“How old were you?” Now she didn’t sound hesitant. She sounded interested, and it was odd to discover that he was interested in telling her as well.
“I was twelve and Griff was nine or ten when we first started.” He tilted his head back against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling as he recalled. “Griff was fascinated by early British history, and so we did the invasion of England and the Magna Carta and Robin Hood quite a lot. I always got to play William the Conqueror, but I didn’t always win.”
“I find that hard to believe.” She spoke in a low, warm tone.
Damn it. Here he was trying to be gentlemanly, only she was complimenting him in just the kind of way that would make his masculine pride preen and wish to show her what else he was capable of: making her forget how appropriate she thought she should be, what it was like to come from a man’s mouth.
How it felt to lie together after vigorous fucking, utterly sated and content.
Not that he’d ever felt the need to do that with any of his previous women before. But now he longed for it, he even—God help him—wanted to murmur something sweet in her ear that wasn’t necessarily a ploy for more sex.
“Griff is far more clever than I. I had speed and daring, but Griff . . .” He paused to chuckle. “Griff can talk the bark off a tree.”
“Whatever that means,” she said.
He did laugh harder then. “Precisely. My brother is the one with the skilled tongue,” damn it, had he actually said that? “I have just had to rely on my— Well, I’m not sure what.”
“And now,” she said, leaning over to bump his shoulder as he’d done to hers, “it sounds as though you are fishing for compliments.”
He reached out and took one of her hands in his. “Naturally. Because every man wants to know his lady appreciates him.”
She seemed to freeze for just a moment, then let out a soft sigh that did shuddery things to his insides. “You said earlier that we had to be true to ourselves. That there was the chance that we might not like each other.”
“That we might not have that much in common,” he corrected. “That’s a very different thing. Of course, if you do end up disliking me, well, that is a problem.”
And then he did something that made his heart pound, knowing that this might be the action that scared her away, but he couldn’t not. She needed this and he most certainly wanted it.
He dropped her hand, raising his arm up over his head and sliding it over her shoulders, nudging her body forward so his arm could go around her waist.
She was warm and soft and felt absolutely right there, and he held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t freeze again, or permit what he was doing just because he wanted it.
And then exhaled as he felt her body relax, just a fraction, into the circle of his arms, and she let out another soft sigh, this one nearly one of contentment.
“I don’t think I dislike you, Nicholas,” she said, speaking in a quiet tone somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.
And at that moment, Nicholas felt as proud as though he had single-handedly conquered not just England, but the entire world.
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
“What will you do with me, Princess?” her husband asked.
She wrinkled her brow. “What do you mean?”
He spread his arms wide. “I told you. I am yours. What will you do with me?”
“I don’t understand.” This man, this confusing prince of a man, her husband, had insisted she marry him, had taken her off to his country, had refused to answer her questions, even the most general ones, and now he dared to say he was hers?
But she didn’t say any of that. Not aloud, at least.
“I have loved you since the first moment I beheld you,” he said, his voice deep with emotion. “I chose you as my bride because I am yours.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” she blurted out before she could think. “But if that’s so, perhaps you could do something for me.”
“What, Princess? What can I do for you?”
A feeling came over her, the likes of which she’d never experienced before, and she smiled.
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 12
Isabella woke at some ludicrously early time in the morning to discover she was alone, pillowless, and cold.
She heard herself make another one of those if-she-weren’t-a-duchess-it’d-be-a-grunt noises, then whacked the bed in search of her pillow. It was halfway down the bed, which was also where the coverlet had gotten to. She scooped both of them up in her arms and dragged them up the bed.
There was something to be said for efficiency.
The last thing she recalled before she must have fallen asleep was something about his sisters, both of whom were older than he, were married, and had children.
Given how their marriage had gone thus far, she doubted she would ever have a child. Because while she was ignorant about the specifics of what happened between a husband and his wife, she knew well enough to know that talking did not spontaneously generate children.
Because if they did, imagine how many more would have been born to all the gossips of the ton?
That thought set off a snort, a sound even she was surprised to hear coming from her.
At least she was laughing. She didn’t laugh. Not unless Margaret was there, and was telling her something funny. She’d never found something amusing herself, so this was a revelation.
What else might she discover, now that she was a married woman living—albeit oddly—away from her parents?
For the first time, it seemed as though what she might become could be preferable to who she was. Perhaps she’d be a woman who could grunt, and snort, and giggle. Perhaps she could even work herself up into telling a joke herself. The closest she’d come to that was—well, nothing.
She couldn’t tell a joke. Jokes and amusement were not things that were required, or even wanted, in a duchess. At least she presumed her mother would say that if she’d dared to ask.
But even in the short time she’d been married, she felt as though her husband, a duke himself, would want her to be amused and amusing and possibly even tell a joke.
She hadn’t lied when she’d told him she didn’t dislike him. She did like him, even if she was still prone to startle when she thought about how she was married. To him.
It had felt lovely last night, his arm wrapped around her, his low, rumbly voice speaking to her alone. And last night, he’d shared some of who he was with her, which felt even more special.
She liked that he felt about his brother, Griff, as she did about Margaret. He couldn’t be a horrible person, could he, if he loved his relative so much? And she should, she was, past the point where she was concerned he was a horrible person—a horrible person wouldn’t have played cards with her, and encouraged her to say what she felt.
It wouldn’t have felt so right to be sitting on the bed with him, his arm wrapped around his shoulders.
Although she hadn’t had much contact with men, much less men who looked like him—beautiful men, men who could look as they did, but who had black hearts. So perhaps he would become something horrible, the Horrible Husband from one of the stories he’d admitted to reading.
She didn’t think so, but she’d trusted people not to hurt her before, and they had gone ahead and done so—such as her parents, who had told her she had freedom when really they were scheming to marry her off to whoever would boost their own social success the most. Margaret was the only one who hadn’t.
She had to be on her guard, of course, but meanwhile she could just enjoy being with him, looking at him, and, yes, being held by him.
“Your Grace?” Someone shook her shoulder. She turned her head and met her lady’s maid’s gaze.
“Your Grace, I am sorry to wake you, but it is eleven o’clock, and your sister has just arrived. Should I ask her to come back later?”
Isabella flung
the covers off her body as she shook her head. “No, just ask her to come up here and I’ll get dressed.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Robinson replied, dipping a quick curtsey as she left the room. Isabella swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood on the carpet, its thick plushness nearly swallowing her bare feet.
What would it be like to just lie down on that carpet? Would she get swallowed up inside its softness?
She shook her head at her own whimsy. And when had she ever been whimsical before? Next thing she’d be telling stories about King Art and the Swordie.
A smile was still on her face as the door opened again, Margaret coming in with a look of concern on her face. A look that eased as she saw her sister.
Only to have it get all concerned again when Isabella burst into tears.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Isabella said, her nose buried in her sister’s shoulder. She lifted her head and looked into her sister’s eyes, her very best feature. Right now, however, they were narrowed as she returned Isabella’s gaze.
“You don’t seem fine,” Margaret said in a matter-of-fact voice. Isabella glanced at Robinson, who was carefully not looking at them. Hopefully she wasn’t shocked that her employer had just been as unduchesslike as possible, displaying emotion before breakfast. Not that expressing emotion was preferable at any time, but first thing in the morning (at least, first thing at eleven o’clock), even without the benefit of tea, made it seem even more shocking.
“Robinson, could you ask someone to get tea for us? And something to eat.”
“I’m not hun—” Margaret began, only to clamp her mouth shut at Isabella’s glare. “That is, I am famished,” she said as she rolled her eyes at her sister.
“Please ask for a full breakfast, and we will wait for our tea until it is all ready.” That should give them at least twenty minutes alone.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Robinson said, her gaze darting between the two sisters as though she knew exactly what was going on.
But Isabella wasn’t about to confide in her lady’s maid about anything, not if she wasn’t entirely sure she could even trust her husband. So she nodded in reply, then put her hand on Margaret’s arm and drew her over to the bed, then frowned as she saw how rumpled it all was. It looked as though things had been going on there that most definitely hadn’t, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to have to explain all of that, at least not now, to her sister.
“Let’s sit here,” she said, moving to one of the rose-colored couches in her room. They sat, Isabella taking Margaret’s hand.
“You are all right?” Margaret sounded suspicious. And Isabella couldn’t blame her; the first thing she’d done was cry. Not to mention she thought perhaps the last time she’d seen Margaret she’d been crying.
There were a lot of tears to be shed, apparently.
“I am, actually.” She gestured to her eyes. “Even though it might seem as though I am not.”
Margaret seemed to visibly sag in relief. “Thank goodness, I wasn’t sure what I would do if you weren’t. Except I would do something.” She said the last part in a very decided tone of voice, and Isabella was glad she had at least—and only—one person she could rely on. Even if that person didn’t know what she’d do in case of emergency. But at least she’d probably pass her a handkerchief, or pat her back, or try to make her laugh.
“How is he?” Margaret got a coy, curious expression on her face. “And how is that?”
The last thing Isabella wanted to do was discuss what she and her husband were and were not doing. Even with her sister.
So she just sat there, wondering what to say as Margaret continued to regard her with that knowing look.
And more silence.
Until—“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Isabella wanted to laugh at Margaret’s outraged tone of voice, only she didn’t think her sister would appreciate it.
“Is it that bad?” her sister asked in a whisper, as though there was anyone else there.
“It’s . . .” Isabella wanted just to tell her, It’s not, and we’re not, and I have no idea, only she didn’t want to admit, even to her sister, that she hadn’t become a wife in the true technical way.
“Is it that good?” her sister said, this time in an even more hushed tone, as though she couldn’t believe it.
Well, if she were going to lie by omission, better to do it this way. She didn’t answer, just smiled as though she had a secret.
Margaret leaned against the sofa back, crossing her arms over her chest. It didn’t appear as though Isabella’s knowing look was going to satisfy her. “You’re not going to tell me!” she said in an outraged tone.
Isabella shook her head slowly. She hadn’t ever done this before, actually teased her sister (much less lied to her), but it felt fun.
Instead of continuing to be annoyed, however, Margaret did the very Margaret-like thing of laughing and then hugging her sister, so tightly it felt as though she was squashing Isabella’s lungs.
“Let me breathe!” Isabella gasped, poking her sister on the shoulder.
The door opened just as Isabella was simultaneously laughing and wheezing, and Nicholas strode in, stopping as he saw the two of them on the sofa.
“Good morning,” he said in an amused tone, as though he were privy to the joke. Which wasn’t true, since even Margaret didn’t know, but Isabella couldn’t think about all of that when she got a good look at his face.
She was up and had her fingers on the worst cut, the one just on his cheekbone, before she could even think.
“Again? You did this again?”
Nicholas shrugged and looked over her shoulder at Margaret. “You’re Margaret, aren’t you?”
“Don’t speak,” Isabella said through clenched teeth. How could he continue to have this violence inflicted on him—willingly?
What else would he allow to be done to him?
That thought brought up images she didn’t even know she had anywhere in her brain, and she felt her cheeks get hot.
Isabella shook her head and might have made some sort of disgruntled unduchesslike noise before walking to her dressing table, where a handkerchief and a basin of water were laid out for her morning ablutions. She dipped the cotton fabric into the water and wrung it out.
“I am, Your Grace,” Margaret replied, in as amused a tone as before.
Could she not see her new brother-in-law looked like he’d fallen face-first into a mountain? Or she did see it, and she wasn’t worried about it?
Either her sister had vision problems, or she was totally blasé about her new brother-in-law meeting one of those things she’d seen washerwomen using for clothing. With his face.
She put the damp cloth up to his face and began to wipe the blood off.
“How are you? Your sister has told me some about you, I am looking forward to getting to know you.”
She paused in her ministrations to glare at him. And then turned her head and glared at her sister. And back at him. “Did nobody but me notice that you happen to be in my bedroom bleeding? That perhaps we could save the social niceties until there isn’t blood gushing everywhere?”
“It’s hardly gushing,” Margaret said. Isabella heard the movement of her sister getting up from the couch, and soon enough, she felt Margaret at her back. “It’s the worst there,” she said, pointing over Isabella’s shoulder at the cut on the cheekbone, which had begun to puff out around the wound.
“I’ve had worse done to me,” Nicholas said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I can imagine,” Isabella muttered as she dabbed at the cuts.
“What happened?” Margaret asked over Isabella’s shoulder. Isabella didn’t have to see her to know her sister was on tiptoe looking, since Isabella was so much taller.
“I got hit.” Nicholas replied with a smirk that showed he knew just how much he was—and wasn’t—saying.
“I can see that. The question is, who hit you?” As usual, her sister forged ahead,
her curiosity always winning out over her discretion. Whereas Isabella didn’t allow herself to be curious, and she was always discreet.
And look where it had gotten her. An untouched wife whose new husband seemed to have a penchant for getting himself hurt.
Nicholas shrugged. “There were a few, actually. The first one only managed a few hits before I knocked him out. Then there was a really large man, but I don’t think he was used to fighting someone with skill. After he tried to squeeze me, I knocked him off balance and he went down. He did land this, though,” he said, pointing to his cheekbone. “And the last one—well, that was my brother.” He grinned. “Seems Griff was irritated at me because now that I’m a duke, I shouldn’t be brawling, or something like that.”
“And your brother is not wrong,” Isabella said in a low voice.
He narrowed his eyes at her, but he didn’t get a chance to say anything when the door opened, a phalanx of servants bearing trays pouring into Isabella’s bedroom. Too late, she realized she was wearing just her nightdress, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for the servants to see her.
But it seemed that he had realized that sooner, since he turned around and faced them, maneuvering her so she was behind him.
He was so tall. She often felt beautiful, because she simply was, but she never felt as though she were delicate. But now, with her nose practically in between his shoulder blades, she did. One of his hands was behind him, his fingers resting on her arm, and she felt the contact as though it were a bolt of lightning streaking through her body.
She inhaled, and her whole self was flooded with him—he smelled more than he had when she’d been curled up with him in bed, but it wasn’t an unpleasant odor. Or maybe she only thought it wasn’t unpleasant because it was he.
It smelled like earth and exertion and power. And, to be honest, sweat.
It smelled good. She wished she could lean forward and just bury her nose into him, breathe in all that odor, have it surround her, envelop her, until it was her scent, too.
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