Page 51 of His Unwanted Duchess

She was snoring ever so slightly.

When the initial rush of his anger had worn off, Stephen began to notice that Beatrice was not exactly dressed for bed. Or for anything, as a matter of fact.

Instead of a nice, floor-length nightgown, she was wearing a plain, faintly transparent chemise. It barely reached her knees and had gotten twisted up around her thighs, showing an expanse of smooth, plump legs. The graceful curve of her hip was barely covered by the fabric, which stretched over her breasts, which were naturally loose under the garment.

With a flush of desire so intense it nearly made him stagger backward, Stephen found himself imagining running the pad of one finger over her nipples, which were visible under the fabric.

Right. Well. Enough of that, I think.

He cleared his throat loudly.

Beatrice’s eyelids fluttered, and she stirred a little.

“Is it time for the opera already?” she mumbled, rolling onto her back.

Her eyes fluttered open, and there was a soft, sleepy expression in them that was somehow tremendously endearing.

Then she saw who was looming over her, and all soft sleepiness vanished from her gaze.

With a strangled yelp, Beatrice flew out of bed with remarkable agility. She stood on the other side of the room, the bed between them, and glared furiously at him.

“What are you doinghere, Stephen?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” he snapped. “This is my room.”

She colored. “I like this room. Does it matter where I stay?”

“You had quite literally dozens of excellent bedrooms to choose from, and yet?—”

“This room’s location isvery convenient.”

“Oh, is it? Is it?”

“Yes! Why are you home, Stephen? I had no idea you were coming back. Last I heard, you were in France.”

“I wasn’t aware we were meant to share details of our lives with each other,” Stephen retorted. “In fact, I am fairly sure I advised against it.”

Beatrice gave a huff of annoyance. “Well, whatareyou doing here? I thought you were off cavorting with opera singers and the like.”

Stephen pressed his lips together. “I have kept myself entertained, yes. Would you care to explain why my house is a wreck and the servants all but dismissed?”

She scowled. “I think you meanour house. The servants are not dismissed, I only gave them some time off in recognition of their hard work last night. It was a rather energetic party, you see.”

“I did see. There is a portrait of me with whiskers and spectacles drawn on it.”

Beatrice couldn’t quite fight back a smile. “It looks funny, you must admit.”

“I must admit nothing of the sort.”

“Well, it wasn’t a very good likeness, anyway.”

There was a moment of silence, with the two of them glaring at each other across the tangled expanse of the bed. Try as he might, Stephen found his gaze drawn downwards constantly, to where Beatrice’s full breasts heaved with each breath.

Perhaps she noticed it too. The color rushed to her face, and she abruptly snatched up a creased sheet, holding it under her chin.

“What would you like me to say, Stephen? I thought we agreed to lead separate lives, to entertain ourselves and do as we please. That is exactly what I have done. It was my birthday, after all.”

She stomped away from the bed, heading to a low dresser. It was a new piece of furniture, Stephen noticed. There were several new pieces in the room—hisroom—and things had been rearranged.

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