Page 101 of She Tempts the Duke
“But he is neither the duke nor my husband.”
“He is what I would have looked like.”
“How vain you are.”
“I’m not vain. I simply see no need to subject future generations to this visage.”
“I shan’t pose with him.”
“Then we shall have separate portraits done.”
“We shall see.”
Those words were a challenge if he ever heard one. But on this matter he would not relent. He sank further into the water and tried not to think of her staring at him, of her gaze traveling over his shadow. He had a strong urge to return to the tower and bang away.
He heard a whisper of movement, and she came around the screen. She held up her efforts: his profile in silhouette. It was all in black. There were no scars revealed. No ridges, no mountains or valleys where his flesh had been torn asunder and healed as best it could. No eye present, no eye missing. It gave the appearance that he was whole.
“This is what I see when I look at you,” she said quietly. “A noble bearing. Your father’s nose, I think. Your mother’s chin. Strong lines. I see handsome features. I know you suffered, but I see resilience. I see the man I married. The man I’m glad to call husband. Tear down the tower. Tear down the whole damned castle.” She knelt beside the tub and cupped his jaw, her fingers against his scars. “Just please stop hiding from me.” She trailed her fingers down to his chest, pressed her palm against the spot where his heart pounded. “Tonight, in the tower, I caught a glimpse of what you’ve secreted away.”
“You saw a madman.”
“I saw a man who loves his brothers dearly, who had to make difficult decisions for all their sakes, a man tormented with guilt. When you look at yourself in the mirror all you see are the scars. When I look at you, I see this.” She shook the paper. “I see a man I could very well come to love.”
God help him, he didn’t deserve her. He’d never deserve her. He thrust his hand into her hair, held her in place, leaned over, and planted a kiss on those lips that could say things that unmanned him. Where did she find her faith in him, when he had so little in himself? She accepted his faults, looked beneath the scars to the man he wanted to be. For her.
For tonight.
With her assistance, he quickly scrubbed away the remaining dirt and grime. He didn’t bother to dry off. Simply stepped out of the bath and lifted her into his arms. With his foot, he knocked over the screen so the warmth from the fire could travel farther into the room. He carried her to his bed and realized that he’d never taken her here. He’d kept her from this room, considered it his place of solace. But she belonged here. She belonged in every room.
Setting her feet on the floor, he whipped her nightdress over her head before tumbling her onto the sheets. They were clean he realized, smelled of fresh air and sunshine. While he’d bathed she must have had a servant change them. A lamp burned on the bedside table. He wanted to douse it. Instead he left its light glowing—for her. He preferred the shadows, but she was meant for sunshine.
He would give her this. No more drawn curtains, no more extinguished flames.
Her hands roamed over him, eliciting pleasure wherever they traveled. Even the cuts and scrapes didn’t bother him when she touched him. Nothing bothered him. Everything receded. The troubles, the guilt, the worries. Here, within his bed, she was all that mattered.
The lamps remained burning, the sashes remained tied. Without her asking for either. She felt as though something had changed, shifted inside him.
With his eagerness, Mary felt a renewed sense of hope that soon the past would be behind them. He was always enthusiastic in their lovemaking, but something was different tonight. She felt almost as though he were worshipping her. He left no place untouched, unkissed, unexplored.
She had so wanted him to understand that to her the scars were nothing. She had told him a hundred times—tonight she’d finally thought of a way to show him. She could not help but admire him.
She had spoken true: he had been forced to make difficult decisions. He’d only been a young lad then. There had been no right answers, yet each carried harsh consequences. He had done what he thought he needed to do. Now, she was doing the same.
Loving him, even knowing that he might never be able to love her. She would give him everything she could, give him a reason to let go of the past.
She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, taking her turn at kissing and touching and tormenting every inch of him. She was gentle when she came across the abrasions left by flying stone. She hated when anything hurt him, wished she had the power to protect him.
Rolling her over, he joined his body to hers with one sure thrust. He rose above her and she watched in wonder as he pumped his powerful body into hers. His face was set in concentration, in intensity. Reaching up, she trailed her fingers over his face.
With barely a loss of momentum, he took her wrists and locked them together in one hand above her head. He nuzzled her neck, nibbling the sensitive skin, causing her to writhe beneath him. She wound her legs around him as tightly as she could, felt him sink more deeply into her. Pleasure spiraled through her. He lifted himself up, and her enjoyment increased as she watched passion flow over his strong features. Silhouettes could capture the strength of his profile but not the beauty of the whole. She wished he could truly see himself as she saw him.
Chapter 29
Sebastian became relentless in his search for some proof that would condemn his uncle. Sitting in his library, Mary watched as he scoured through ledgers, journals, scraps of paper. Anything he could find. Why he would think the man would be silly enough to leave behind evidence was beyond her.
He had hired more men to patrol about. He’d forbidden her from riding, from leaving the residence. Even a walk in the garden was not to be tolerated. She’d become a prisoner here.
During the day he saw to matters of the estate but at night he was absorbed by his quest. When she was in need of a book, she would have to step over piles of papers and leather-bound journals. She wasn’t allowed to touch anything. Some stacks stood for what he’d already sorted through. But the majority were for what remained.
