Page 9 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Nine

“G ood night, Your Grace,” said the maid, Alice, smiling as she left Christine’s chambers, clutching a pile of laundry. “I hope you sleep well.”

Christine managed to smile at the maid. She heard the soft click of the door closing behind her.

She sat up straight in the large four-poster bed, staring at the single candle burning on her bedside table. All she had to do was lean over and blow it out and she would be in complete darkness. But something stopped her from doing it.

Thoughts rushed through her mind, like mice on a wheel, about the evening. The doll theatre show had been so endearing—the girls had gone to such effort to enact the story of Puss in Boots, and it had been funny and sweet.

But all she could think about was the shocking moment when the duke had suddenly brought his hand close to her thigh. It had been half dark in the nursery, and she knew that no one would have noticed—not the girls, who were behind the doll theatre anyway and couldn’t see them, nor Miss Mayhew, who was half blind without her spectacles, squinting into the distance.

Why did he do it? Why?

She didn’t have an answer for that. As soon as the show ended, he removed his hand, and he barely looked at her afterwards. He had congratulated the girls, then mumbled good night to all of them, marching out of the nursery, stiff backed and rigid.

When she had passed his chamber door on the way to her own, it was firmly closed.

Christine closed her eyes, reliving the sensations that had sprung up, unbidden, at the touch of his hand. It was like a small flame had been ignited within her belly, growing brighter by the second. It had begun to course throughout her entire body. By the time he had removed it, she was shaking with desire.

She gazed at the adjoining door to their chambers now. It was closed—and she didn’t dare open it and enter his chambers again. He had rejected her on their wedding night when she had been so bold, after all. He had been cold and dismissive, and she never wanted to endure that humiliation again.

But oh, how she wanted him to put his hand on her again.

The mere thought sent a curious shiver through her—unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome. Her breath caught, her body responding in ways she didn’t fully understand. She pressed her thighs together, startled by the sensation blooming low in her belly.

Was this what longing felt like?

Hastily, she leaned across the bed, blowing out the candle, trying not to think about it. Darkness descended, an inky pool of black. She burrowed down into the bed, pulling the blankets over her body, trying to settle.

She tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable. Slowly, her eyelids started to droop. Sleep was sweeping her away, and she stepped into a dream. A most disturbing dream…

She was walking through a field of poppies. Suddenly, the duke was there, bare chested, walking toward her, his muscles rippling.

A hunger like nothing she had ever felt before enveloped her at the sight of him. But suddenly, he was being pulled away from her, as if something was physically dragging him.

Wait , she cried, reaching out her hands to him. Wait …

Christine sprang up in the bed, her eyes wide, panting wildly. Her heart was thundering. The blankets were twisted and crumpled. She stared into the inky darkness, unable to catch her breath for several minutes.

What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she control these wild feelings which were overtaking her body?

Suddenly, she heard a sound. A rattle, sharp and metallic. She sat up, her heart pounding anew. Desperately, she lit the candle again, raising it high in her hand, so that a pool of light spilled onto the floor.

What was it? A mouse? A rat?

Slowly, her eyes focused on the adjoining door. The handle was moving—slowly, imperceptibly, but moving, nonetheless.

She gasped. Was the duke opening her door and about to enter her chamber?

But suddenly, the noise stopped. She stared hard, but the handle wasn’t moving at all any longer. She stared at it, shaking her head.

Had she imagined it entirely? Had the force of her desire for him, the desperate remnants of her strange, sensual dream, caused her to imagine that he was trying to gain entry to her room?

Her heart dropped. Clearly, she had imagined it.

With a shaking hand, she put down the candle, blowing it out. She turned over in the bed, staring at nothing again.

It took a long time to fall asleep.

* * *

Edwin picked up his mug of ale, drinking deeply.

It was hot inside the tavern, and loud. He could barely hear himself think above the noise of patrons talking and laughing, never mind hear his best friend Oliver Fortescue, the Marquess of Browning, talking above the din.

He gazed around. He and his friend had agreed to meet at the King George tavern in the nearest village to Ironstone for a few quiet ales, as it was a central point for both of them.

Oliver had just returned from a trip to France, which was why he hadn’t been at the wedding in London.

Either of them , thought Edwin sourly, picking up his ale and swigging it again.

“You are looking well, Ironstone,” said Oliver, smiling widely, as he picked up his own mug of ale. “Married life clearly suits you.”

“I do not know about that,” growled Edwin, running a distracted hand through his hair. He fixed his eyes upon his friend. “Lady Violet did not even make it to the church, my friend. I ended up marrying the earl of Dunhill’s youngest daughter instead.”

Oliver almost spat his ale across the table. He looked at Edwin askance.

“You are jesting,” he said in a wary voice. “Surely, you must be playing a trick on me, Ironstone.”

“I assure you I am not,” replied Edwin irritably. “I wish to God that I were.”

It had been humiliating to be jilted at the altar in such a public way, but he wasn’t sure if it was a bad thing any longer that Lady Violet had vanished into thin air, destined never to become the Duchess of Ironstone, and that her younger sister had taken her place instead.

His blood started to warm at the mere thought of Christine. He was starting to admit to himself that she was beginning to drive him a little crazy with lust. So much so that he had almost opened the adjoining door to their chambers and marched into her room the other night, swept away by desire. He had only just managed to restrain himself and return to his bed, as hard as a rock.

“You are telling the truth!” Oliver’s jaw dropped dramatically. “I can see it in your face!”

Edwin shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Yes, I really am.”

“Well, tell me about her,” exclaimed Oliver, leaning across the table, his eyes shining. “Do you like this unexpected new bride? Is she to your taste?”

She is glorious. And yes, she is very much to my taste, in every single way. I am being driven mad by lust.

“She is tolerable,” he said eventually, trying to ignore his beating heart. “It seems she is not as highly accomplished as her elder sister, but she is trying very hard with the girls.”

“And?” Oliver raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Is she beautiful? Does she set your blood afire?”

Edwin dropped his eyes to his mug of ale, appalled to see that his hand had tightened around it.

“I can see that she does,” said Oliver slowly, his voice filled with amusement. “It seems that your breeches are in quite a twist over your new bride, Ironstone. That is wonderful…”

“Is it?” Edwin looked at his friend. His voice was harsher than he intended. “I do not think it is, Browning. Not at all.”

Oliver’s gaze softened. “It has been an awfully long time since Rose died, Ironstone. Too long. You can let go now, you know.”

Edwin frowned. He picked up his mug, draining it, slamming it onto the table.

“I cannot afford to be distracted by my new wife,” he barked, staring at his friend.

“I do know—I remember everything you did for Rose,” said Oliver, his face a picture of sympathy. “Lord knows, you employed so many physicians, and even resorted to quacks, to try to find out what ailed her. It was a puzzling illness. Rose had such a hearty constitution beforehand.”

Edwin stared around the room, lost in remembrance of his wife, who had suddenly started to weaken, with an array of mysterious symptoms. He still wondered if there was anything he could have done to save her—some clue he’d missed, some decision he should have made sooner.

“The reason I decided to seek another wife at last was not to satisfy me, but simply to get the girls into line. They have grown wild without the influence of a mother.”

Oliver was silent for a moment. He frowned. “But surely, that noble intention will not be sullied if you happen to desire your wife, Ironstone. The two things do not have to contradict each other. You deserve a measure of personal happiness, old chap.”

“No,” growled Edwin, his face twisting. “I cannot allow it. I will not allow it. It is a distraction. Christine is my wife in name only…and that is the way it must stay.”

There was a sudden, fraught silence. He watched his knuckles tighten on the mug of ale.

He looked up, beckoning to the barmaid. “Two more ales!”

Oliver raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

Edwin shrugged. He felt like having a few drinks tonight.

Anything, to distract him from the thought of his delectable new wife.