Page 5 of The Duke’s Only Desire (The Dukes of Darkness #3)

T he sun was setting in streaks of oranges and purples by the time the carriage turned into the yard of the posting inn where they would stay for the night. Shay’s shoulders relaxed, both at having the cover of darkness for their arrival and to be at an inn where he knew the innkeeper would provide clean rooms and not ask questions.

He helped Sophie from the carriage. She was exhausted from traveling, her body weary and her eyes marred by dark circles. At least he hoped the travel had caused it. He didn’t want to admit to himself that she might have been crying.

He escorted her toward the front door, leaving Pearson to fetch their bags. When they stepped inside the stone building and entered the common room where other travelers had gathered for supper along the long tables, a hush fell over the room as curious gawkers turned to stare. The same reaction happened every time he entered a public place, although the curious stares never lasted for long, not when the country was filled with men who had returned from the wars missing entire arms and legs. But he hadn’t yet grown used to the stares, and most likely never would.

He approached the bar. “Seamus Douglass,” he told the beefy man behind the bar, even though he was certain Mr. Greene would remember him. How could he have forgotten a man who looked like him, even if the innkeeper had no idea he was a duke? “I’ve reserved private rooms for the night. Please ready them for us.” The coachman and tiger would make certain the team and carriage were cared for, and Pearson was capable of taking care of himself, especially if given the chance to spend the night in some barmaid’s arms. He placed a coin on the counter. “We’ll have dinner now.”

“Yes, sir.” The innkeeper snatched up the sovereign. “Right this way.”

He led them to a small but private dining room tucked away at the rear of the inn, promised to return with dinner, then left them.

Sophie’s eyes never moved from Shay as he helped himself to a glass of port from the tray on the side table. In the silence stretching between them, he could hear the muted conversations and drunken laughter coming from the common room and the gentlemen’s bar beyond. Once again, he felt a pull to join in on the revelry, missing the old days when he’d been able to drink, gamble, and joke with anyone in any tavern across Europe. Now, if he dared try that, the room would fall silent, and all the fun would die. Until he left.

A knock sounded at the door. “Come,” he ordered.

The innkeeper and his wife carried in a platter of food and left it on the table, along with a bottle of wine. The wife couldn’t help herself and stared at Shay, but Greene took her arm and hurried her from the room. “I’ll let you know when the room’s ready, shall I?” the man called out. “Hot water for a bath, too?”

“Yes, please,” Sophie answered gratefully before Shay could. “And thank you for all your attention, sir. I’m certain we’ll have a good night here.”

The man smiled at her compliment, then closed the door after himself. A welcomed silence once more settled over the room, except for a mumbled thank you from Sophie as Shay held out her chair for her.

They served themselves and ate in silence, broken only by Shay asking if she wanted another glass of wine. She waved away the offer with a shake of her head, her eyes downcast at her untouched plate.

She was tired, he knew, as he cut a piece of roast beef on his plate and stabbed it with his fork. But she’d like the bedroom. It wouldn’t be luxurious, but the fire would be lit, her bag already placed at the foot of the bed, a bottle of port on the bedside table, and a hot bath waiting for her. It would offer a good night’s sleep before an early departure to—

“Who is Clara LePaige?”

Shay froze as her soft words reached him across the table, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he returned it to his plate and eased back on his chair. He had expected more questions about why he’d married her, but he hadn’t expected this .

“How do you know that name?” he asked.

“Is she someone you love but cannot marry?” Her stormy blue eyes lifted from her untouched plate to meet his. “Is that why you settled for me as a wife because you cannot have the woman you love?”

He reached for his wineglass and studied her over the rim. Good God, where was he supposed to begin? This time, he knew, she wouldn’t be satisfied until she had answers.

“No,” he answered. “Mrs. LePaige is not the woman I’m in love with.”

Her slender shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. “Then who is she? And what does she have to do with why you married me?”

He placed his napkin on the table beside his plate. “How much do you know about James Norton’s private life?”

“We were going to be married. He told me everything.”

Not even close. “You asked me in the carriage this afternoon why I would marry you the way I did.” He swirled the wine and watched the ruby liquid sheet down the sides of the glass. “Because I didn’t have another way of protecting you.”

“Because you wanted to save me,” she corrected softly.

A statement, he noted, not a question. Apparently, she’d been talking to Pearson.

“Save me from what?”

He took a swallow of wine and considered his words. “Norton had been asking around the clubs about you last fall. He had heard about the arrangement your grandmother made with Malvern and how big the promised dowry was.”

Most likely, he’d heard it from Shay’s uncle Malcolm. The man had never been happy that Shay had inherited the title, and he did whatever he could to stir up trouble. Shay wouldn’t have put it past Malcolm, in fact, to plant the seed in Norton’s ear of marrying Sophie, just to cause Shay pain. After all, Malcolm had been the one last fall who had gleefully told Shay that Norton planned to marry Sophie, most likely because Malcolm thought there was nothing Shay could do to stop the marriage.

Once again, his uncle had been wrong.

“When Norton heard the story about the contract and John’s death, he decided to pursue you.” He locked eyes with her down the length of the table. “A beautiful heiress, the daughter of an earl…of course he wanted to marry you.”

She didn’t move, instead remaining as still as a Greek statue, like one of those goddesses in Lord Elgin’s marbles.

“It was a whirlwind courtship, Norton made certain of it. The sooner he married you, the sooner he would get his hands on what he thought was your dowry, and there would be less time for you to learn the truth about him.”

“Which is?”

“That he’s half a pound away from rotting in debtor’s prison.”

Shay set down his wineglass and pushed himself away from the table. She didn’t move except to let her blue eyes trail after him as he went to the side table and poured two glasses of port. He set one in front of her and took a healthy swallow from the other.

“Norton is deeply in debt,” he informed her. “Well over ten thousand pounds. More likely closer to fifteen.”

She ignored the port. “How do you know that?”

“I asked Lucien to investigate him.”

“The Duke of Crew?” She knew who Lucien Grenier was, if not why Lucien had the underworld contacts to learn what he had about Norton. Shay had written to her about his best friends in his letters, and Crewe had been present for their wedding that morning, lending his moral support to Shay. Anger edged her quiet voice. “You had no right to do that.”

“None at all.” Except that he still cared about her, still felt responsible toward her. Thank God he had, too, because the information Lucien provided about Norton was worse than Shay had imagined. “I wanted to make certain he wasn’t attempting to take advantage of you. But that was exactly what he’d planned.”

He leaned a hip against the table and looked down at her. Her blue eyes had always reminded him of cornflowers on a summer’s day. Now they resembled ice.

“Norton had been grumbling to his chums that he didn’t love you, didn’t want to marry you except to get his hands on your money. He commented several times that he thought you spoiled.” He’d said a hell of a lot worse than that, but Shay would never repeat those cruelties to her. “Once you were married and he had your money, he planned to abandon you and take up permanent residence with his mistress, a Covent Garden actress with whom he already has one child.”

Her face melted, and she whispered knowingly, “Clara LePaige.”

He slid the glass of port closer to her, wordlessly confirming it.

She hesitated for a moment, then helped herself to the sweet, plum-purple liquid. When she swallowed, a faint cough rose from her lips, and she pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.

“I married you so I could protect you from Norton. I couldn’t stand by and let you suffer once he discovered your father had no money, not at that time. If you two had been married, he would have beaten you for it, had you committed to Bedlam—or worse.”

The soft parting of her pink lips told him she understood exactly what he meant.

“You didn’t have to force me into marriage,” she said quietly. “You could have told me what you’d learned. I would have called off the engagement.” She lowered her eyes to her port. “Or he certainly would have when he learned Grandmama’s fortune was gone.”

He gave a faint shake of his head. “I know men like Norton. He would have found some other way to ruin your life, just for revenge.”

Her face blanched impossibly whiter, and her blue eyes glowed darkly, like sapphires in snow.

“But marrying me keeps you safe,” he added quietly. “You have the power of a dukedom behind you now. No one, not even Norton, would attempt to sully a duchess.”

Especially not his duchess. He’d kill the bastard at twenty paces if he dared try.

He also wanted to keep her away from Malcolm. Although his uncle’s attempts to claim the dukedom for himself had come to nothing years ago, Shay knew Malcolm wouldn’t be happy about the marriage. Eventually, Sophie would have to deal with his uncle as Duchess of Malvern, but Shay hoped to put off that confrontation as long as possible.

Sophie said nothing for a long moment, sitting absolutely still and letting herself absorb all he’d told her as she stared into her glass of port. Although, did she suspect how much he was still keeping from her?

“Not at that time?” She curled both hands around the glass of port as if absorbing its warmth. “You said my father had no money ‘at that time.’” She looked up, and her brow wrinkled in faint confusion. “What did you mean?”

Damnation. His tongue had slipped. But he might as well tell her now. She would find out soon enough anyway. “As part of our marriage settlement, I agreed to pay all your father’s remaining debts and settled an additional twenty thousand pounds on you.”

Her fingers tightened around the glass. “Twenty thousand is the exact same amount as the penalty in the contract, should I decide to leave our marriage.”

Leave our marriage. Shay’s lips twitched. What a nice way to say abandon her vows, just as their mothers had done.

“You can leave whenever you’d like,” he stated calmly despite the sudden twisting in his chest that she might do just that if given the opportunity, “and your father now has the money to honor the contract. But there will be no divorce. I will not go before Parliament to petition for one, for any reason.”

Without a word, she calmly took one more sip from her port, then set it aside. She rose to her feet and closed the distance between them. Still leaning his hip against the table, he remained in his slightly slumped position that lowered him to her height and brought their faces even.

“I will not leave my marriage,” she promised, her voice soft but determined. “I took vows, no matter how unexpected, and I will hold my heart to them. And I would certainly never leave our children the way our mothers left us.”

Our children. The quiet words were a dagger thrust to his gut.

There would be no children from their marriage.

“So if you think you can frighten me away, Seamus Douglass—if you think you can save me from James by marrying me and then save yourself from marriage by running me off—” Her eyes blazed, blue flames dancing in their depths. “Then you’d best think again. Do you understand? You’re with me now, forever, like it or not. I certainly didn’t want this marriage, but now that I’m in it, I plan on making it work.”

It wasn’t relief that filled his chest at her promise. It was dread.

“I’ve promised to send for your father as soon as spring breaks,” he told her. “April.” Which would give them three months together at Ravenscroft Manor—three months for her to realize exactly what kind of monster he’d become and how empty her marriage to him would truly be. By then, Norton and Malcolm would no longer be threats to her. “You can decide if you want to return to London with him when he leaves.”

She searched his face so intensely he could almost feel her gaze tickle over his skin. “I won’t go to London unless my husband goes with me.”

Christ. He was giving her a way out, didn’t she realize that? Ignoring her obstinacy, he added, “In the meantime, I’ve hired the best physicians in London to care for your father and two nurses to tend to him around the clock. It’s not the same as having you with him, granted. But I think his illness will improve now that the debts no longer weigh—”

She placed her hand to his good cheek and gently turned his face to see his scars.

Shay caught his breath as sharply as if she’d slapped him. Dear God, who knew a soft touch would hurt that much?

Her gaze moved slowly over the wounded half of his face where the skin lay leathery, hard, and ghastly uneven. “You shouldn’t have hidden this from me,” she murmured.

“Oh yes, I should have.”

Her eyes darted up to meet his, the same eyes that had once looked at him as if he were her hero, larger-than-life, perfect, and he steeled himself for the pitying look he feared he’d see now. But what he saw in their blue-grey depths wasn’t pity.

What he saw… understanding .

She lightly caressed his good cheek with her fingers and teased the faint scrape of rough evening beard beneath her fingertips. Then she stunned him by tracing lightly down to his chin…and to the other side of his face. To his scars. “Do they make it hard to shave?”

“No,” he whispered, then swallowed hard against the torturous pain of her soothing touch, as if the wounds were still raw. “That side doesn’t grow a beard anymore.”

She nodded slightly as she took in that bit of information, but her eyes remained fixed on his face, following the path of her fingertips as they brushed along his jaw.

He didn’t dare move as she explored the scars.

“Is it hard to talk, or eat…or smile?”

“No.” Not in the way she meant anyway. The scars would always pain him. He would never be able to leave the agony of that night behind, or find absolution for what he did. But the pain didn’t come from the old wounds anymore; instead it came from somewhere much deeper inside him. He would have said it rose from his very soul, except he’d long ago stopped thinking he even possessed one.

Then she caressed her finger over his temple and down the side of his face to his mouth, to the place where the corner of his lips curled into his cheek. Or should have. Nothing remained there now but a patch of thick skin into which his lips disappeared.

“Does it hurt to kiss?” she whispered, outlining his lips with her fingertip.

“Yes.”

She paused, as if suspecting he had just lied to her. But he hadn’t. Just the thought of kissing her was so torturous he knew he would never survive if she leaned up on tiptoes and brought her lips to his. Her sweetness would end him.

“I’ve caught glimpses of you—last night in the garden, today in the carriage—when I’ve seen the man I once knew, still there beneath the scars.” Her words were barely more than a whisper, but each one fell through him and panged at his heart as if she had screamed it like a battle cry. “I don’t know what to believe about you now…if you’re still that good man I knew.”

“I’ve changed.”

She cupped his scarred face against her palm. “Not as much as you think.” She placed her other hand on his chest, over his thumping heart. “Not where it’s important.”

“Sophie,” he warned, his voice hoarse, “you have to—”

A knock sounded at the door, shattering the magical spell weaving itself around them. Shay set her away as he slid off the table and then put half the dining room between them.

Christ, he was shaking! Even his fingers trembled as he raked them through his hair and called out to whoever was at the door to enter.

“Sir.” Mr. Greene stuck his head inside the room with the proud smile. “Your bedroom is ready. First room at the top of the stairs.” He reached inside and laid the key and a candle stub on the end of the sideboard.

With a nod at Sophie, completely oblivious to the sudden tension that filled the room like a dense fog, Greene withdrew and left them alone.

Shay cast a glance down the table at the mostly untouched plates and then at Sophie, who stared at him as if he were a stranger again. Dinner was over.

“I think we should retire for the evening.” He snatched up the candle stub and lit it on the wall sconce. Then he picked up the key and held out his hand to her. “We have an early start in the morning.”

Sophie parted her lips as if to say something, but then stopped, gave a silent nod instead, and took his arm, letting him lead her through the inn and up to the bedroom.

The room was small and cool, lit and warmed only by a small coal fire that would give Sophie enough time to bathe and undress before it died away without having to be banked for the night. Hot water steamed in a small copper tub, so did another kettle of water tucked just into the edge of the fireplace coals so she would have warm water to wash with in the morning when she woke. Her travel bag rested at the foot of the bed.

Shay lit a taper candle sitting on the bedside table beside a bottle of port and two glasses, then extinguished the stub and set it down next to the room key. “Will this do for the night?”

“Yes, except…”

The breathless whisper surprised him, and he turned toward her. “Except?”

“I don’t have a maid to help me.” She swallowed so hard he could hear it halfway across the room. “Smithson isn’t here, and I don’t know if…” Her uncertain voice trailed off, and she bit her bottom lip. Her blue eyes were bigger and softer than Shay ever remembered seeing them as they slowly rose from the bed to look at him. She pulled in a deep breath as if gathering her courage. “If you want…to undress me?”

*

Sophie held her breath, waiting for his answer as her heart pounded so fiercely in her chest that her breastbone ached, that the sound of blood coursing through her ears blocked out the faint noise of the common rooms below. She wasn’t asking to be undressed, although she certainly couldn’t take off the dress on her own without tearing the buttons.

No, what she was asking without having the courage to say it… Will you come to me tonight, to lie with me as my husband?

If her mother hadn’t abandoned her when she was so young, she would have known what to expect tonight. She would have known if newlywed husbands and wives made love in roadside inns, or if they waited until they were in their own beds in their own homes. Most of all, she would have known what to expect from Shay. Smithson, bless her, had tried to prepare her last night, but Sophie doubted the information the unmarried maid had given her—that she should close her eyes and simply lie there—was at all right.

And now Shay was staring at her as if she’d just admitted to killing the king.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, doing her best to hide her humiliation. “I’ll manage on my own to—”

“Come here.”

The soft order wrapped around her like warm velvet. Oh, that did nothing to alleviate her nervousness! Or her uncertainty. Each slow step that brought her around the bed to him only grew the knot of nerves tingling low in her belly.

She turned her back to him and forced her ragged breath to emerge smoothly, yet it seemed to catch on the fast tattoo of her heartbeat. “Just a…few buttons…” she somehow managed to say and sound relatively normal, but she wasn’t certain he’d heard her because for a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then she felt his hands on the back of her bodice, his fingers moving slowly to free each tiny pearl button. Each passing second his hands brushed against her back was torment, and she didn’t know what she should do or say. If she should simply stand there, still as a statue, or if she should toss a flirtatious, teasing comment over her shoulder to break the thick tension radiating between them.

Her bodice loosened and sagged low as the last button came free. Even now, still wearing another two layers of underclothes, her nervousness got the better of her, and she reached up quickly to hold her dress in place over her bosom.

She whispered over her shoulder, “Thank you for—”

“Wait.” He took her bare shoulders and stopped her from stepping away.

Her belly tightened as she felt him bend down to take the hem of her dress and lift it carefully up her body, slipping it over her head and off. He laid it gently over the foot of the bed.

Now standing inches away from him in the dim shadows in only her undergarments, she trembled. Her skin heated as his hands reached once more for her back, this time to unlace her corset.

If unbuttoning her bodice and removing her dress had been nerve-wracking, having his fingers slowly tugging at the lace that zigzagged along her spine was absolutely torturous. His knuckles brushed against her back as he pulled free each loop, and each accidental caress flamed heat across her skin as if the thin shift wasn’t there at all, as if he were caressing her bare back.

The corset came loose around her, and she folded her arms over her front, keeping it in place as if it were armor, the only thing that could protect her heart from wounding. But his fingers nimbly pushed it open, then gently tugged it away until it slipped from her trembling fingers and landed on the floor at her feet. She took a deep breath, now standing only inches from him in nothing more than her shift and stockings.

She closed her eyes against the way her body ached to have his hands on her and his mouth kissing her, to have him reassuring her that theirs would be a proper marriage despite how it had begun. All he had to do was slide his hands down her sides, along the outer swells of her breasts and down to her hips, to caress her with their strength and warmth—

Instead, he dropped his hands away, and she nearly cried out in frustration.

But he didn’t step away. He remained behind her, so close she could feel the heat of his body seeping through her cotton shift and warming her skin. An unfamiliar pang began to echo faintly between her thighs, and her nipples dilated into hard points. A flutter in her belly struck so strongly she could barely pull in a breath without shaking.

Folding her arms innocently in front of her, she couldn’t help but glance at the bed. Sweet heavens, what was she supposed to do now? Should she crawl into bed and wait there for him to join her, or would he think her brazenly wanton? Should she just keep standing here, now staring at his chest as if his were the most intriguing waistcoat ever tailored? Or should she do something else—but what?

“There,” he murmured. “All undressed. Your bath is waiting. I should leave you to bathe in peace.”

Not daring to lift her eyes to his, she whispered tremulously, “Should I leave the door unlocked?” In other words… Will you be returning to me tonight?

“You should bathe before the water grows cold.”

“That’s not what I—”

Unexpectedly, he caressed his thumb across her bottom lip, interrupting her. He gently tilted her face up until she had no choice but to look at him, fearing he could see her nervousness on her countenance. But what she saw on his was raw heat and hunger. He stared longingly at her mouth, as if at any second he might just capture her lips beneath his.

He dropped his hand away and rasped out, his voice like gravel, “Lock the door after me.”

*

Shay stared up at the dark ceiling and did his best to ignore Pearson grinding out snores like banshee howls as he slept in the other narrow bed in their shared room, the last available room at the inn. It was either share with his valet or sleep in the barn, because there was no way under heaven that he would ever spend the night in the same room as his wife.

He blew out a hard breath, covered his face with his arm, and did his best to think about something— anything —to stop himself from replaying over in his mind the delicious torture of undressing Sophie. Dear God, he shook even now just thinking about it.

The delicious loosening of button after button, the warm wool dress, the cool cotton shift…and her smooth skin beneath whose heat seeped through the shift and caressed his fingertips. His gut had tightened to the point of pain when he’d taken her hem and peeled her dress up her body and off, leaving her in only her undergarments. Then, when the corset came off, when he could see the firelight playing through her shift and silhouetting her full curves, the long stretch of her legs… Christ , he’d nearly burst out of his skin.

Should I leave the door unlocked? He knew what she had been asking in her innocence. Sweet Lucifer, he’d wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms, place her onto the bed, and follow down after her. He was her husband and had every right under heaven and the law to lie with her. Even now, she was only a few yards away, and she could be in his arms in a matter of seconds, his hands stroking her until she purred, his mouth teasing the flames of desire inside her until she melted beneath him, his body possessing hers until she found the same pleasure in him he knew he would find in her.

But he couldn’t.

For all that undressing her had been torture, making love to her would have simply ended him.

Stifling a groan, he rolled onto his side, punched the lumpy pillow, and surrendered to the realization that he would get no sleep tonight. Most likely he would never sleep again. Not that insomnia was a bad thing, because he knew that if he fell asleep he would be haunted by images of the fire and the last words he’d said to his brother, the punches that had brought John to the ground. He’d killed his brother that night as surely as if he’d murdered him with his own hands, and all because he had been jealous. More than anything in the world—more than fame, fortune, and the damnable dukedom—Shay had wanted Sophie for himself, and a dark part of him that night wanted John to vanish as their mother had, just so his brother would never have her.

Wise men said that when God wanted to punish someone, he answered their prayers. That night of the fire, the twisted, evil prayer that lay unspoken in the blackest part of his heart had been answered, and he’d been punished for it every moment of every day since.

Tonight, the punishment had been unbearable.

Having to share his life with her was his penance, the worst punishment Satan could have crafted for him straight from the fires of hell, dangling her in front of him in tantalizing temptation. An angel whose love he could never possess.

A woman whose absolution he would never be able to earn.