His Duchess (His and Hers 1)

Alas, when Taviston asked her to take an after-dinner stroll with him and Arthur, she found herself unable to refuse. They walked around Mayfair in companionable conversation, discussing the onward progression of spring, Arthur’s habit of chasing leaves, the horrifying assassination of the prime minister and the political maneuvering to find a successor, and much more.

Then at breakfast the next morning she’d been weak-willed, unable to tell her in-good-spirits husband she didn’t have time for a ride in the park. She’d half-heartedly tried to beg off but then Taviston challenged her to a race. Her competitive nature had won out. They had raced—at a dignified trot of course—down Rotten Row. She’d been so impressed with herself for staying atop the horse, she hadn’t even cared that Taviston bested her. He’d had nothing but good things to say about her horsemanship.

The fresh air and the laughter they’d shared had been good for her. Until she remembered how angry she was with him. It was getting harder and harder to sustain her ill-will towards him. Once they returned home, she threw herself into more planning and organizing. When evening came, she escaped for a night out at the opera with Jane.

Now she was returned to Taviston House and determined to avoid her omnipresent duke. She made it to her room and breathed a sigh of relief as Molly helped her dress for bed. When she walked out of the dressing room, a flash of pink on the green coverlet snagged her attention. Warily she crossed to the bed. A perfect pink rose lay there, accompanied by a note.

My dearest Victoria,

Please accept this rose with my heartfelt apologies. I am so sorry for my regrettable and hurtful words the day after our wedding. While they may have expressed my initial feelings, I have not spent a minute of our marriage thinking you will make anything but a wonderful and gracious duchess. Furthermore, I am confident your dinner party will be a night to remember. I look forward to it with enthusiasm.

Your contrite husband,

Taviston

By the time she finished reading the note, unwanted teardrops dotted the soft cotton paper. He sounded so sincere. Could she risk entrusting her heart to him? Could she survive an outright rejection from the one she loved? Dare she open herself and endeavor to find out his true feelings?

Not tonight. She hadn’t the wherewithal after a long day. She sighed and reread the note, then crossed to the small writing desk in the corner. Opening the drawer, she made to shove it out of sight, but her sketch of Taviston caught her eye. She pulled out her sketchbook, intent on hiding the illicit drawing away but her artist’s eye gave it a critical review. For barely glimpsing the man au natural, she hadn’t done a terrible job of rendering his body. Having since explored him in the flesh, however, she could certainly make improvements and refinements.

Oh, to have him pose for her. Would she have him stretch out on that enormous bed of his? Or would she have him recreate that masculine, feet-spread-wide stance? Would he be aroused by her artistic scrutiny? Her body flushed at the thought. Knowing him carnally as she now did, could she even attempt to draw him without succumbing to her own desire? Not likely, considering her breathing was erratic from just imagining him naked in front her. She trailed a finger across his chest, remembering how hard those muscles were. Her core tightened as her gaze slid to his shaft.

A sharp knock on the connecting door startled Victoria into a flurry of action. She jumped up, knocking over the chair while trying to shove the sketch into the book and then force the whole thing back into the desk drawer. She righted the chair and then flew to the bed, scrambling under the covers before blurting out, “Yes?”

Taviston poked his head in while Arthur sauntered through the opening. “I wanted to wish you a good night. I hope you enjoyed your evening with Jane.”

She mustered a convincing smile even as her heart beat wildly. “Yes, thank you, I did.”

“Well then,” he said, “I hope you sleep well.”

“Good night,” she replied with relief, but his attention had been stolen by a scratching noise.

Victoria looked on in paralyzing panic as Taviston came around the door and lowered himself to his haunches beside the desk chair. Beside Arthur, that wretch, who half-stood on a piece of paper, pawing it desperately as if it were dirt.

“What have you got there, Your Majesty?” Taviston lifted the heavy vellum and Victoria watched in horrified fascination as his eyebrows climbed ever higher.

Slowly, she slid further beneath the covers. Whether it was the naked sketch of him or one of the other more innocuous drawings, this wasn’t going to end well for her. Just as she was about to pull the coverlet over her face, he raised his head. His grey eyes were molten.

“Did you— Did you draw this? Me?”

She nodded, seeing no way around the truth. But just because he knew the truth about that one sketch, didn’t mean he needed to know about the others. Or about Mr. Ripley and Hither and Yon. She needed to distract him from asking further questions.

Tossing back the coverlet, she advanced on her husband.

TAVISTON WATCHED EVERY step his wife took as she crossed to him. The sketch of him—naked beneath his dressing gown just as he was now—was of no interest to him when she looked at him li

ke that. She stopped a mere foot from him and let her eyes travel the length of him. Hot blood rushed to one particular part of his body, which she must have noticed given the flush of red dotting her cheeks.

Her nightgown was the usual white cotton affair that draped her breasts and flowed outward from there, concealing the rest of her body. That fact did nothing to dampen his desire. He loved her. He wanted her.

He should walk away from her. He knew he should. With the desperation of men everywhere, he made a bargain with himself. He wouldn’t touch her unless she made the first move. If she didn’t, he would retreat into his own room and stay there.

Lifting his heavy lids, he met her blue gaze, where the fires of desire burned brightly. Hell and damnation. She took a step closer and easily slipped the paper out of his hand, tossing it toward the desk.

“I think I need to make a further study of the subject,” she said in low voice, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Her hands swept inside his dressing robe, seared a trail around his waist, and when they reached his back, pulled him closer. Her lips parted, inviting him to taste her.

Still, he resisted, though the effort made his entire body ache. She had to want this. Had to want him.

“Charles.” She rose up on her tiptoes, bringing those luscious lips ever nearer. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”