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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 hadbeen exciting enough at the time. But Beatrice now found herself craving more details.

They’d been solimited, 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 Stephenhadlocked 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 theyweremarried. 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, Iamthe Duchess. Not just your wife, but the Duchess of Blackwoodandthe 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 hereallymeant it.

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