My Dark Duke (13 page)

They travelled in companionable silence for some time, but as the torrential downpour outside continued, Alethea began to feel more and more concerned. Lightning flashed so closely outside that the interior of the carriage appeared blindingly white. The huge boom of thunder that followed seemed to shake their carriage. For the first time since the rain began, she feared for their safety.

‘I'm sorry.' Trent had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the thunderstorm raging outside. ‘I should have been more alert to the weather conditions.'

‘It isn't your fault. You could not have known that we would encounter such a severe storm as this.' The carriage jolted violently and Alethea reached out reflexively to brace herself on the wall of the carriage.

‘This is untenable. We need to find immediate shelter.' He stood up and opened the small window just behind the coachman. Immediately, a gust of wind and rain swept in but the duke did not flinch. ‘Browning, stop at the next inn!'

‘Yes, Your Grace!' shouted the coachman, his greatcoat flapping in the wind.

The carriage was now travelling at a slow pace as the heavy rain turned the dirt road into a muddy stream. Alethea shivered at the sudden drop in temperature and Trent picked up the fur blanket and put it around her shoulders.

‘Thank you,' she uttered gratefully, pulling it close around her.

‘Don't thank me yet,' said the duke grimly.

Fortunately, it did not take long before the carriage slowed even further and then drew to a halt. Alethea squinted, trying to see through the heavy rain to the lit structure outside. Without waiting for his groomsman, her companion threw open the door and jumped out, seemingly uncaring of the mud that splashed upon his boots or the rain that was now quickly drenching his clothes. She stood up and, with his hands around her waist, was lowered onto the ground. She drew in a sharp breath at the cold spikes of rain that were swept against her face and neck by the wind. Trent caught hold of her elbow and they both half-walked and half-ran towards the front door of the inn.

‘Stay here, I need to have a word with my coachman.'

It was blessedly warm and dry inside, and Alethea looked around curiously as boisterous laughter rang through the room. There, people were drinking and engaging in loud conversations. Buxom barmaids served large tankards of ale to the patrons and Alethea felt her stomach growl when she caught a whiff of the hearty stew which was being served to a man sitting near her. She suddenly realised that aside from a small handful of grapes, she hadn't eaten since before they arrived in Wells, close to four hours ago.

A few pairs of curious eyes roved over her, but to her relief, no-one approached her. The door opened again and Trent strode in, his attire almost completely drenched. Removing his tricorn impatiently, he looked around for the innkeeper. ‘You there,' he called out to a startled maid. ‘Where is your master?'

The maid ran and fetched a balding, rotund man with red cheeks who had been speaking to some patrons. He hurried towards Alethea and the duke, looking anxious. ‘My lord?'

‘We need two rooms, one for the lady and one for me. And any dry clothes you can spare.'

‘M-my lord, I b-beg your pardon. I . . . I only have the one room. All the other rooms have been taken. Th-the weather, you understand.' The innkeeper looked terrified at the duke's dark expression and Alethea felt a surge of pity for him.

She quickly intervened. ‘That is fine, we will make do. Do you have someone who can show us the way?'

‘Yes, yes, of course. Betsy! Would you like some supper to be brought up to you?' His head whipped between Alethea and Trent.

‘We would be most appreciative,' replied Alethea. ‘And some ale, too, if you please.' She followed the maid, aware that the duke was behind her as they walked up the crude wooden stairs.

The room they entered was surprisingly well kept and clean. A large four-poster bed stood against one wall and on the opposite wall a fire danced cheerfully in the fireplace. In front of the fireplace were two stools and a small round table.

‘‘Ere you are, my lady. I'll see what clothes I can find and yer supper will be'ere shortly.'

Alethea smiled at the barmaid, with her cheerful smile and rosy cheeks. ‘Thank you, Betsy.'

The door closed behind her and Alethea took off the blanket she was wearing, dropping it onto the bed. She was reaching up to remove her hat when she realised that Trent had been silent for some time. She looked up to find him standing next to the fireplace, his expression inscrutable as he observed her with hooded eyes. Nerves struck her and she quickly looked away. Her fingers fumbled with the slippery hat pins.

‘Come, let me.' She jumped at the sound of his voice next to her. When had he crossed the room? His fingers touched hers and she quickly dropped her hands, feeling her skin tingle where he had touched her. A scant second later, she felt the hat being lifted off her head and she turned to take it from him. She threw a glance at him, going still at the intensity in his gaze.

They stared at each other as seconds ticked by, the only sound in the room the muted laughter from downstairs and the occasional roar and crack of the flames in the fireplace.

When the duke finally spoke, it took some time before the words he had uttered sank in. ‘I'm afraid there's no hope for this poor creature.'

Alethea blinked twice at his dark visage before following his gaze downwards. In his hands lay her once neatly decorated, sprightly straw hat. The accessory had clearly not been designed to come into contact with any liquid, because its short exposure to the weather had ruined it beyond repair. The straw was sodden and the ribbon, feather and artificial flowers were limp and bedraggled. ‘Oh dear. It does look rather pathetic, doesn't it?'

‘Never mind. In any case I much prefer you without a hat.' His voice was low and she held her breath as he reached up to smooth a damp tendril of hair from her cheek.

She was still staring up at him when a knock sounded at the door. The duke strode across to the door and opened it. Betsy, the maid, stood holding a pile of clothes in her arms. He stood aside to let her in. A young boy trailed behind her, holding a tray of food. The maid laid the clothes down on the bed while the boy set the tray on the small table. Trent murmured thanks as they left.

‘Lady Alethea, why don't you come and eat? You must be famished.'

She walked over slowly, intensely aware of the fact that there were only the two of them in the room. She sat down on one of the stools, and he slid a bowl of stew over to her.

‘Please begin without me. I shall join you after I change.'

Alethea was reminded of the sodden clothes which were hanging heavily on him. The pale grey of his coat was almost black from the rain. ‘Of . . . of course.' A thought struck her. ‘Your Grace, perhaps it is best I wait outside the room while you do so.'

He looked at her, something indefinable in his eyes, before he inclined his head.

She opened the door and stepped out, about to close the door behind her when a large man, dressed in coarse clothing and smelling strongly of ale, stumbled up the stairs and almost collided with her. He smiled drunkenly at her and stepped up close, making her back into the door. ‘Well, well, what'ave we'ere? Good evenin', dearie,'ow'bout a drink with ol' Harry, eh?'

Before Alethea could say anything, an arm banded around her waist and she was whisked back into the room. The door closed on old Harry's startled face and she stared open-mouthed at Trent, stunned at the speed with which he had moved.

‘I think it best that you remain in the room.' It was all he said before he walked over to the bed and threw his tricorn on it, turning his back towards her. She felt her mouth part when he stripped off his coat and started to unbutton his waistcoat. It was only when he drew his shirt over his head that she thought to avert her eyes. But it was too late. Seared into her memory was the image of his back, his muscles clearly delineated, rippling slightly as he pulled his shirt off. She had seen many a sculpture on display, yet she had never seen such perfection in a living being.

‘Damnation,' she heard him curse.

Not daring to look at him in case he was naked, she walked to the table and picked up her tankard of ale. She gulped down a large mouthful. It seemed to provide her with some courage, false or otherwise. Perhaps she could take just a little peek. ‘Your Grace? Is something the matter?'

‘My boots. They are almost impossible to remove on my own. Could you see if you can get that young boy back in here?'

‘No need. I can assist you, I'm sure.' She stood up then stopped. ‘Wait, are you decent?' Ha, as if she herself was. The thoughts running through her mind were definitely indecent, bordering on wicked.

There was laughter in his voice as he echoed her thoughts. ‘I'm afraid I ceased being decent many years ago. But if you are enquiring about my state of undress, then yes, I am sufficiently clothed not to offend your maidenly sensibilities.'

At that Alethea looked up and breathed a silent sigh of relief at the sight of him in a fresh dry shirt over his damp breeches. She took another gulp of her ale, ignoring his accompanying chuckle, and walked over to where he stood.

‘Are you sure you wish to do this?' Trent looked quizzically at her as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘I do. Boot, please,' she ordered. He raised his booted foot and she clutched it tightly, one hand over the front and her other on the heel.

‘Now pull.'

Heaving, she pulled hard away from him. It barely budged. She pulled harder. With a last mighty tug, the boot came off his foot, and she lost her balance. The momentum threw her backwards and she fell onto her bottom, skirts and hair awry. ‘Gracious,' she panted. ‘What did your bootmaker do? Sew it directly onto you?'

The duke laughed as he reached down and helped her up onto her feet. ‘They're meant to fit perfectly on me. If they're not close-fitted, they would serve no purpose.'

‘Your valet has his job cut out for him.' She waited for him to sit again.

‘According to him, you'd think serving me was purgatory,' drawled Trent. ‘Are you sure?' He indicated his other boot with his hand.

‘I'm fully prepared this time,' she stated, pushing her chin out. Fortunately this boot came off more easily. Dusting her hands proudly at her achievement, she walked back to the fireside and stood there, staring into the flames. ‘You are fortunate you weren't stranded with my mother. She would never have touched your boots even if they had been on fire.'

‘If I were with your mother now, you would have my permission to take me outside and run a sabre through me,' he retorted dryly.

‘My mother tends to have that effect on people.' She wondered what he was doing now. Had he removed his stockings? What about his breeches?
Alethea, don't you dare look!
Catching herself, she only just managed to stop in time. Oh Lord, what had she gotten herself into? And what was going to happen when it came time for sleep? There was only one bed and she was well aware she was completely helpless where he was concerned. He could do what he wanted to her and she would let him, virtue and reputation be damned.

She heard him approach and felt her breathing quicken. He stopped behind her and she wondered if she had imagined his breath on her neck.

‘Are you not hungry?' His soft voice sent a tremor down her spine.

Alethea shook her head wordlessly, unable to turn around to face him. What would be reflected on his face? Concern? Desire? Or worse still, nothing?

‘Tired?'

Again she shook her head. Yes, it was his breath on her skin. Warm and moist. So very close to her.

‘Your gown is damp. Shall I call for a maid to help you undress?'

No! Yes. No.
She shook her head, slowly this time. Then felt the knot in her hair loosen and slowly unravel. But she dared not move. She couldn't move. Her breathing quickened when she felt his hands pull out the remaining hairpins. And then his fingers were combing through the heavy strands until her hair hung over her back like a veil of wavy midnight silk.

‘I've wanted to do this to your hair ever since it disobeyed you that day at Mulgrave's,' he murmured, sifting his fingers through it. ‘This scent, is it jasmine?'

‘Yes. I . . . I like it in my bathwater.' Her voice was barely above a whisper.

‘I must remember to tell my housekeeper.'

Housekeeper? What had his housekeeper to do with her bathwater? But she didn't have time to think about that question, as he suddenly stepped in front of her.

His eyes bore into hers. ‘If you don't want me to call a maid, then I will have to be your maid.'

Alethea's eyes widened when he took a step towards the table and picked up the knife that was on the tray. Trent stepped back. His dark eyes swept over her and lowered. With a flick, then two, three, four, five, six, he severed the threads holding her gown to her bodice. The knife clattered on the tray. Unfastening the drawstring of her petticoat, he let it join her gown on the floor.

She stood still, not knowing what to do or where to look as he knelt before her and took off first one shoe, then the other. Alethea could hear nothing but the roar in her ears as he helped her out of her panniers. The duke stood up and again went around to her back. She felt her breath stop when he started to loosen her stays. One by one, the laces slipped out of their holes until the corset fell open. He stepped back in front of her and gently drew the corset over her shoulders, then dropped it carelessly onto the floor.

Alethea didn't notice, but even if she had, she didn't care. She stared at him, excitement and fear churning so fiercely in her abdomen that she felt almost ill. Placing his hands on her waist, he lifted her away from the heap of discarded clothing. His eyes burned with savage intensity and he cupped her cheek with his hand. Then slowly, oh, so slowly that she thought time must be standing still, he lowered his head. His lips touched hers.