Page 33 of The Duke's Only Desire

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and fixed a hard gaze on her. “Why are you doing this, Sophie?”

Beneath another shrug, the ribbon strap slipped tantalizingly down her arm, baring her shoulder completely. It was all he could do to hold back a groan. “If my husband won’t come home for dinner, then dinner must go to my husband.” She sat on the chair at the table and lifted her wine glass. “I hear married couples dine together all the time. Rumors say some of them even enjoy it.” She took a sip of wine, then studied him over the rim of the glass. The tip of her tongue darted out to lick away a drop of wine, and he nearly sank into a puddle on the floor at her feet. Emotion colored her voice when she added, “Besides, you can’t ignore me forever.”

He focused his attention on undoing his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves so she wouldn’t see the torment she caused him. “I’m not ignoring—”

“Besides, it’s only dinner.”

Not with her dressed like dessert, it wasn’t. He wanted to slowly lick the icing from every delectable inch of her, then devour her whole.

She tilted her head curiously, revealing a tempting stretch of neck. God help him, he wanted to put his mouth right there and feel her pulse spike beneath his lips. “What are you so afraid of, Shay,” she asked quietly, “that you won’t let yourself be close to me, not even as a husband?”

That quiet question nearly undid him. He pushed himself out of the chair and snatched up his velvet dressing robe from where Pearson had draped it across the foot of the bed. He circled the table and came up behind her to place it over her shoulders.

“I’m afraid that you’ll catch your death of cold,” he murmured in her ear. He stood so close he could smell the scent of lavender on her skin, and he couldn’t prevent himself from breathing in deeply and filling his senses with her.

He squeezed his eyes shut for one pained moment, then stepped away to put distance between them. He busied himself by continuing to undress for bed by removing his neckcloth and waistcoat, as if she wasn’t there, leaving himself in only trousers, braces, and shirt.Nota man undressing for seduction. He wanted his actions to be clear about that. Just as he would never bare more of himself to her, body or soul. Both were far too scarred.

Obstinately—or perhaps simply because she wanted to torture him until he broke—she pushed off the robe and let it fall around her on the floor.Sweet Lucifer. She somehow seemed even more naked than before.

Hell.That was what this evening was turning into, complete with a wickedly beautiful siren who wanted to take his soul.

Unless he physically carried her from the room and deposited her safely back in her own bed, he had no choice but to finish this torturous dinner as quickly as possible. So he sat on the chair across the table from her and reached to lift his own wineglass in a silent toast to her, the crystal glass and red wine shimmering like brimstone in the firelight.

When she lifted her own glass to return the toast, he saw the bandage on her hand.

His eyes narrowed with concern. “What happened?”

“I hurt myself working in the greenhouse. It’s nothing serious.”

He set down his wineglass and reached across the table, his hand palm up. “Let me see.”

With an irritated little sigh, she laid her hand in his and allowed him to lift it to gain a better view in the candlelight. He turned it slowly, careful not to hurt her, and unwrapped the bandage to examine the cut. Clean and long but shallow—thank God, it didn’t need stitches, and that realization allowed relief to seep over him and push out the concern. If not the guilt.

“How did you hurt it?” he asked, not daring to raise his eyes from the bright pink cut.

“I was clearing up debris in the greenhouse. I wasn’t paying close enough attention, and my hand slipped across the tin top of a worktable.” She shook her head, the faint motion not reassuring him in the least. “It looks worse than it is.”

He traced his fingertip across the poultice in a feather light touch. “Who tended it for you? This isn’t Mrs. Sexton’s handiwork.”

“Miss Danvies.”

His eyes darted up to hers in surprise. “The village midwife?”

“And apothecary. She takes care of all medical emergencies, apparently. Perhaps we should consider hiring a doctor for the village and estate.”

He nodded as he carefully wound up the bandage and tied it back into place, distracted by a gnawing guilt. His responsibility was to protect her, and he had failed. She’d been under his care, and she’d been hurt because he hadn’t had the restraint to be near her.

But being around him would have pained her even more. Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t…and the one woman in the world he never wanted to hurt was the one who caused him endless torment.

He released her hand and reached for his wine. “What were you doing in that old greenhouse? It hasn’t been used for years.”

“I wanted to tidy it up for spring.” When he frowned, she asked, “Am I not allowed in the greenhouses?”

“Of course you are.” He reached for the wine bottle to refill his glass even though all the wine in France wouldn’t dull the ache in his gut. He had no idea which ache tormented him more—the ache to possess her, or the one from knowing he never could. “You’re allowed to go anywhere on the estate. This is your home.” Then he arched a brow pointedly. “Exceptin here. My rooms are off limits to everyone but Pearson.”

“Even to your wife?”

Especially to my wife.“We’ll draw a line of demarcation at the threshold, shall we?” He forced the unscarred corner of his mouth to lift in a smile whose amusement he didn’t feel. “I’ll take my rooms, you’ll take everything else above ground, and we’ll leave Spain and Portugal to fight it out with Mrs. Latimer over the kitchens.” He lowered his voice as if sharing a deeply hidden secret. “Her Christmas puddings could stop a frontal assault in its tracks.”