And not to dream.

  He lay on his back and turned his head, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness until he could make out her shoulders sloping down to the indent of her waist and then the curve of her hip. He found himself matching his breaths with hers.

  Inhaling.

  Exhaling.

  Keeping the dreams away.

  But of course they came anyway.

  Chapter Seven

  Three nights and three days Ann journeyed through the rocky wastes, clutching the pink pebble for protection. No animal moved, no bird sang, no color broke the endless gray stone.

  Only the wind whistled endlessly.

  And on the morning of the fourth day Ann came upon a tower made of that selfsame gray stone.…

  —From The Rock King

  Iris stood on the parapet of Dyemore Abbey the next morning, looking not at the front drive but at what lay behind the abbey. It was a jumble of ancient wings, towers, and ruins. Close to the main building was a wide green that might in summer have a garden—there were certainly steps leading down into a paved area circled by boxwoods. Dark-green shoots were coming up in the grass, and she thought she saw a bit of yellow, but from this height she couldn’t tell what flowers they might be. Bracketing the green were two wings of the abbey—she wasn’t even sure they were open to habitation. One looked as if it might be a gallery. Farther on was a round building, looking almost medieval. Perhaps in its time the crude tower had been a fortress for the people of the area? In the distance, but still quite visible, were the skeletal arches of the old cathedral, ruined no doubt in some forgotten war.

  She’d thought that night when they’d driven away from the Lords of Chaos’s revels that they’d been miles away. Now she could see that had they wanted to they could’ve walked from the old cathedral ruins to Dyemore Abbey.

  Iris shivered. How ghastly to realize that evil was so very close to where one slept.

  And yet …

  She turned, the breeze catching a stray lock of her hair and blowing it against her face. Dyemore Abbey itself wasn’t such a bad place. From up here, high on t
he roof, she could see for miles. There was a copse of trees close by to the west, but the rest was rolling hills, turning bright green with spring. It was lovely country—gorgeous country. No wonder the Dukes of Dyemore had built here.

  Why, then, had the present duke lived most of his life in exile?

  Iris turned to make her way back inside the abbey as she pondered the question. Hugh had said there were rumors that Raphael’s father had scarred him. She shivered as she remembered the sketch of Raphael as a nude, beautiful boy. Something had happened here—something terrible—but she wasn’t sure what.

  She wondered why Raphael had stayed away from the abbey—from England—for so many years. What would make a man exile himself from his home?

  Except … Raphael didn’t seem to look upon the abbey as his home. He’d locked up the ducal chambers, he kept to only one bedroom, and as far as she could see, he hadn’t made any changes or improvements to the abbey.

  As if he was simply using it as an inn.

  He seemed to have no fondness at all for the manor he’d presumably grown up in.

  And she was beginning to have a terrible inkling of why Raphael so loathed the estate. Perhaps she ought to be contemplating a different question altogether: what would make Raphael return to the abbey in the first place?

  She shook her head and carefully made her way down the worn stone steps that spiraled from the corner of the rooftop to a hidden door on the uppermost floor of the abbey. The walls here were bare and cold, and she shivered as she felt her way in the dark, her fingers trailing on pitted stones. How many other women had passed along here? Had they, too, had trouble understanding their Dyemore husbands?

  The thought made her smile a little wryly.

  She opened a little door and stepped out into a narrow corridor on the topmost floor of the house—she suspected the servants’ quarters lay just on the other side.

  Iris picked up her skirts, hastening to the stairwell.

  She came out into the hallway of the third floor and began walking toward the main staircase at the front of the house. The abbey seemed eerily empty, and she shivered. There was a lush carpet on the floor and small, exquisite paintings hung on the walls, but even so, there was a sense of loneliness.