Page 31 of My Deceitful Duchess
His brain, ever rational, told him that he didn’t know her well enough to love her. That she’d lied to him in more ways than he could possibly know. That she wouldcontinueto lie, perhaps forever, concealing from him all of those things that he wished to know of her.
But he didn’t think his heart cared if she did. He had the distinct suspicion that it wasalreadyengaged.
∞∞∞
“Jenny.”
Twitching away from the abrasive rub of bristle against her cheek, Jenny turned to snuggle deeper into the softness of the sheets and blankets piled over her. The room was cool, as she preferred it—but the blankets were startlingly warm, and she wanted only to tuck her head beneath them and fall back into sleep to the soothing cascade of rain falling across the windows.
“You’re going to be late.”
Of course she wouldn’t. Alice would come scratching at the door if she were needed—
Which would do her no good whatsoever at Sebastian’s house. Her eyes flew open.
“Ah, there it is.” A low chuckle, followed by the gentle sift of fingers through the tangle of her hair. “I wondered how long you would sleep.”
“What time is it?” Her voice was sleep-slurred, and somehow she’d managed to wedge herself up against him, cocooned within the trappings of the soft blankets and the circle of his arms.
“Near to seven, I think.”
“So late? And you just let me sleep?”Allday? Inhishouse? Inhisbed?
“I could think of no pressing reason to wake you.”
The bristle she’d felt was the new growth of beard that had shadowed his cheeks in the hours since his last shave. Her cheek still tingled from the brief rub of it. “No pressing reason? My home is justthere. I could just as easily have slept in my own bed.”
“I wanted you in mine.” There was no shame in it, no reticence. Even her husband had not shared a bed with her longer than it had taken to copulate. No one had ever wanted her close for something likesleeping.
“And did you sleep?”
“For a brief time.” His fingers peeled the covers away from her bare back, settled his palm between her shoulder blades. “Mostly, I worked. But I enjoyed having you here while I did.” A slow sweep of his hand down her spine, coming to rest at the small of her back. “You had a nightmare.”
Even with the covers piled up around her, an icy sweat broke out upon the nape of her neck. “Did I? I don’t remember it. I apologize if I disturbed you.”
“Mm, I wouldn’t say you disturbed me.” There was a silver of amusement threaded through his voice.
“Did I—did I say anything?” Her toes curled with dread.
“You were frightened. You said something about a fire.”
Her breath snarled in her lungs.
“In perfect French.”
Of course he would speak French.Her eyes closed once more. “I—I—”
“I already knew you were French,” he reminded her, and his dark eyes searched her face as if he could ferret out every falsehood lurking there.
“I have to go.” It was an effort to shove off the covers, which had tangled around her. “I’m going to be late, as you said.” Her bare feet touched the floor—at some point he’d removed her stockings. There; he’d collected her clothing, folded it neatly on the chair. She rooted through the fabric, searching for her chemise.
He set a handful of pins, which he had no doubt plucked from the floor earlier, upon the desk next to her. “Let me help you,” he said, seizing the chemise straight from her hands when, in her hurry, she’d attempted to put it on backwards. “Someone’s got to lace you up again. And I suppose I ought to learn how to do it.” He twitched the fabric into place, and she fidgeted anxiously.
For all his nonchalance, she sensed a queer current ofsomethingin the air between them. As if his curiosity had butted up against her secrets, poking and prodding. “I’m not going to speak of my past,” she said in a mumble as he pulled the laces of her stays tight.
“Oh?” His large hand patted her bottom through the fabric of her petticoats; a patronizing gesture of familiarity. “I think you will, eventually.” He helped her step into her dress, pulling it up to do up the buttons that ran down her back.
She caught at her hair, pulling it into a hasty twist, jamming in pins at random. “I won’t. I won’t, and—and you shall simply have to accept that.”
