A Matter of Temptation (11 page)

When a knock sounded on the door, all Torie could think was that the moment she’d been both anticipating and dreading had finally arrived. And again, it seemed too soon. Before she was completely ready.

She kept her gaze focused on her clenched hands while Charity opened the door. She heard Charity murmur something before stepping out
of the room, the door shutting, her husband’s footsteps—so much louder than the servants’—as he approached.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, in the same apologetic tone he’d used in the woods.

She glanced up, surprised to find him fully clothed, not in a silk dressing gown as she’d expected him to be, but in trousers and shirt. Standing there, holding a…

Teacup.

A teacup on a saucer.

Not wine or champagne with which to celebrate this impending union or to help her relax.

But a teacup.

“I brought you some warm cocoa,” he said, and she was certain his cheeks turned red with the pronouncement. “I thought it might help you sleep.”

“Oh.”, Carefully she scooted into a sitting position, trying to keep the blankets covering her. When she stopped squirming, he handed her the cup on the saucer, then tilted his head toward a chair.

“May I?”

She nodded and took a sip of the cocoa. It was heavenly and was quite clever on his part, because she realized it relaxed her more than wine or champagne ever would.

He dragged the chair over, sat in it, and leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped, his eyes downcast.

“I must apologize for earlier,” he said, lifting his gaze from his hands to her face. “For sending you to the other wing. I realize now that my actions may have made you feel…unwanted…and may have had some influence on your foray into the woods.”

“I was distracted, thinking about one thing then another, not really paying much attention where my feet were going,” she said quickly, wanting to reassure him.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Yes, I know, but if I’d ensured that you considered yourself welcome here, you might not have felt the need to travel quite so far.”

She set the saucer on her lap, studying it, trying to determine if she should ask him why he’d not tried to make her feel more welcome, why he was fully clothed, why cocoa and not wine?

“This was my mother’s bedchamber,” he said solemnly. “I wasn’t quite ready for it to belong to someone else—”

“Six months. Robert, I don’t mean to come across as a shrew, but you’ve had six months to prepare.”

“I was very close to my mother, and when the moment came—”

“I’m not trying to take her place.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that I thought you were. I was merely trying to explain my strange reaction upon our arrival.”

“I can move to another room. We passed at
least half a dozen doors on the way to this chamber, and I really don’t mind—”

“No.” He held up his hand to silence her, then pressed his finger against his lips, his brow furrowing as though he were giving great weight to the words he wished to speak next. “When I took you as my wife, you became the Duchess of Killingsworth, and this bedchamber belongs to the duchess, more than it belonged to my mother. What I mean to say is that every duchess slept here. It was my mother’s room because she was the duchess, not because she was my mother. I was remiss in not welcoming you into it. And for that I apologize.”

“I believe you’ve apologized to me more since we exchanged vows than you did in all the time we were together before yesterday.”

He smiled softly. “I’m sure I have. The past two days have been…extraordinary. As a result, I’m unaccountably weary. Too weary to be an especially attentive husband this evening.”

“Oh.” She ran her finger along the rim of the cup. “I see. So I shall sleep alone.”

“Yes, I don’t think the joining of a husband and wife should be rushed.”

She peered over at him. This time she had no doubt. He
was
blushing.

Abruptly he came to his feet. “Good night, Duchess.”

“Robert?”

In his haste to get away from her, he’d already
taken several steps before he slowly turned to face her. “Yes?”

“Do you love me?”

Slowly he closed his eyes and released a sigh. “I care for you. I would never wish you harm.”

“If I’d not had a substantial dowry, would you have married me?”

He opened his eyes, took a step toward the bed, and wrapped his hand around the square post. “I believe I would have married you if you’d come with no dowry at all.”

“What do you like best about me?”

Furrowing his brow, he cocked his head to the side. “You wish for me to choose only one thing?”

She nodded. “I’m hesitant to admit it, but I feel a bit insecure regarding my place in your life. You always seem to be in such a hurry to escape me, even when we’re getting along, and I—”

“Your smile,” he interrupted before she could finish her ranting.

Her smile? She shook her head in astonishment. “But a smile is so inconsequential—”

“I disagree. Yours especially is a pleasure to behold. The tiniest dimple forms in your right cheek. It somehow makes you appear impish and mysterious at the same time. Alluring. And kind. Your smile is like an overturned rainbow; your eyes the pots of gold on either end.”

“I’ve never known you to be quite so poetic.”

“Those prisoners at Pentonville that we discussed yesterday, they never see a smile.”

“Wearing those hoods, I doubt they ever see a frown, either.”

She’d expected him to laugh at her carefree comment, but apparently he saw no humor in it because he remained deadly serious.

“A smile is made of magic, Torie. It lightens the heart. Even a smile in passing can create joy. Imagine if you never had anyone smile at you. I’ve only recently begun to appreciate its power—since having yours bestowed upon me.”

She was overwhelmed by his praise. “I hardly know what to say. I always thought of my smile as quite ordinary.”

“No smile is ordinary, but yours is exceptional. I know that we are discouraged from smiling when we have a portrait made, but I should very much like for you to break with tradition, for you to be the first Duchess of Killingsworth to smile while her portrait is painted. And I should like a miniature of it to carry with me always.”

“It takes such a long time to have a portrait done that I have little doubt my jaws will begin to ache, but I shall endure it for you.”

“That smile right there. That is the one I want to carry with me.”

She hadn’t even realized that she was smiling. “And will you smile for me?”

“I have little practice at it, but I shall see what I can do. Sleep well.”

It was a kinder dismissal than he’d given her earlier, and so she let him go. She snuggled down beneath the covers, sipping her lukewarm cocoa. There were facets to her husband that she’d never known existed. Who would have thought he would have placed so much importance on a smile?

And to still care so much about those unfortunate prisoners.

Who was this man she’d married?

She is the Duchess of Killingsworth. You are the Duke of Killingsworth. She is your wife.

But I am not the man who courted her. Who wooed her. Who asked for her hand in marriage!

I have no right to yearn for her as I do. No right at all!

But she is your duchess. Your duchess!

Through no fault of her own
.

In bare feet, his brother’s ostentatious silk dressing gown wrapped tightly around him, Robert paced over the thick carpet in his bedchamber, back and forth, in a circle, his hands over his ears, but nothing stopped the voices in his head from arguing his case.

As much as he was loath to admit it, he’d carried on numerous conversations with himself while in Pentonville, lending different voices to his thoughts, and while he knew, he
knew,
all the
thoughts were his and he was in control of them, it was during times like this when he felt as though he was truly going insane.

Because he couldn’t stop the voices, couldn’t stop them from bantering back and forth, couldn’t stop them from trying to give him the freedom to do exactly what he wanted to do. Make Torie his wife in every way possible.

Even before Whitney had alerted him to her disappearance, Robert had come to the conclusion that she deserved the honor of sleeping in the family wing. Whether she was to remain was another question entirely, but she had, in all good faith, taken as her husband the Duke of Killingsworth, and that fact allowed her to sleep in the duchess’s bedchamber.

He would have had her things moved in tomorrow, rather than tonight, but he’d seen nothing to gain in delaying once he realized she’d not yet retired for the night.

How could something as simple as an evening stroll go completely awry? How could she become lost? His fear was that she’d thought to turn the walk into an escape. He could hardly blame her. Marriage to him most certainly was not turning out to be anything as she’d envisioned it would be.

He hardly spoke to her, and he didn’t know what to say when he did. Amazing what eight years of talking to oneself could do to a man. While he’d been a witty conversationalist before,
and while he’d occasionally entertained himself at Pentonville to the extent of actually making himself laugh, he now found himself totally inept at carrying on the most inconsequential of conversations.

The weather. They could discuss the weather. As a matter of fact, she might not have gone out at all if he’d simply said, as they neared Hawthorne House, “I smell rain on the air. We’ll have a storm before midnight.”

Because he had smelled it and he’d relished the scent, but he’d kept his observations to himself. So out she’d walked with no thought to the consequences of a storm. He’d gone after her with no thought to the outcome of what that might mean when he’d found her. He’d not even thought to have a horse saddled for her, and that little lack of planning had resulted in heaven and hell combining to torture him as she’d sat nestled between his thighs, her back rubbing against his chest with each step the horse took, her warmth seeping into him until her scent had permeated his clothes.

It was a miracle that they’d found her, a miracle which had allowed him to wrap his arms around her when he’d first found her, draw her near, so near that he’d been acutely aware of her nipples, hardened by the chill of the night, pressing against his chest as her breasts flattened against him. He had been as wet, as cold, and yet he would have been content to stand there
through the night, until dawn peeked over the horizon, simply holding her pressed up against him, with her sweet scent still filling his nostrils. Not even the rain had the power to wash it away.

He supposed that when he revealed the truth and had the marriage undone, he would be able go into the bedchamber beside his and still smell her presence there.

Because she was lying there now, separated from him by merely a door. A heavy, ornate door, to be sure, everything in this house was heavy and ornate. All he would have to do was open it and reveal that he’d lied to her about a good many things.

Too weary to be attentive?

Good God. He’d been more than attentive. He’d had to clasp his hands until they ached to stop himself from reaching out for her, from running his hands through her unbound hair, from tracing his finger over her plump lower lip where a drop of cocoa had lingered until she’d lapped it up with her tongue.

That small action had very nearly been his undoing. His body had hardened so quickly that he’d gotten dizzy.

Too weary?

He thought he could be on his deathbed and still find the energy and stamina to make love to her.

He’d been enamored watching her struggle to keep her modesty, fighting to keep the covers in place as she’d sat up. But they’d slipped down
slightly when she’d reached for the cocoa, revealing the curve of one perfect breast molded against the cotton of her nightgown. He didn’t have to see it to know he’d find it perfect. He didn’t have to cup it in his palm or stroke it to know its perfection.

He had but to see the shape that it gave to her nightgown to know that he would find everything about her pleasing.

He dropped down on the settee before the fire place, the fire burning on the hearth almost cool when compared with the heat radiating through his body with thoughts of his wife. What he needed was another cold bath, the last thing he’d ever expected to force himself to endure. A bath in frigid water that had set his teeth to chattering.

But he’d needed something to tamp down his ardor because he couldn’t seek release in a manner that his body would find satisfactory.

He couldn’t bed his wife because he wasn’t the man to whom she’d granted the honor. He couldn’t bed another woman because he possessed a wife. And while he had no plans to make her his wife in truth, she had exchanged vows believing she was speaking to the man who had asked for her hand in marriage.

So he would remain faithful to the vows until he could have them undone.

He needed to go to bed, follow the advice that he’d given to her and sleep well, so he’d be rested in the morning and could begin going over the
books, the records, searching for anything that might enlighten him as to how he could hold on to that which his brother had once taken.

But when he finally retired more than two hours later, after doing little more than staring at the fire and thinking of the woman in the next room, he didn’t dream about holding on to his dukedom.

He dreamed about holding on to his wife.

T
he next morning, Torie awoke surprisingly well rested. Last night after she’d finished the warm cocoa, she’d lain in bed, listening to creaking floorboards, the result of her husband pacing late into the night. From the moment she’d come to stand beside him at the altar, she’d sensed that he was troubled, not quite himself. The journey yesterday had been pleasant enough that she’d thought they were well on their way to a comfortable marriage, but their arrival had certainly proven that assumption false.

He was troubled. He’d even admitted it. She wished he’d share the burden with her. Why did men always think they had to be strong enough to carry their worries alone?

With a sigh, she threw back the covers and clambered out of bed. She crossed the room, slipped her hands between the draperies, and peered out. The sun was shining, little evidence remained of the storm from the night before—only an occasional puddle. It was going to be a glorious day. Her first as mistress of the manor.

She marched back to the bed, leaned over, and yanked on the bellpull to summon her maid.

She could barely sit still as Charity prepared her to face the day. She wondered where Robert was now. Was he seeing to business, awaiting her in the breakfast room?

They’d not bothered to discuss their plans for the day, so she had no idea what to expect. Still, she was certain that her day would very much reflect her mother’s greeting her husband, going over the items to be dealt with, deciding what should be prepared for dinner.

After she was dressed in a gown of pale green, she took a leisurely stroll through the manor in search of the breakfast room, several times stopping to ask servants for directions. The house was monstrously huge, and she wondered if she’d ever learn her way among the maze of corridors. She’d expected enticing aromas to guide her closer to the breakfast room, and as she entered, she discovered the reason that they hadn’t.

The room was bare of food.

She’d not overslept, nor had she risen unreasonably early. It was the proper time for break
fast to be served. Obviously she had things to put to rights here, and she wanted it done before her husband was ready to be served.

She looked at the footman standing at attention beside the sideboard as though he actually had something of importance to guard.

“Where is the kitchen?” she asked.

“Through that door, Your Grace,” he said with a tilt of his head. “Down the corridor, to the left. You can’t miss it.”

He then proceeded to cross the room and open the appropriate door for her. She strolled through and continued on down the hallway. As she neared the bricked arched portal that clearly led to the kitchen, she understood immediately why breakfast had yet to be served. She could hear full-throated laughter and a deeply resonating one wafting out of the kitchen along with the enticing aromas of pork, beef, and pastries that caused her mouth to begin watering. She’d not realized how hungry she was until that moment.

And if the cook wasn’t too busy flirting with one of the other servants, Torie would have been appeasing her stomach’s pangs already. And what of her husband? Surely he was starving and would expect food to be waiting for him. She had to take the matter in hand, immediately. She was the duchess, and pleasing her husband was of paramount importance. That she had yet to be introduced to the cook was of no consequence. She would make her presence known
and see to it that food was made ready so when Robert—

She arrived at the open doorway and paused, unable to believe what she was seeing, or hearing, for that matter.

Indeed it was the cook laughing, but not with another servant. No, indeed. The man with whom she was having such a jolly good time was none other than the duke himself. They were sitting across from each other at a table where Torie was certain the servants took their meals.

She’d never seen him look so joyous, so at ease, as though he was exactly where he was supposed to be. An odd notion when she’d always thought he
was
right where he belonged, and yet it was the only way she could describe what she was observing. He was at home, completely at home with his surroundings.

His laughter stopped as he shoved something into his mouth, closed his eyes, chewed madly, and dropped his head back. He appeared to be in rapture, and the cook—a short, white-haired woman who obviously believed in sampling the food she prepared—was gazing at him as though he were her favorite child.

Torie was mesmerized, watching the way his throat muscles worked as he swallowed. He wasn’t dressed properly, but wore only trousers, boots, and a loosely fitting white shirt with two buttons undone, leaving the material parted to reveal only the smallest portion of his neck, the top of his chest.

Opening his eyes, he gave the cook a smile of pure pleasure. “Ah, Mrs. Cuddleworthy, no one cooks a raspberry tart like you do.”

“It’s a wonder I still remember how. You’ve not asked for one in years”.

“I want one every morning from now on. At afternoon tea as well. Might as well have them at dinner.” He held up a finger as though he’d suddenly thought of something incredibly important. “And lunch.”

“After saying you never wanted one prepared again. They were always your favorite. I didn’t know why you ordered me not to make them any longer.”

“Clearly I was not myself that day.”

He came partway out of his chair, leaned over, and kissed the elderly woman’s cheek, causing her to giggle like an infatuated schoolgirl and her round cheeks to redden until they resembled apples.

“It’s been years since you’ve been so attentive, Your Grace.”

“An oversight I shall seek to rectify.” His eyes twinkling, he reached for another tart, suddenly stopping, his hand frozen over the plate. He must have become aware of Torie’s presence, because he jerked his head around, his gaze falling on her. He shoved himself to his feet, the chair’s legs clattering over the stone floor.

She felt like an intruder standing in the doorway, watching this friendly exchange between the master of the house and his servant. More, she
was having a difficult time reconciling the fact that the man standing in the kitchen was the same man who had asked for her hand in marriage.

Oh, on occasion she’d heard him laugh, encouraged a smile from him, but neither had been delivered with such absolute joy. She’d never heard him laugh with such carefree abandon, never seen him smile with such pure warmth. Certainly she’d never seen him peck a kiss on a servant’s cheek. Come to think of it, he’d always treated servants as though they didn’t exist.

Was it possible that there was a London lord and a Hawthorne House lord? One man whose personality altered depending on where he lived? Or was it simply marriage that had changed him? He’d been acting differently since the ceremony. No, not since it. During it, as well. Gazing at her as though he didn’t know her, apologizing…

She became acutely aware of tension beginning to radiate through the room, chasing away the relaxed atmosphere that had been there only moments before. He tilted his head slightly. “Good morning, Duchess.”

“Good morning. I apologize for intruding, but there’s no food in the breakfast room—”

“My apologies to you, Your Grace,” the cook interrupted. “The duke wanted to eat his breakfast in the kitchen here like he did when he was just a lad. I’d assumed you’d want a tray brought up. I’ll get busy right away on seeing that food is laid out on the sideboard.”

“No, no, that’s not necessary. A plate will do me fine.”

“I’ll see right to it then.”

Her gaze still locked on Killingsworth, Torie paid little attention as the cook began bustling around the kitchen, placing various tidbits of food on a large platter. Robert seemed most uncomfortable with his wife’s presence.

“You seem more at ease here than in London,” she finally ventured, even though his comfort with her had yet to surface.

“I’ve always considered Hawthorne House to be my home. London is simply a place I visit, because I must on occasion do so.”

“Here you are, Your Grace,” the cook said. “Let me carry this to the breakfast room for you—”

“No need,” Torie interrupted. “I can eat in here.”

“Of course, Your Greece,” the cook said.

Torie gave her attention to the woman. “Mrs. Cuddleworthy, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am” The cook curtsied.

Torie decided the name fit. She could imagine a child sitting on the woman’s lap, his head pressed to her pillowy bosom, while he munched on raspberry tarts, his mouth and hands stained, as well as her apron where he sat against her. The woman would no doubt be as comfortable as a soft bed.

Looking back at her husband, Torie said, “If you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. You are the lady of the manor, free to do as you wish.”

Not exactly the answer she was hoping for, because in spite of his words, it didn’t appear that he truly wanted her there. He pulled out a chair. She walked to the table and sat. Mrs. Cuddleworthy placed the platter in front of her.

Robert bent down, pressed a kiss to her temple, and said, “If you’ll excuse me, my darling, I have some urgent business to which I must attend.”

And just like that, he took his leave, making her wonder once again why he was so anxious not be around her. What in the world was going on?

Mrs. Cuddleworthy seemed as surprised by his abrupt departure as Torie did. Looking at her plate, Torie wished she’d decided to have her meal in the breakfast room after all. At least that room was brighter, more open. It lent itself to cheer more than this room did. And right this moment, she needed some cheer.

“Shall I prepare you a cuppa tea?”

Torie lifted her gaze to the cook and smiled. “Yes, please.”

She moved the food around on her plate, her appetite having deserted her. She didn’t understand her husband’s reserve, his endearment, his quick kiss. It was as though he were performing, doing what was expected rather that what he desired.

She jumped when the tea was suddenly placed before her. “Thank you.”

“Do you not like what I’ve prepared?” Mrs. Cuddleworthy asked.

“It’s lovely,” Torie said, forcing herself to take a bite.

“I have to admit that I take pride in my raspberry tarts.”

“The duke seems to favor them,” Torie admitted.

“He does. He always did. As a young lad, Lord Robert was always pleading with me to make some for him, which is the reason I never understood his forbidding me to prepare them.”

Torie had just lifted her cup to take a sip of tea. She sat there, cup aloft, trying to make sense of the cook’s words. “He forbade you to prepare something he so enjoyed?”

She nodded. “Until this morning. He was in here before the sun, wanting my tarts. Strangest thing.”

Strange indeed, considering the enjoyment he’d obviously taken in eating one. “I wonder why,” Torie mused, not really seeking an answer.

“Haven’t a clue,” the cook responded anyway. “It was right after he became duke. Sometimes it goes to a young man’s head—the power of the position. He changed quite a bit after that, he did. The ordering about of the tart making being only the start. Perhaps he thought his love of tarts was something only a boy should have, not a man
with the burden of responsibilities he was carrying on his young shoulders.”

“I would have thought if they were his favorite, he’d have ordered you to cook them three times a day. I’m always comforted when I eat something I enjoy.”

“You’d have thought,” the cook muttered as she turned her attention to the oven.

Another of his idiosyncrasies to file away, Torie thought.

Robert had always thought that if he were free of Pentonville Prison, the veil of despair would lift, and it had briefly, but as he studied the ledgers and documents before him, it returned with a resounding clank, like the prison doors being shut on him.

The ledgers seemed to indicate that his brother had somehow managed to take the estate to the brink of ruin. Robert had to have misread something or John hadn’t been good at marking income, because surely this couldn’t have happened.

Their family had resources, mining ventures, horses, investments…

He leaned back in the chair, stared up at the frescoed ceiling, and wondered why he was surprised to discover that his brother had put himself above the estate and titles. John had always preferred play to work, had always skipped out on his lessons, had been lazy whenever possible,
had flirted with the young female servants, had been tossed out of one school after another.

He wondered if his brother had planned to change his ways after he married, or if falling in love with Victoria had perhaps changed him. For surely he’d fallen in love with her. How could any man not?

Robert closed his eyes, and with no effort at all, he could see her so clearly. The rich luster of her hair, the deep brown of her eyes, the small dimple that appeared in her right cheek, but not in her left, when she laughed. Why one side and not the other? What other inconsistencies might her body reveal? He thought he might be the luckiest of men if given the opportunity to explore, to trace her face, dip his finger—no, his tongue—into that tiny dent that only appeared when she was exceedingly happy. He would like to trail his fingers over her throat, take his kisses as far down her body as she would allow. And if she allowed no liberties on his part, still he would be content to do nothing more than gaze at her for hours at a time.

The door opened, and Robert jerked his head up to find his wife walking hesitantly into the room. No doubt wondering why her new husband was not giving her attention. He was going to have to come up with a reason to explain his distance. Some sort of pox, perhaps.

He shuddered at the thought of that rumor spreading. Then no woman would want him, and he desperately wanted a woman. He hoped he
was having more luck masking the yearning in his eyes than he was the desire exhibiting itself below his waist. To get his body under control, he glanced down at the depressing numbers in the ledgers before very slowly bringing himself to his feet.

But her eyes were not on him. Rather they were focused on something behind him. The painting. Of course. The one of his lovely mother with her two sons, one nestled against each side.