In some darkened alcove in his brain, Hudson knew this was not the discussion to have in the presence of Barlowe. Despite Elysande’s avowal she believed in his innocence, there clearly remained a great many terrible, tangled knots between them. Could he untie them all?
It was too damned soon to tell.
“Had I known the result of my request, I may have changed my mind,” his wife said, before taking a lengthy sip of her wine.
Stilted table conversation swimming in a sea of spirits. How ducal he felt. The barb of her words remained steadfastly lodged in the vicinity of his heart.
“I believed I was doing what was right,” he told her, and that much was true.
“There is where you veered from the course,” Barlowe interjected, humor lacing his voice. “Everyone knows there is no reward in doing what is right. When in doubt, do what is wrong instead. It almost always feels better.”
He wondered if Barlowe truly believed that. Knowing his friend, it was entirely likely he did.
“I do not suppose I will be taking moral instructions from you,” he drawled.
“Wise man.” Barlowe grinned, then offered him another mock salute before draining his wine glass. “Considering I have no morals at all.”
“Surely you possess a few,” Elysande said, looking up from her soup to frown at his friend. “You were most gracious in escorting me to London.”
“A favor for Stone,” Barlowe said. “The man has saved my arse more times than I care to recall.”
Hudson did not bother to correct his friend. He was still Hudson Stone, damn it. Even if he had also been forced to don the mantle Duke of Wycombe as well.
“He is an enigmatic man, my husband.” His wife’s smile was small, her gaze finally drifting back to his.
He saw the questions lingering there. He could not fault her for having them, but he was not altogether certain he could answer them. Not only had he proven himself unprepared for marriage and having a wife, but this half life he had been leading, partly a duke, partly a detective, had been a mistake. All he had managed to do was muck up his life even further. And now, a woman had lost her life.
Because of him?
It was difficult to say. Certainly, if he had not been in London, and if he had not attended Barlowe’s dinner, and if Barlowe had not invited Maude… The string of possibilities trailed on, but he was helpless to change them. Maude had been murdered, Reginald Croydon was still roaming free, and justice had yet to be served.
“I would hardly call myself enigmatic, my dear,” he said with a bitter smile. “A failure would be more apt at the moment.”
That was the bloody truth. Thus far, he had failed at being a duke, failed at being a husband, failed to find Croydon, failed to protect Maude… And now, here he was, failing at dinner conversation. It seemed rather poetic.
“Do not be so hard on yourself, old chap,” Barlowe said, having replenished his wine. “You were the best damned man Scotland Yard had.”
Past tense.
He could not shake the suspicion which had been dogging him ever since his return to town. That his time away had made him soft. That the distractions of inheriting the dukedom and marrying Elysande—domesticity, damn it—had turned all his steel to pudding.
He shook his head. “The best would have brought Croydon to heel by now.”
“You are getting closer, are you not?”
There was the devil in the details. The hell of it was, Hudson did not know for certain, although he felt sure he would soon find him. There had been clues. A trail of them. There was Francis Watts, the former Scotland Yard detective who had been paid a handsome sum by Reginald Croydon to divulge the details of the previous investigation pertaining to him. But Watts himself had been jailed before Croydon’s escape. There was an unknown female who had caused a commotion outside the prison on the day Croydon had escaped, and a witness had identified her as a Mrs. L. Hudson was equally sure the mysterious Mrs. L. would prove the key to learning where Croydon had fled.
“Closer is not sufficient,” he told Barlowe, shaking himself from his heavy thoughts.
He had ruthlessly followed every lead, working in an unofficial capacity with his connections. Every lead had ultimately still left him empty-handed. A room where he had been rumored to have been staying—abandoned. A woman who fit the description of the mysterious female who had caused the distraction enabling Croydon’s escape—gone. The widow of Croydon’s conspirator had claimed to know nothing. Interrogating the bastard’s mother, who was also in prison for crimes she had committed with her son, had produced no useful knowledge either.
“You will find him.” Barlowe turned to Elysande. “I have faith in your husband, Ellie. He is a good man. One of the best.”
Ellie.
His lips twitched with the urge to correct his friend. Instead, he finished the last of his soup.
After a day of travel and the shock of Mrs. Ainsley’s murder, Elysande was exhausted. Her mind and her body ached in equal measure. And yet, she was not ready for sleep. Not because of the accommodations. Her room at the town house was sparsely furnished, but the bed had felt comfortable enough when she had rested there for a brief nap earlier before dinner.
Denning had busied herself with overseeing the opening of the duchess’s suite and the subsequent unpacking. Having newly settled into the town house himself, and unaccustomed to the running of a household—likely also distracted by the terrible mire in which he was embroiled—Hudson had not seen her room prepared. He was still new in his role of duke. In some ways newer than she in her role of duchess. Whereas she had been born to such a life, he had not, and the distinction was clearest in matters of the domestics.
No, the reason she had sought out her husband, who was seated in the library in nothing but his shirt sleeves and the trousers he had worn at dinner, was not because she was displeased with her room. It was because she could not seem to stay away.
Dinner had been a somewhat uneven affair, given Mr. Barlowe’s presence. He was certainly a most interesting gentleman. Elysande had been partially grateful for his company, for in his absence, she feared the dinner may have grown stilted and awkward. In the time since he had first greeted her and she had retreated to rest and dress for dinner, Hudson had seemed to withdraw. He had been quiet, everything from the angle of his jaw to the expression on his face—hard and harsh. The bitterness in his voice when he had spoken of his inability to bring about the arrest of the escaped prisoner, Reginald Croydon, had not been lost upon her.
“Elysande.” Her husband rose as she moved toward him, closing the distance. He held a glass of what she supposed must be brandy loosely in his right hand, his fingers cradling the stem. “I thought you had retired for the evening.”
She wondered where his waistcoat had gone, taking note of the buttons undone on his shirt. A vee of his chest was visible, and for a heart-stopping moment, she recalled all too well how he had looked, naked and wet and glimmering in the sun by the lake on the day after their wedding.
The last day she had seen him before this one.
The reminder had the subtlety of a bee sting and a similar amount of inherent pain. She steeled herself against her body’s unwanted reaction to him. “I could not sleep just yet.”
He placed his glass on a low table and prowled toward her with the predatory grace of a large cat. “Forgive me for not seeing your room prepared.”
It was the third time he had apologized for the oversight.
“You had other concerns weighing on your mind,” she said quietly, stopping by a wall of empty shelves where once, presumably, there had been books. “Your library looks as if it has been pilfered.”
“Likely from the previous Wycombe,” he said, his voice low and nearer than she had supposed.
His presence at her back was like a brand.
She ought to move away.
Instead, she cast a glance over her shoulder. “If you would like, I can assist in procuring new reading materi
al. I cannot promise you will agree with my taste, however.”
How she missed her own small library, left at Brinton Manor after she had moved it there from Talleyrand Park in the wake of Hudson’s departure. Burying herself in engineering tracts had long been a favored pastime of hers.
He hummed as he moved so that he was at her side instead of behind her, the sound low and deep. And she felt the effects of that lone sound in her core. What was the matter with her? She should not be so weak for this man, so vulnerable.
“What are your tastes?” he asked, rubbing his hand along his jaw where the shadow of his whiskers lent him a raw masculinity she could not help but to find appealing.
You was the ridiculous thought that came to mind. She did find him incredibly attractive. He was handsome, though not classically so, but it was the aura of sensuality that he possessed which drew her to him and held her in his irresistible thrall.
Never mind that, however. She had every reason to maintain a strict sense of caution when it came to trusting him and allowing herself to once more be as vulnerable as she had been by the lake that reckless morning.
“I enjoy reading engineering journals,” she admitted.
His brows rose. “Engineering? I would not have guessed.”
She was accustomed to such a reaction. All the papers she read were written by men. Women—particularly ladies such as herself—were not meant to take an interest in what was considered a masculine science. They were not supposed to dirty their hands, take pride in understanding the flow of electricity, or create inventions of their own.
“Since the time I have been a girl, I have been interested in the way things work,” she confessed. “I always preferred my father’s workshop to the ballroom. There. You have my secret. Electricity fascinates me, and I have long been determined to create inventions of my own. My latest attempt is an electrical frying pan, which I am hoping to place at the exhibition for the London Society of Electricity.”
“You intrigue me, Elysande. You are not at all what I supposed you to be, are you?”
“I hope I am not what anyone supposes me to be.” She smiled. “My inventions are my sole secret, however. As my sister Izzy will attest, I am terribly boring.”
“You have only one secret?” he asked, sounding curious. “Surely there are more. There is much mystery about you.”
His gaze was impossible to look away from, burning into hers. “I could say the same for you.”
“I have no mysteries save the two I cannot seem to solve.”
He was speaking of the escape and the murder, of course. They hung in the air with a heaviness which could not be escaped. She could almost sense his inner war with himself. He was trapped between two worlds, the one he had known and the one he was now meant to inhabit as the Duke of Wycombe.
In that, they were not so very different. She, too, was having difficulty adjusting to her difference in circumstance. No longer living with her parents, a wife without a husband, an inventor who had yet to perfect her prototype. The end she sought to achieve always seemed just beyond her reach.
She searched his gaze. “But those mysteries are no longer yours, are they?”
“Not in the way they once would have been,” he acknowledged, inclining his head. “But the responsibility weighs heavily upon me. Especially considering Mrs. Ainsley and what happened.”
The mention of the other woman had her tensing, and it cooled some of the tingling ardor attempting to overtake her. “You did not invite her to your rooms, Hudson.”
Although she offered it as statement, she could not deny there was something of a question lingering there. She needed his reassurance. Needed to hear him tell her once more that there had been nothing between himself and the murdered woman since well before their marriage had begun.
“Of course not.” He swallowed, the action causing the protrusion of his Adam’s apple to bob and catch her attention. “I swear to you, Elysande. I cannot change my past, but I promise I will do my utmost to be the husband you deserve.”
She had never seen him so earnest. “And I will do the same to be the wife you deserve.”
“I am sorrier than I can say that this is the manner in which our marriage has begun.”
He could not be sorrier than she was. They had started as strangers with a common need: to wed. His reason had been to obtain her dowry, and hers had been to allow her sister to finally marry her Mr. Penhurst. But she had made requests of him that had put them at odds. Her desire to complete her prototype had pushed him away as surely as his need to resume his old life had.
Perhaps they were equally culpable.
“As you said, we cannot alter the past. All we can do is move forward.”
As she said the words, she realized she was saying far more, that there was a deeper story lurking beneath the surface. Reuniting with him, even with the terrible death of Mrs. Ainsley looming over them like a pall, had shown her how much she had longed for him.
As if Hudson sensed the hidden meaning, he moved nearer, his trousers brushing her skirts. He trailed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, and she turned into his touch, reveling in the heat and roughness of his caress. His were not the silken and soft hands of a lord but those of a man who had worked his way through the world.
She appreciated that, much as she appreciated him. And with his scent wrapping around her, that blue-gray gaze melding with hers, his touch on her, how could she not appreciate him? How could she not want him, yearn for him, ache for him, despite all that had come to pass?
The answer was painfully clear.
“Right now, all the moving I should like to do involves you and my arms,” he said roughly, his head lowering so the heat of his breath fanned over her lips in the promise of a kiss. “Specifically, you moving into them. I shall understand if you do not want that, Elysande.”
He was asking permission, just as he had before. A gentleman who kissed like the very devil himself. And she wanted those kisses. Wanted his mouth on hers. Wanted him more than she had ever supposed possible.
Foolish, weak-willed creature, she chastised herself.
But she took a step, erasing the distance. Her breasts brushed against his chest, her hands settled on his shoulders, and they were pressed together, his warmth and vitality emanating from his big body and enveloping hers.
“Like this?” She was breathless, heart pounding, as she tipped her head back, holding his stare.
His hands landed on her waist, and it felt so familiar, so possessive. “Just like this.”
Was he going to kiss her again? She fervently hoped he would. He had awakened her to passion before leaving her alone for a month. Some nights, she had lain in bed, wondering if she had imagined the conflagration which had burned between them that morning. But this, here and now, was all the proof she needed.
It had been real.
“Hudson,” she said softly, taking the opportunity to study the symmetry of his face. Slashing cheekbones, dark brows, a high forehead. The blade of his nose was almost too long, and yet it suited him, bringing strength and character to his face. Was it wrong that she wanted to feel the rasp of those whiskers against her lips? That she wanted to set her mouth on the rigid line of his jaw and kiss him there?
“Fuck,” he bit out, leaning his forehead against hers and taking a swift inhalation of breath. “I want you so badly, Elysande. I do not trust myself. You should go to bed. Alone.”
His vulgar curse titillated rather than shocked her. She appreciated this small sign he was not entirely in control of himself. And further, that the lapse of his customary restraint was because of her.
Suddenly, the prospect of returning to her bed and lying beneath the covers, thinking of him but unable to touch him, seemed a terrible punishment. She had been raised to do what she wanted, within reason. Anything short of ruining herself or refusing to marry. But she was not ruined, and this man was her husband now. And she wanted him. He was hurting, he was bitter, and he had been as
alone as she had this last month.
Elysande shifted, surrendering to her need. Her lips found the rough patch of whisker-studded jaw. She kissed him there, absorbed the clench of his muscles, the alluring maleness of him, the tension. Wished she could take away some of his concerns.
The fingers on her waist tightened, and he inhaled again, the sound sharp in the silence of the library, no noise save the merrily crackling fire in the grate. “Elysande.”
Her name was a warning she ignored. Instead, she kissed him as he had done to her before, taking her time. She trailed a path to his ear, and then she kissed the shell of skin, his too-long dark hair brushing against her nose, and whispered his name.
He groaned. Whether it was in desire or surrender, she could not tell. But it felt like a reward when he nuzzled her hair. And especially when his days-old beard rasped against the softness of her cheek. The abrasion was delicious, and so was he.
She was lost in him, lost in her need. She may as well have been back at Brinton Manor, on the sun-stained lake shore. Rolling in the grass with him, his tongue working its magic on her. Remembrance woke her in places only she had touched since, beneath the secrecy of darkness, alone in her bed. Her nipples were aching and stiff against her corset, the same swelling ache pooling in her belly and settling lower. Between her thighs, she could feel her wetness dampening her drawers.
And they had yet to even properly kiss.
Time to rectify the matter.
Elysande was unaware which of them seduced the other. Perhaps it was both of them, perhaps it was she who had instigated it. Certainly, as he drew his head back to snare her in his steady gaze, it was he who seduced. Need burned in his eyes. She recognized that look, for she felt an answering hunger deep within.
They held each other’s gazes in a moment that could have lasted minutes or seconds or forever. He cupped her face with one hand, the action so painstakingly tender, she melted inside.
“You are so damned lovely,” he said softly. “Do you know that? I want to learn everything there is to know about you.”
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 12
