Page 76 of My Deceitful Duchess
“I would be satisfied with the smallest bit of you that you could see fit to give me.” His fingertips touched her shoulder; a gentle caress.
“I don’t think I could.” The small, broken note that quavered in the words tugged at his heart. “It seems a cold sort of marriage.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” But it wasn’t his decision. It was hers.
There was a twitch beneath his fingers; her shoulder rolled—for a moment, he assumed it was to throw off his touch. Instead her knee nudged his, and he realized it had only been to turn toward him.Shebreached the space between them, sliding across the smooth surface of the sheets to tuck herself into his arms. There was a kind of courage in it, a trust he had not earned from her.
But she settled there, in that space that belonged only to her, as easily as if she had never left it. As ifhehad never forced her from it. And his arms remembered how to hold her, and she sighed as his palm smoothed down the delicate line of her spine. Her breath feathered along his jaw; her arms curled between them.
“I missed this,” she admitted, and her legs slid smoothly against his, her knee wedging itself between his own. “Will you really give me anything?”
“Yes. Anything within my power to give you.”
“Then I want this,” she said, her cheek finding a place upon his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. “I want you to show me what it would be like to be your wife. So that I can decide how much of one I am willing to be.”
“Yes,” he said, into the tumble of her hair, which caught in the stubble shadowing his jaw. “Yes; I want that as well.”
“We should start with fourteen percent, I think. That’s fair. I agreed to that much already.” Her hand uncurled, laid next to her cheek upon his chest. “Fourteen percent. And whatever else you earn is yours. And—” But she hesitated, falling abruptly silent.
“No,” he said. “Tell me.”
“I want you to take me to see Julian Amberley.” Her fingertips tapped out an unsteady rhythm of agitation. “I want to see him, but I don’t want to do it alone.”
“I will arrange it. Beckett happens to owe me a favor or two.” He could feel the slight swell of her stomach pressed against his. Perhaps only his imagination this early. Or perhaps he was simply more observant than most. “How long have I got?”
“Until he’s transported, I suppose—”
“Notthat—that I could arrange tomorrow, if you like. How long to earn you?” Because she wasn’t a prize to be won, but a privilege to be earned. His only so long as he was deserving.
“There’s no time limit.” He felt her shoulders move in a little shrug, which he interpreted to mean that either hewouldor he wouldnot—and that whether he did was entirely up to him. It was too generous by half, and far more than he had any right to expect of her.
Still, he drew the counterpane tighter around her shoulders and said, “I will do it by our wedding.”
“That’s two weeks,” she said. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Nevertheless, I will do it.” There was a goal to strive for at last; a destination within reach. “I want you to come to me with no misgivings and no doubts.”
Her feet twitched; a nervous little gesture. “That’s a bit much to ask.”
“I’m not asking anything of you.” He smoothed her hair. “Jenny, our marriage is not going to be anything like your first. And for the rest of our lives, I will show you that.”
“You said two weeks.”
“You’ve misunderstood,” he said. “I will never stop showing you. It’s just two weeks for you to believe it.”
Chapter Thirty Five
The morning sun cut across Jenny’s face, burning away the last vestiges of sleep to which she had clung so fiercely. She had slept so restlessly of late, tossing and turning until her bedclothes were twisted round her—but last night’s sleep had wrapped round her like a cloak and settled so easily over her, drowning her in its silky embrace. It was a struggle to cede it, when all she wanted to do was sink back into it once more.
There was the brush of whiskers near her ear, and despite herself she smiled, turning toward that unkempt—
A wet lick assailed her cheek, leaving a trail of saliva from her chin to her cheekbone. “Charlie,” she grumbled. Perhapsthiswas the larger part of whyMamanhad never permitted her a dog. She cracked her eyes open, just into a glare. “You havedreadfulmanners.”
“So I persist in telling him. Alas, he does not often listen.” There was the depression of the bed beside her, and an arm slid over her, pulling up the covers which she had let slip. “Down,Charlie, you miserable cur—” There was the bright, cheerful interjection of a yip and then another distinctive, moist sound. “Ugh. Yes, I’m fond of you, too. But you’re in my spot.” And then Sebastian settled beside her as Charlie pranced around the foot of the bed to plop near her feet.
He had taken the time to shave, she realized, as his cheek brushed hers. But it was only a soft linen shirt that rubbed her shoulder, so she supposed he must have only dressed in what he had deemed necessary.
“I think he knows,” he said, and his fingers slipped through the tangle of her hair, gently brushing it out.
