by Eva Devon
That smile sent a dart straight into his heart for it was honest, and good, and without guile.
He did not know if he could survive Augusta's admiration.
"I'm relieved to hear that it's so little," he replied, trying for levity. “I should have hated to think it was a great deal because then I would be in vast trouble."
"Why trouble?" she queried, clearly mystified.
"Because if I had a good heart, how would I ever accomplish anything? The deals that need be done in Parliament require a heart of stone."
She tsked, assessing him. “That you do not have, Your Grace."
"Are you certain?” Something was happening to him, something he did not like at all as she stared at him with warmth in her eyes. And approval.
What the devil was happening?
She hesitated and nibbled her bottom lip. "Yes, I'm certain."
"How do you know?” he challenged, folding his hands behind his back.
"Because of these books," she said, looking at them.
“And they are?” he drawled, ready to knock down any philosophy of hers that had somehow turned him into someone to be liked.
"Your accounts,” she stated.
"You're going over my accounts?” he marveled. “We’ve barely even married. Surely you could've given yourself a bit of time."
"I told you I enjoy numbers."
"You must to do such a thing."
“Oh, I do,” she enthused, all but stroking the ledger as if she loved it. "And I can see from your accounts that you spend a good deal of money on your tenants, charity, on taking care of people and ensuring that your servants are also very well paid, given time off, and when they're ill, you actually summoned doctors.”
His heart began to pound. He felt seen somehow in a way that he never had been. And all from her perusing a set of books. She’d witnessed the truth inside his heart and mind from stacks of numbers.
"Doesn't everyone?" he asked nonchalantly.
"No," she said flatly. "Most don't."
"Well, they should," he countered, determined to make light of the work he'd put in to counter his father’s austerity and negligence. "And that simply puts me into the mediocre. It doesn't make me particularly good. It merely is what everyone should do. It's not my fault if not everyone does it."
He suddenly felt slightly uncomfortable that she was admiring him for his good deeds. He'd always been rather annoyed that people thought him to be such a cad, but suddenly he was concerned that Augusta might begin to see him as a hero.
He was not a hero and he didn't think he ever would be one.
Certainly, he wouldn't be one for her. He couldn't allow it. Such things led from liking to love, and love was not allowed. Not for him. Not ever again.
So, he gave her a quick nod. "Continue then. I'm pleased to hear you are enjoying yourself, and I'm pleased to know that the accounts meet with your approval."
"Oh no," she said, her eyes twinkling. "I didn't say that they met with my approval."
"I beg your pardon?" he inquired.
"There are a few errors,” she said, her lips twitching. “I will correct them. Never you fear."
“Truly?” His man of business, Hobbs, had always seemed to be so superior in his feelings about his competency. A young lady of not quite twenty-five finding errors in the man’s work was most intriguing.
“Truly,” she confirmed before she tilted her head to the side. “You seem not to be in doubt."
He shook his head. "I'm simply astonished, that's all. I thought the books were in good hands."
"Oh, I think they were in fine hands," she said, laying her hands on the green leather as if they were her children, "but now they are in excellent ones."
"I'm glad to hear it, Augusta.” Seeing her so alive and so delighted in her own capability sent a shiver of. . . Something through his body. Devil take it. He knew exactly what that something was. Desire. He desired his own wife. Intensely.
His voice grew rough as he added, “And I'm glad to hear that it gives you such pleasure.”
She looked positively enraptured as she gazed upon the ledgers.
He cleared his throat, realizing he was tempted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, damn the company. “You did not buy any gowns.”
"Oh, indeed I did," she rushed, even as a warm glow tinged her pale cheeks with a rosy hue.
“Good," he replied succinctly, trying not to focus on how he wanted to devour her but on her position as his wife. “You will need several, you know, if you're going to carry out duties as duchess."
The duties of the Duchess of Blacktower.
Would she be capable of it?
She'd always been so reserved in company as far as he could recollect. But now, sitting here with her numbers, she seemed absolutely confident and capable.
He wondered if there was a way that he could encourage her in other ways. While he did not intend to fall in love with his wife or have a relationship with her beyond the bedchamber, he liked to see her so at ease and so certain of herself.
Her brows rose as if she was astonished with herself. “Lady Montcrief managed to convince me to purchase five gowns. Two for the evening, three for the day, and well. . . then there's another purchase.”
"Indeed?"
"It shall be a surprise."
“A surprise?" he queried.
"Yes, you shall see it later."
And from her quick but firm reply, he realized that she was rather uncomfortable with the conversation, which only drew his curiosity more. "You have me quite mystified, Augusta."
She quirked a brow. “I shall give you no further information upon the subject. You shall simply have to wait. Are you going out this evening?”
Was he going out?
Usually, he went out every evening.
Just a week ago he would go out at about nine or ten at night and often not come back until three in the morning. He'd sleep for a few hours, wake up with the sun, and go out to do his work.
But now he lived with a wife. It had been his intention to continue living most of his life as he had done before he wed Augusta.
Would he go out?
He should.
He should go out immediately to show her that there was nothing particular about their relationship. But from the way that she was looking up at him with embers glowing in her gaze, he wished to fan that heat, not extinguish it.
"No, Augusta," he said softly. "I'm not going out. I'm spending the evening with you."
Chapter 22
Adam lingered on the other side of her door. Waiting. He could not remember a time that he’d felt so reticent. Most of his life, he'd approached things boldly, especially things to do with the bedchamber. He'd always known what to say and how to behave. But in this particular moment, standing on the other side of his wife's door, he hesitated.
He'd considered just simply going to sleep at an ungodly early hour for himself, but he didn't wish to disappoint her.
Which, in itself, was shocking.
When had he grown to care about what Augusta wished?
But he did.
The idea of disappointing her tonight was not possible, and so once again he stood on the other side of her door pondering a knock upon their adjoining door.
He could just enter, but he didn't wish to do that either. It felt too authoritarian, and so he drew in a deep breath and raised his fist.
Just as he was about to rap, a voice called from the other side of the panel, "Are you going to come in?"
He grinned at that, fist aloft.
He couldn't stop himself. That slow smile that parted his lips?
It was one of the most genuine he'd felt in years. He felt it not just in his face, but all the way down to his chest. It warmed his heart in a way he hadn’t known since. . . Well, a very, very long time.
He fought a laugh. Bloody hell. She did know how to be blunt.
"Indeed, wife. I'm coming in,” he drawled melodramatically. “Are you pre
pared?"
"I wouldn't have said anything if I wasn’t," she pointed out as if it should have been obvious. “But you've been standing there for at least five minutes."
He opened the door then and strolled into her room.
"How the devil did you know?" he asked.
Her lips twitched with surprising amusement.
“If you must know, I've been waiting for you to knock and I noticed your shadow on the other side. I've been observing the fact that it has not moved.” She pointed to the golden timepiece above the fire. “That beautifully made mantel clock informed me of the duration.”
He fought a chagrined look.
"You are a very observant woman."
"I'm glad that you have noticed.” She waggled her brows in a playful manner. “It means that you are observant too."
He let out a groan. "We are both very observant people then."
She gave a pleased nod. “We shall never let a secret slip between us."
He paused.
He had a secret, an incredible one and he was keeping it from her. From almost everyone.
He would always keep it from her, he supposed.
So few people knew about it that he didn't know if he could ever bring himself to speak it aloud again. She'd possibly hate him for hiding it, but well, he couldn't bring himself to relate the loss that had so broken him years ago.
He couldn't bring himself to open that floodgate. He didn't think he’d survive it if he did. He'd kept the dam up so long. So, instead he shook the thought from his mind and he avoided her comment.
He strode further into the room, enjoying how at ease she now looked in her bedchamber. "Now, what is the surprise that you have for me?"
"You are eager," she teased.
"How could one not be when one's wife says that she has a surprise for him in the evening? One does hope that it's something that is enjoyable and not a hit over the head with a sharp block."
"If that had been the case, I should have been waiting by the door and used a vase."
A long dark laugh rolled from him.
“Augusta," he said. “You do say the strangest things.”
“But from the smile upon your face, it seems that you enjoy it."
"I confess that I do,” he replied. “You are a constant surprise."
"Why, thank you, Your Grace.” She gave him a twirl of her hand and an incline of her head. “I shall take that as a compliment. At least you will never be bored.”
Never bored.
He'd been bored lately, very bored.
Not because life was awful or uneventful. He was always engaged in something. But because his soul had not been shaken in some time. He’d felt distant from the world.
Augusta was shaking him.
It was so unsettling, he almost stepped back into his room, but he was no coward and so he stepped forward instead. She lifted her chin, and her hair, which had been brushed thoroughly, glistened in the firelight. Her dark locks were almost ebony.
She reached to her simple dressing gown, tugged the ribbon at the waist, and allowed the fabric to fall.
The sight nearly undid him.
She was gowned in the thinnest silk he'd ever seen. Embroidered flowers lined the hem and the neckline, which plunged deeply. It was the most beautiful night rail he'd ever seen in his life.
One simple tug of the string at her neck and he had a strong suspicion the entirety of it would fall to the floor, but he did not wish to do that. Because as beautiful as her body was, the way the silk skimmed her body, he could see her curves in the firelight, like a promise of sin.
The night rail danced over her body, kissing and caressing her skin, and the candlelight left shadows in all the right places, which made his imagination run wild.
His breathing grew ragged as he imagined exactly what he would do to her. Where he would kiss her. What parts of her body he would skim his fingers over.
His hands curled into fists as he ached to touch her.
She met his gaze, her own eyes shining with heat. "Do you like it?"
"Like it?” he whispered. “There are not words for how I feel at this present moment."
"Not even in poetry?" she teased.
"Not even in poetry," he replied, his voice rough now with hunger. "You defy poetry, Augusta. There is not a single heroine written that could match you in this moment."
She tsked. "That's not possibly true."
"Oh, it is," he countered, "because those women are fictitious. They are the imaginings of men. You, Augusta, are real. And you are mine."
Chapter 23
Augusta's chest rose and fell in quick breaths. She stood before him, amazed at her boldness again.
In all her life, she never would've dreamed that she could behave in such a way in front of such a man, but here she was venturing forward and all in the name of being a good wife.
If she had to be a wife, she was going to be a great one. That was for certain.
He looked as if he could devour her with a single glance.
A muscle in his jaw tightened, and even though he stood several feet away, she could feel him across the room—his strength, his presence. It reached out and enveloped her.
She admired that about him, that he had the ability to fill a space and make it his own.
To her shock, enveloped by that presence, she felt accepted for who she was. He wanted her. And she could see it in his eyes. The revelation filled her with so much power. She could hardly countenance it.
All her life, she'd been largely powerless, but now, in this room with him, she knew he liked her for her capability and strength. So instead of waiting for him to reach out for her, she slid her barefoot along the Axminster carpet, ready to walk towards him, ready to embrace him, her future, and the possibilities that might come from these nights together.
Determined to have him, if just in the hours of the night, she ventured close to him. Savoring his scent, she felt her heartbeat drum along her blood.
Deliberately, she slid her hands to his taut, muscled waist and worked his linen shirt free.
“What should I call what we do?” she asked, her voice a low hum.
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
She pulled the shirt free of his breeches and as she slid the fabric upward, he raised his arms, allowing her to pull it free. She let it drop to the artfully woven rug.
She skimmed her fingers over the exquisite muscles of his chest, amazed that she felt so at liberty to do so. “This?” she prompted. “What are we doing? I want to know what I should call it.”
Adam stared down at his wife, his throat tightening even as he hardened at her touch. What the bloody hell should he say? He wasn’t going to use a base term for it. Not with Augusta. He doubted she’d be shocked but. . . It wasn’t the right word, the one he’d used to describe passionate couplings that did not last but a night.
She was different.
He bloody well wasn’t going to call it mating.
There was only one phrase. Somehow he managed to reply, “Making love, Augusta.”
Her gaze searched his face. “Is that what we are doing?”
“Eros is often described as love,” he breathed.
She nodded and jerked her eyes away from his to his mouth. “Then let us make. . . love."
He pulled her to him, driven to eradicate that dangerous word from their time together.
Love.
He wasn’t ever supposed to feel any kind of love for a woman again.
No, he felt passion for Augusta. There was no point in denying it. He could take her body daily. Hourly. Hell, he found himself thinking about the curve of her breasts, the shape of her beautiful arse, and the way her body took his cock at the most inconvenient times.
But there it was.
Thoughts of Augusta, Augusta, London’s once most famous spinster, consumed him.
And he damn well liked that she did not ask him to make love to her. Augusta wanted them to make love. Augusta wa
s a participant. She wasn’t some passive chit who relied on him to do everything.
She might be inexperienced but she was no milksop. Augusta liked to do. In all things, it seemed.
Once again, he found his admiration for his sensible wife growing.
It was dangerous.
But right now, he wouldn’t think of the danger. Right now, he’d think of her hands sliding over his breeches.
Deftly, she unbuttoned the front placket.
“You are over-clothed for our endeavor,” she informed.
“Thank you for assisting me,” he drawled, a dangerous feeling akin to happiness tempting him.
“Of course,” she teased. “It is a duty and a pleasure to assist you.”
He nearly laughed, but when her hand easily slid into his breeches and she brushed her fingers along his hard length, he moaned with desire instead.
“Good God, woman.” His hands curled into fists at the delicious agony. “Who are you?”
“You know exactly who I am,” she countered.
“Someone who wishes to be excellent at everything they do,” he observed.
She beamed up at him, even as her cheeks bloomed pink. “Correct.”
He blew out a breath as she palmed him. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“Should I stop?” she asked, her eyes dancing.
“Never,” he ground out.
It stunned him how giving she was. She did not simply take pleasure. She returned it.
His eyelids drifted shut as she carefully stroked him.
Her touch nearly undid him.
A man, devil take it, of experience. Nearly undone by a young lady of genteel birth who was new to lovemaking. She had not even understood more than the basic mechanics until recently.
But there was something about the way she affected him that he could not explain. Augusta made him feel as if he could move mountains in these moments. And she also made him feel as if he could leave all pain behind and be simply here, with her. . . At least until dawn.
Night had become his favorite time.
“Is there anything you would like?” she asked suddenly.
His eyes snapped open. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I don’t really know what I should do, so I must ask.” She bit her perfect lower lip before inquiring factually, “Is there something you’d like me to do?”
