Page 59 of The Wayward Duke
Afterwards, they collapsed together in a tangle of limp, sweat-slick limbs. Julian gathered Caroline against him, her back against his chest.
She lay awake long after his breaths deepened into sleep. Focused on the steady thrum of his heart, willing the minutes to slow.
23
The early morning light did little to penetrate the heavy mist that clung to the London streets. Julian stared out of his study window, hands clasped behind his back. Restlessness clawed beneath his skin, fraying what remained of his control.
I’ve never been with anyone else – just you.
God, but Caroline’s whispered confession the night before had wrecked him. How long had he stared at her paintings from afar and imagined her finding pleasure in another man’s arms? Thought that if he saw her again, he would find their marks etched into her flesh?
But she had stayed his, waiting among the ruins they had made. After everything they’d endured. Everything he’d done.
Emotions strained against the ruthless composure he wore like armour. He’d come too close to losing her again, and there were still threats lurking. He wouldn’t – couldn’t – risk Caroline’s safety. Not when they’d only just begun piecing their broken marriage back together.
A quiet rap on the door jolted Julian to the present. His butler glided into the study. “Mr Wentworth is here to see you, Your Grace. Shall I show him in?”
Julian gave a curt nod, reining in his unruly thoughts and donning the remote mask of the Duke of Hastings once more.
A moment later, Wentworth strode in with a leather satchel beneath one arm, his features etched deep with hollows that had not been there the day before. Dark circles ringed his eyes – proof of little sleep.
“Apologies for the early intrusion,” Wentworth said in greeting. He looked like a man on the ragged edge of exhaustion and temper. “You’re looking better than you were at Charing Cross.”
“I should hope so.” An understatement, considering Julian had nearly had his brains splattered across the train platform.
Wentworth held up a slip of paper between his fingers. “This arrived an hour ago by private courier. Addressed to you, not even coded. A personal bloody love note addressed to you from our bomber.” He slapped it down on Julian’s desk. “The bastard was watching us at Charing Cross, and now he knows the Duke of Hastings decoded his deranged letters. Apparently, you’ve impressed him.”
Julian tensed. If Edgar Kellerman was sending these vile missives, the man now knew he and Caroline had attended that sham investment party under false pretences.
“Anything else?” he asked. “Beyond gloating at evading capture, I mean?”
“Says he looks forward to your next meeting.” Wentworth’s jaw hardened. “The implications being he has plans involving you.”
“Wonderful,” Julian said dryly. “I’d ask if you want tea, but I suspect a brandy might be in order.”
“Double. I’ve been awake for thirty-six hours questioning our man from the tracks.”
Julian poured him two fingers of brandy, and Wentworth took a bracing gulp. Clearly, they were both barely clinging to civility today.
He glanced at the abraded and bloody knuckles Wentworth hadn’t even attempted to hide. “I see interrogation went about as well as expected. Did he tell you anything?”
They were interrupted by a creak outside the study. Familiar footsteps padded closer before Caroline appeared in the doorway. His duchess wore a pretty muslin day dress, her blonde hair falling around her shoulders in messy waves that spoke of recent activities best kept private. She practically radiated sensual contentment, the subtle glow on her skin making it impossible to look away. He knew that beneath the neck of that dress, he’d left marks all over her body.
Get it together, man. Wentworth’s still in the bloody room.
“I hope I’m not intruding.” Caroline’s voice emerged rough around the edges, smoke and silk that stroked over his skin. “The maid said we had an unexpected guest.”
Wentworth stood from his chair, inclining his head in polite greeting. “Good morning, duchess.” He took her hand and kissed the air over her knuckles. “Forgive the early intrusion.”
“How kind of you to say,” she said. “But I rather suspect you didn’t come calling at this hour for pleasantries.”
Amusement flickered over Wentworth’s features. “I’m afraid not.” He made no move to speak.
Julian sat back in his chair. “I feel obliged to remind you that without my wife’s invaluable assistance, you would have more dead aristocrats on your hands and no one in custody. So if you’ve come to talk business, say it in front of her.”
Wentworth returned to the wing chair, every line of his body betraying bone-deep exhaustion beneath the veneer of crisp efficiency. “Duly noted. My apologies, duchess. It’s not personal. I’m afraid we’ve had another development related to the train station incident that requires discreet handling.”
“I see.” Caroline crossed the room and perched on the arm of Julian’s chair. He had to lock every muscle to keep from tugging her onto his lap. “Must be imperative if you’re here before breakfast.”
