Page 23 of The Sinful Duke’s Bride (The Duchess Dilemma #3)

CHAPTER 23

“ M enzies is waiting for me in the breakfast room,” Lionel said.

Cecilia blinked blearily at the bright sunlight flooding the room the following morning. Lionel was dressing, covering his wonderful body with those dratted clothes that society demanded they cover themselves in. Cecilia stretched languidly beneath the bedclothes, tensing her arms and legs from fingertips to toes. There was a delicious feeling of soreness to her body, the kind that only comes from strenuous activity.

She took pride in the scratches on Lionel’s back that were soon hidden by the shirt he pulled on over his head. They were the symbols of her ownership of him. But they were also the marks made in their nocturnal battles of passion, marks of her struggle for dominance and eventual submission to his strength. A glorious submission, but one that she made him earn.

He had sought her out the previous day, but not in a few hours like he’d promised. Rather, it was late into the night when he had returned to their bedchamber and stirred her from her slumber. She was very ready to be angry with him for making her wait so long, but those feelings were very quickly assuaged when she found he had prepared her a small midnight feast as an apology—an apology that had led to something so much more.

Cecilia propped herself on her elbow as Lionel turned. The bedclothes fell away from her breasts and she did not attempt to replace them. His eyes went from hers to her breasts, lingering there. His hands slowed in the act of tying the string of his shirt. Cecilia languidly pushed the bedclothes lower, to the swell of her hip. One arm lay over her leg which she pushed forward to shadow the naked heart of her womanhood.

She smiled at his distraction.

“Are you sure that he cannot wait just a little while longer?” she asked, innocently.

Lionel’s hands fell to his sides and he walked to the bed, leaning over it. Cecilia lay back, letting her arms fall back to the pillow, helpless and submissive. He kissed her, long and deep. She writhed at the pleasure of his touch. Then he was standing again.

“Menzies is an old and loyal friend, and I would not be so rude to him,” Lionel said, stepping away from the bed.

“Tease!” Cecilia cried, playfully.

She grabbed for a pillow and hurled it at him. Lionel laughed as he danced aside and the pillow plopped to the floor.

“I will meet you for luncheon and you can brief me on the plans for our social calendar over the next few weeks.”

He skipped away from the room before she could reach for another pillow. Cecilia found herself smiling at the exchange. Partly. It was mostly at the memory of the night before. One of wanton, carnal play that had taken pleasure to new heights. But it was only partly, for she felt a deep loneliness settling in over these past few days. Lionel breaking a promise on a previously agreed engagement with her was not a mere oversight at this point—it had almost become a rule over the past weeks.

Though he did seem to put in an effort to make it up to her at times, she could not escape the feeling that he was slowly drifting away out of reach.

And there was little she could do.

Plates of soup grew cold before Cecilia. A platter of delicately made sandwiches completed a simple but well-made luncheon. A plate of soup had been put before her and another put out for Lionel. But Lionel was now fifteen minutes late. Finally, Cecilia folded her napkin and rose from her place. She decided to remind her husband of the time and the need to eat. Picking up two plates of soup and two soup spoons, she marched out of the dining room.

Nearing the study she could not hear voices but instead the quiet sounds of earnest study. The pages of a book or ledger being turned and the regular scratchings of a pen nib. The door was closed but she managed to open it by nudging the handle with her elbow and then kicking the door with her heel. Inside, Lionel looked up from a spread of papers on the floor. He himself was sitting, half reclining before the fire, poring over the papers.

“Cecilia! Whatever are you doing carrying plates about? Oh, is it…Damnation!”

Lionel’s eyes had gone from Cecilia to the clock on the mantle and he realized exactly what time it was. He rose, knocking over a jar of ink and cursing. He began attempting to blot the ink with handfuls of nearby paper. Cecilia looked around, found an empty space on a side table and put down her burden. Then she took up the folded napkins which she had clamped under her arms. She joined Lionel on hands and knees on the floor, replacing the sodden paper with the thick linen, drawing up the viscous black liquid.

“I assume those papers are important. Whatever was on them is lost to the ages now,” she said.

“No, I had already checked them. They were ledgers belonging to my father. Nothing enlightening,” Lionel said.

“Did you forget our luncheon appointment?” Cecilia asked, trying to keep her voice sweet.

The last thing she wanted was to be shrill or berating though she was mildly annoyed that he had forgotten his promise. And in favor of what? Paperwork? Business? She supposed that the running of his estates accrued a fair amount of administration. Unless this was all about something more than the management of Thornhill.

“I lost track of time utterly,” Lionel said, “Menzies revealed a rather promising lead in his investigation which requires me to go through my father’s papers with a fine tooth-comb. That is what I have been doing but it was not my intention to miss our luncheon date,”

“So this relates to your revenge,” Cecilia said,

She felt a tinge of despair at the knowledge. A touch of sadness. Would she always be secondary to Lionel’s revenge? Would any future child be secondary to it? Would Lionel’s own health become secondary to his thirst for vengeance?

“Of course, that is the sole reason for employing Menzies,” Lionel said, “he told me that…”

Cecilia held up a hand which had smears of warm soup on it.

“Please, Lionel, I would rather not know of the details,”

It hurt to say it, feeling as though she were erecting a barrier between them which was the opposite of her most heart-felt desires. But at the same time instinct told her that for her own self preservation, she must maintain a distance from it.

“You are not interested in the motivations of the man who murdered your brother?” Lionel asked, tinges of irritation in his voice.

“Of course I am but I have accepted over the years that Arthur died as a result of a terrible accident. I have come to terms with that as much as I am able to. Now, you tell me that he was murdered and if you tell me much more of the circumstances I will not be able to rest. Not ever. Not until his killer is swinging from a rope before me. And even then, I doubt I will feel any satisfaction. Do you not see that revenge is a hunger that can never, ever be sated? I am trying to preserve my own sanity,”

Lionel nodded somberly. A sudden warmth filled the room, as if the fire had flared up unexpectedly. “You are right. I have been neglecting you for all this nonsense.” With a scrunched-up fist, he bunched up the papers on the floor next to him and tossed them into the hearth, clearing the ground. Then, quite unexpectedly, he took her hand in his and licked the smear of soup. “Yum, quite delicious. I must commend the cook for her efforts,” he added, deadpan.

Cecilia burst into laughter at the absurdity of the situation and Lionel grinned boyishly back. Was it that easy all along?

She saw a spatter of ink caught in a lock of his hair and carefully wiped it clean with a napkin. Unfortunately, she had not realized quite how wet the napkin already was. A blue-black streak was left behind that had the lock dangling heavily in front of Lionel’s face. He raised an eyebrow, eyes crossing as he tried to focus on it.

“I see…” he muttered in challenge, pursing his lips.

He dipped a finger into the one remaining pool of ink on the floor. Cecilia laughed, struggling to her feet. Everything felt so easy, so light all of a sudden, as if the weight of her troubles had evaporated into thin air.

“Do not dare!” she warned as he advanced with his inky finger.

Lionel chased her across the room as Cecilia laughed and giggled. They dodged around furniture until she collapsed into a chair. Lionel dotted her on the nose with his finger, leaving an inky black mark on its tip.

“Revenge,” he said, firmly.

Cecilia responded by grabbing for the front of his shirt, hauling him down to her, and kissing him thoroughly. After a moment, she carefully rubbed her nose along his, up and down, painting his patrician, Roman nose with the ink he had left.

“Revenge,” she murmured, just as firmly.

“I choose you over everything,” he whispered, his voice unusually tender, resonating deeply within her. His words seemed to reverberate in her chest, a promise that felt as eternal as the dream-like glow surrounding them. “From now on, it’s just you and me.”

As he took her in his arms, the room around them seemed to fade into a hazy golden mist.

A feeling surged in Cecilia just then. That perhaps, everything would be alright after all.

Cecilia woke to a sound in the still, blackness of the bedchamber she shared with Lionel. A full moon cast a silvery glow through the window. For a moment she blinked at it, trying to remember the dream that she had been having. Then Lionel appeared, stripped to his undergarment, running a weary hand through his hair. His body and his movements shouted of utter exhaustion.

“I’m sorry I missed dinner,” he whispered, pulling back the bedclothes and lowering himself to the bed with a groan.

“Is it done?” she whispered back sleepily.

“Not yet. But we are getting close,” came the reply.

As he lowered the bedclothes around himself, Cecilia put her arm across him, letting her body mold itself to his.

Within minutes, his breathing had deepened into the regular, steady rhythm of sleep. Cecilia lay for a while, thinking of the lonely day that she had spent. Another day in which her husband had promised his time, only to forget as his quest for revenge consumed him. She closed her eyes against the silent flow of tears that spilled down her cheeks.

She prayed that this would be the last day. That this was the worst of it.