Page 13 of The Wayward Duke
A long breath left his lungs. “When I pleasured you,” he corrected quietly.
Her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip in a nervous gesture he instantly recognised. “It might be double- or triple-encoded,” she said.
“Or encoded backwards. With null cyphers embedded.” He met her eyes. “Would you like to work on it with me?”
A beautiful smile played on her lips. “If you think I’d be of help. I’m afraid most of my prior expertise in cyphers remains your filthy notes.”
Bright and painful memories flashed of all the notes he’d written her during their marriage. Daily letters of increasingly complex codes detailing every lurid fantasy in the most vulgar terms – papers he’d known she would solve in the middle of ballrooms, at dinner with guests. And then she would pull him to secret alcoves where he would shove up her skirts and fuck her against a wall.
He leaned back. “Well, I did show off by composing those notes with advanced cryptography. I had to impress you somehow.”
Her teeth flashed in a grin. “Then I’ll help. But I require at least a few hours first. I may present a pretty picture, but I’m about three cups deep in champagne on top of the whiskey.” She hesitated, then seemed to firm her resolve. “Will you come to bed?”
In answer, Julian extended his hand. Caroline twined their fingers together and didn’t let go, even as they crossed the threshold from formality into intimacy.
Once within their rooms, she presented the row of buttons down the back of her dress. “Well?” Caroline said, glancing at Julian over one shoulder. “Going to stand there or offer your assistance?”
Reverently, Julian stepped close and rested one palm between her shoulder blades as he began working the tiny buttons free, parting silk inch by devastating inch.
His breathing turned ragged, and arousal pounded a merciless beat in his blood. Still, he devoted himself to his delicate task, following each pearl button down… down… until he reached the dip of her waist and the top of her bustle. The material slithered down over her body to pool at their feet. Easing apart the laces of her corset revealed her thin chemise, and as he slid that last gossamer barrier off her shoulders, he traced the ridges of her spine with his thumb.
He wanted to press her down into the bed. To fill her with every dark, wordless thing inside him.
But he refused to be careless. Refused to be anything less than gentle. Caroline deserved better from the man who had failed her so catastrophically years before.
When she finally turned to face him, Julian’s breath arrested in his lungs. She stood luminous in the soft firelight, all sculpted curves and smooth skin. Utterly, heart-stoppingly beautiful.
“Nowthat’sogling, Hastings,” she murmured.
He gave a huff that was almost a laugh. “I do appreciate beauty where I find it.”
She said nothing as she pulled a white nightdress on. He watched the play of firelight over her body’s silhouette as she crossed the room and slid beneath the sheets.
Julian stripped out of his shirt and trousers and joined her, all too aware of her soft warmth. The floral scent of her skin teased his senses. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, praying for strength or, failing that, cold indifference. No man, saint or sinner, could resist this temptation lying so close.
“Julian?” she whispered into the darkness.
“Hmm?”
“Will you attend Lady Fairfax’s garden party with me in two days?”
He exhaled at the tentativeness there, as if she feared he’d refuse. “It would be my pleasure.”
Then he felt her hand squeeze his. “Thank you. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Linnie,” he managed past the ache in his throat.
When Julian finally slept, he dreamed of her.
6
London, 1865
Nine years ago
Caroline fidgeted with her skirts. It was a finer gown than any she had worn before, pink sarcenet with tiny seed pearls sewn into the bodice, winking in the glow of the chandeliers. A stunning confection fit for any well-bred lady entering society.
But this was all a mistake; Caroline didn’t belong here.
