Page 54 of How the Duke Saved Christmas

That earned him another swat, and he chuckled but didn’t set her down. The real reason he refused was simply because he couldn’t resist having her in his arms.

Eads sketched a bow as Michael carried Clara past him through the door and into the entrance hall.

“Send my valet to bed, will you, Eads?” Michael held Clara lightly in his arms. She barely weighed more than a feather. “I won’t be needing him tonight.”

“And the same for Mrs. Bailey, please,” Clara interjected. “No need to bother her. I can undress myself.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Eads nodded at both of them. “My lady.”

Eads closed and locked the door, and his sagging shoulders indicated how tired he was due to all the holiday festivities. Michael would add orders to the man’s holiday box—a note insisting that he take a fortnight’s holiday for himself.

He smiled at the idea and carried Clara toward the stair hall. “Good night, Eads.”

“You can’t keep carrying me around like this,” she scolded in a soft whisper so she wouldn’t disturb the sleeping household. “It’s demeaning to a duke.”

“As I said,” he repeated from their conversation at the church, “nothing if not stubborn.”

Thatearned him the hardest swat yet of her hand, and it earned her an even louder chuckle in reply.

“It was one thing at the church when no one else was there,” she tried again, “but you shouldn’t have to carry me here when there are servants who can do it.”

“It isn’t a matter ofhaveto.” He lowered his mouth to rest it on the top of her head as he started up the stairs. “I want to.”

“You shouldn’t,” she whispered.

He smiled against her hair. “Stubborn.”

Knowing not to argue anymore, she let out a long-suffering sigh. She was still proud, and he supposed that was why she didn’t want him to carry her. Yet he also couldn’t help but notice how she rested her head against his shoulder. She nuzzled her cheek against him so softly he was certain she hadn’t wanted him to notice the affectionate gesture. But of course he did. He noticed everything about her.

Her bedroom was dark, lit only by the faint glow of banked coals in the fireplace. Mrs. Bailey had put out her night rail at the foot of the bed, turned down the covers, and pulled the blinds.

He brought her inside and closed the door with a gentle nudge of his boot.

“Thank you,” she said a bit self-consciously as he set her down on the edge of the bed.

“You’re welcome.” But he didn’t leave. Instead, he sat beside her and reached to unfasten her velvet wrap’s gold clasp at her throat. It released with a soft click, and he lowered the hood, took both sides of the wrap, and slowly slipped it from her shoulders.

Her breath caught on a sharp inhalation. “What are you doing?”

“Undressing you.” He took the fur muff from her stunned hands and tossed it onto a nearby chair, then slowly peeled off her kid gloves one by one.

“But…you can’t.” Her voice emerged as a throaty rasp.

“You’re right.” He stood up. “I should take off my coat first to keep from overheating. Women’s clothes take a deucedly long time to remove.”

Her full lips fell open at the audacity of that double entendre, but he didn’t allow her time to find her tongue to give him the scolding he deserved, shrugging out of his greatcoat and tossing it over the chair, along with his hat and gloves.

He returned to his place beside her on the bed. “That’s better.”

“That isnotbetter.”

“I think so.” He took her shoulders and gently turned her back toward him, then lowered his hands to the row of pearl buttons on her bodice. “After all, you’re wearing…what? Seven or eight layers, I’d wager.”

“Only three,” she corrected a bit indignantly.

“Are you certain?” The bodice loosened more with each button he freed as he slowly worked his way down her back and somehow resisted the urge to lower his mouth and follow along with his lips. “Always seems like seven or eight to me whenever I undress a woman.”

“Then you’re obviously not doing something right.”