Lady Saves the Duke

by Annabelle Anders

  “Was it because…you figured out that he…was the person…and you…” She shifted restlessly beneath him. “Or was it because he was dancing with Mrs. Gormley?”

  He wrapped one arm around her waist, so as to secure his position comfortably. At the same time, he was annoyed that she did not simply know the answer. He’d told her before that the man deserved to be punished. Instead, she had listened to the gossips.

  “After you disappeared last night, most of the guests were whispering that she was your mistress and you wanted her back. I did not wish to believe it. She is very beautiful, though, and although you told me you would expect fidelity from me, you never said anything about not keeping a mistress, yourself. And she is very beautiful…”

  Wait, she had stayed at the ball? “You did not leave the ball early?” He’d been certain she would have left. He attempted to sit up, but she exhibited a surprising amount of strength and ensured that he remain prone.

  Or perhaps he was just that exhausted.

  “I did not.” He could feel her shaking her head. “I stayed with Margaret for the supper and then waited until most of them departed before leaving with my parents. It was not easy. People were saying the most dreadful things—not to my face, mind you—but I overheard many of them.”

  With closed eyes, Alex absorbed her words, surprised by her courage yet again. Her fingers continued threading through his hair, mesmerizing him.

  But she required an answer.

  She deserved one.

  Pulling back from his comfortable position, he met her gaze in order to ascertain her response to what he needed to say. “I attacked Farley for no other reason than justice demanded it. It ought to have been addressed years ago. From what I understand, Cortland and Hawthorne put him on a packet today. He knows that if he returns to London anytime soon, a greater punishment awaits.”

  Her eyes studied his before she released a soft sigh and settled comfortably again. This time her hand rested along his jaw.

  All was quiet, finally, but for the sounds of the coach and horses as the driver steered them out of the city. For a moment, the desire to take hold of her hand tempted him.

  And then she spoke in barely a whisper. “Thank you, Alex.”

  ****

  Monfort had been sleeping for nearly an hour when the rain began. At first it was a light sprinkle, but it did not take long before the storm had worked itself into a deluge. In falling into a deep sleep, he gave Abigail a rare glimpse of this man she’d married. She could stare to her heart’s delight at the tiny wrinkles forming around his eyes. She could examine, in detail, the prickly whiskers already reappearing on his jaw and throat

  Awake he vibrated with intensity, likely ingrained into him from an early age.

  In sleep he was merely a man.

  She enjoyed the feel of his hair as it slid through her fingers, wincing only when she discovered the crusted blood from when he’d hit his head on the pavement.

  Her poor, poor duke.

  So very stubborn, so very determined. She traced the barely noticeable wrinkles beginning to etch themselves into his forehead and smoothed the straight lines of his brows. She enjoyed the very weight of him resting on the tops of her thighs.

  And eventually she relaxed as well, content to offer him this small comfort.

  At the first clap of thunder, Abigail started, but Monfort remained nearly comatose. It wasn’t until the coach nearly slid off the road that he roused and sprang into a sitting position.

  Alert to the conditions, Monfort opened the window to the driver’s box and ordered the man to stop at the nearest inn. When he returned to the seat, he sat up straight, tense and alert. Oddly enough, Abigail was not afraid of the storm.

  In spite of having slept for a short while, his eyes were bloodshot, his skin retained that sickly pallor, and his bruises contrasted even more vividly against his skin. Every now and then he’d blink slowly, almost as though even the slight movement itself was painful. When he turned to stare out the window, Abigail noticed again the crusted blood in his hair from when he’d knocked his head on the pavement after she’d crashed into him.

  “Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked.

  He grimaced but then glanced at her with that arrogant expression of his. “It is no matter, Abigail.”

  Ah, so he had not. Just then, the carriage slowed and turned off the road. Thank heavens! They were lucky to find themselves so close to an inn. A flash of lightning, followed by another loud clap of thunder, seemed to shake the earth.

  And then the realization of what was to come hit her.

  They would take a room.

  The sky was dark.

  Her wedding night loomed close indeed.

  Chapter 17

  Due to the torrential downpour in the area, the inn was filling quickly. Even being a duke, Monfort was lucky to get them a room with a large clean bed. One room. One bed.

  Since no private dining rooms could be made available, a tray with some stew and bread was delivered upstairs. Monfort excused himself in order to ensure the drivers and outriders found their quarters without hassle. Needing to be of some use, Abigail ordered a hot bath filled and set up for her husband behind a privacy screen. He’d require it. She herself was covered in splattered mud from her short trek from the carriage to the inn but dared not strip down and bathe while Monfort could reenter at any moment. Instead, she cleaned up with a washcloth and then changed into her night rail and dressing gown. She had packed only one spare dress to wear, and she would be needing that tomorrow. It was not likely that the baggage coach would find them here, at their unscheduled stop. A bolt of lightning lit the room, shortly followed by a shock of booming thunder, and Abigail shivered.

  She glanced at the bed longingly but didn’t want to be in it when he returned.

  It was their wedding night, and he had attacked Farley for what he had done to her.

  She was a wife now.

  She was caught somewhere between abject fear and hopeful anticipation.

  Another clap of thunder shook the inn just as Monfort tapped on the door and entered. He’d been gone nearly an hour and was soaked through to the skin. If it was possible, he appeared even paler than he had before.

  “I’ve a hot bath prepared for you,” she said. He regarded her as though she spoke a foreign language so she gestured toward the far side of the room. “Behind the privacy screen.”

  Monfort nodded before limping slowly to the area set away from the bed. Mud covered his left side from hip to boots. The poor man must have slipped and fallen. Abigail restrained herself from assisting him and hoped he wouldn’t keel over before he could bathe. The poor maids would not appreciate the mess he was making. Maybe Abigail could find a broom somewhere?

  But not right now. She wondered that poor Monfort was able to move at all. Somehow marrying her had turned him into a mere shadow of his normal ducal self.

  Studying her sock-covered toes, Abigail wondered. What did a lady do while awaiting her newly married husband to prepare for bed? She glanced toward the privacy screen curiously.

  A tall man, Monfort’s head and the top of his shoulders were visible above the divider. With nothing else to do, she unapologetically observed him as he bent his head forward and attempted to unbutton his shirt. His brow furrowed, and his hands ineffectually fumbled at his neck cloth. “Bloody, blasted thing.” He cursed as though alone.

  And then he reappeared from behind the screen—still fully dressed. He scowled as he gestured to his jacket helplessly. “I can’t get this damn thing off.”

  It was tightly fitted. And wet.

  He was stuck, poor thing.

  In the face of his physical discomfort, Abigail shed her concerns about their wedding night, padded across the room, and went right to work tugging at his jacket. As the sleeves peeled away from him, her bare hands brushed his. They were damp and freezing cold.

  She’d lacked any boldness, up to that point, tentatively taking the l
iberty of touching Monfort. But in that moment she wrapped her hands around his and rubbed them vigorously to lend him some warmth.

  He likely was cursing his decision to have his valet follow them at a distance.

  Hesitating but a moment, Abigail knew only a desire to comfort him. She released his hands and reached up to untie his cravat.

  He still did not move.

  He’d given her protection. He’d given her his name. He’d finally punished that man. Monfort was chilled. He was practically asleep on his feet.

  Deciding she had no alternative but to assist him further, Abigail unfastened the buttons at the top of his shirt. As the material fell away from his neck and chest, she found herself looking not at the button she was working on, but at the taut, pale skin she’d revealed. And at the short, dark, and slightly curling hairs. As a duke, he was a symbol of responsibility and tradition, but his naked skin reminded her of his humanity. Sensing a rare vulnerability in him, she resisted a mad urge to lean forward and press her lips against his neck.

  What would he think if she gave in to such a fanciful thought?

  Like a small boy, he lifted his arms and allowed her to tug his shirt free of his breeches and then over his head. But he was not a small boy. He was very much a man.

  Unaware of her disquieting thoughts, Monfort’s eyes remained closed. A few times, he swayed slightly so that Abigail had to steady him.

  His arms were sinewy, smooth, and shadowed where pale skin stretched over corded muscles and short hairs began, again, just below his elbows. She was fascinated by the elegance of his capable hands. He ought not to be so fit and strong. He was a duke.

  But he rode nearly every day. He loved his horses, she reminded herself.

  And then her gaze drifted back to his torso.

  Abigail’s breath caught at the sight of his full upper half—unclothed.

  With eyes open, he didn’t move but watched her now as she examined him. Her heart quickened, but not in fear. He stood frozen, as though he were an artifact, to study, to admire. He did nothing but stare back at her with hooded eyes, his lips slightly parted.

  Abigail pointed to a nearby wooden chair. “Sit down,” she ordered him. “I’ll remove your boots.” She did not know how she had such temerity. She imagined she’d been cast under a spell.

  He obeyed without question. Perhaps this spell had been cast upon both of them.

  With a confidence unusual for her, Abigail knelt before him. Curling her fingers under the leather of his boot with one hand, she placed the other along his heel. The warmth of his calves brushed against her knuckles as she pulled at the fashionable boot. Monfort reached down to secure himself on the chair when she tugged with vigor.

  As the boot gave way with considerable difficulty, Abigail allowed her hand to slide down the length of his stockinged calf. She was even so bold as to allow her fingers to linger slowly.

  Chastising herself, she forced herself to dawdle less as she removed his other boot and stockings.

  Assisting him in this way pleased her. Up until this point, their connection had been all about what he could do for her. Him saving her reputation. Him giving funds to her parents. She’d not like to think that he pitied her.

  “Stand up,” she commanded softly. And then, licking her lips, she added, “Please.”

  Monfort stood.

  Abigail pushed to her feet, walked around to the back of him, and reached her arms around his waist for she could not be so bold under the scrutiny of his gaze. She’d often assisted her mother’s housekeeper in the washing and pressing of her father’s clothing. She knew how the placard of a man’s breeches fastened.

  With nimble fingers, she dipped her thumbs under Monfort’s waistband and unfastened the buttons easily. They slid off the duke with a little tugging, and then he stepped out of them without protest.

  Staring at his back, she took a deep breath. She’d touched his naked skin as she’d peeled his trousers downward. Like his arms, black hairs grew along his slim calves and muscular thighs. She’d caught more than a glimpse of pale, masculine buttocks. Her face flushed hot with embarrassment. She could not look him in the eyes now…

  “Climb into the bath before it cools.” How was it that her voice came out sounding so controlled?

  Suddenly overwhelmed by the intimacy of what she’d done, Abigail needed to retreat. “There are linens here when you are done.” She was tempted to glance back once more but was already shocked by her assertiveness. So she slipped out from behind the screen and sat upon the bed. Her mind whirled. Whatever had come over her?

  Being practical, she reasoned with herself. The duke needed assistance, and she was the only person available. Her assistance had been nothing.

  Really, it was nothing.

  He likely had been barely aware of her. Her undressing him was probably no different for him than when Villiars performed the task.

  The rain continued falling outside, but a fire in the hearth warmed the room. She placed the screen in front of it and climbed into the bed. Maybe if she were asleep when he finished his bath, he would forget all about her.

  ****

  Alex had not thought he had the energy to think of anything but sleep, but after Abigail’s innocent ministrations, he found himself not thinking of sleep at all. No, his thoughts gravitated toward exploring hands tugging at his clothing, rubbing warmth into his skin.

  He finished bathing and climbed out of the tub. Amazingly, he was aroused.

  How was it that this—he could no longer refer to her as a spinster—woman had excited him as no woman had since his younger days? When she’d first begun undressing him, he’d thought to stop her but then changed his mind. Her actions had been daring, indeed. He’d no wish to shake her confidence. He was far too aware that the only time she’d been intimate with a man, it had been against her will. Perhaps if he remained passive, she would be comfortable with him. And so he had continued, unmoving, while she’d removed his clothing.

  She’d been tentative in her touch at first, really. But her gaze…

  She’d eyed him with sensual boldness.

  And watching her watch him, watching her devour him with those eyes, had been one of the most seductive experiences of his life.

  Baffling, really.

  He’d restrained himself from pulling her to him. She was his wife. This was their wedding night.

  Wrapping the linen around his waist, he stepped out from behind the screen.

  Abigail had climbed under the counterpane and lay still—far too still to be sleeping. His head throbbed and his muscles ached. Without warning, an overwhelming weariness assaulted him.

  And with it, all sexual arousal fled. If he were too tired to make love to his new wife properly, she would likely end up hating him as Hyacinth had. No, he would not consummate their marriage tonight.

  He stepped around to the opposite side of the bed, dropped the towel, and climbed under the large quilt.

  He fell asleep almost immediately.

  Abigail hadn’t thought she would be able to sleep. She’d heard Monfort climb under the counterpane and into the bed and then…nothing. Not much time passed at all before she heard deep steady breathing coming from her newlywed groom. She ought to be relieved, but her traitorous body experienced disappointment. Removing his clothing—touching his person—had left her feeling edgy and…frustrated. Monfort had not touched her once. He’d watched her, and she’d thought he’d been affected somehow, but he’d gone from his bath to the opposite side of the bed without saying a word.

  She remembered when he’d touched her leg before her first riding lesson. She’d thought he was attracted to her. Could she have misread his attentions? Had she deluded herself into believing he was forming an attachment to her?

  She let out an exasperated sigh.

  Monfort slept on.

  To think he did not wish to bed her was disheartening…which made no sense at all. She’d dreaded it, hadn’t she? And of course, he’d pr
oposed to her for honorable purposes only. But she had thought things had changed between them…

  Here she lay, seven-and-twenty, alone on her wedding bed, untouched by her husband. Turning to her side, she wrapped her arms around her stomach. She would be content. She was safe. Her parents were well taken care of. She closed her eyes and willed sleep to come quickly. It probably would not.

  She was wrong.

  ****

  The bed was soft and giving.

  And warm.

  And tendrils of hair tickled him indulgently, just below his chin.

  Alex pondered the insane events of the previous thirty-six hours as he lay abed listening to the rain fall gently against the window. The woman he’d taken for his wife was tucked in beside him, her breaths warm against the skin of his chest.

  His head no longer pounded, and the aches he’d experienced the previous day had abated. He never slept past dawn, but today no urgency compelled him to move from where he was. The wind blew steadily, rattling the windowpanes, and he knew they would not be leaving by coach anytime soon.

  Abigail squirmed and made a little mewling sound. Opening his eyes, Alex studied this new wife of his as she slept.

  She had one hand tucked under her face and the other had drifted down over his abdomen, dangerously close to the one part of himself that was suddenly very much awake.

  He’d not had the chance to examine her so closely before. Usually she appeared so animated, a person became caught up in her words—or reeled from her emotions. No one would have ever held her close like this, to watch her—unguarded and defenseless. Alex sent his gaze roving over her long dark lashes, the line of her jaw, the fullness of her lips.

  Several strands of her hair had escaped the long braid she’d tied before going to bed, framing her delicate features softly.

  That word again. It dangled in his thoughts each time he thought of her: soft.

  Without thought, he drew a line with his finger down the curve of her cheek.

  Her eyes fluttered open, searched for focus, and then held his own.