The Duke I’m Going to Marry (Farthingale Series Book 2) (27 page)

He put his arms around her and kissed her on the nose again. “I’m feeling desperately hungry. How about you, Daffy? Care for some more broth?”

“Only enough to dump over your head.” However, she wasn’t really angry with Ian for changing the subject and making a jest of something so important. And calling her Daffy again. He was purposely shutting her out. She’d chipped at the walls surrounding his heart and he didn’t like it. This was his Ian-back-in-hiding response.

She knew that he wasn’t trying to hurt her. He would marry her. Out of a sense of duty, of course. Yet, sometimes he looked at her in a loving way. Even now, he was holding her in his arms and seemed in no hurry to let her go.

When he finally did ease away and rose from the bed, she shook her head and sighed. His lean, golden body was now on glorious display, but so were his scars. The raw, ugly one across his stomach was most prominent. “I’ll scrounge up something for us to eat. I’m famished. How about you?”

“Ravenous. You had better be quick about it, Your Grace, or I’ll take a bite out of your firm, golden buns.”

***

Ian awoke the next morning to the sounds of servants stirring downstairs. He glanced at Dillie, who was curled up against his body, her arm thrown across his chest and one leg wedged between both of his.

She looked innocent as a kitten, a sleeping kitten with long, dark hair that cascaded over the pillows in a splendid, silky waterfall. And she was naked. Gloriously so. He skimmed his hand along the length of her arm. Her skin was pink and felt warm.

“You’re beautiful, sweetheart,” he said in a whisper, kissing her on the cheek. He slipped out of bed as quietly as he could manage and crossed to the hearth to add more logs to the fire that had died out sometime during the night. The shutters were closed, but he could hear the icy rain still pelting the slats without letup. He and Dillie would be trapped here at least another day.

He glanced upward.
Thank you.
Another day with Dillie would be heaven.

He glanced back at her luscious, sleeping form. A sudden thought struck him. He’d slept last night. At least five hours straight between the last time he’d... with Dillie... and then he’d fallen asleep and not stirred until now. No nightmares to jolt him awake. No terrors to leave him in a sweat and gasping for breath.

The logical explanation was that he’d simply been bone weary last night. After all, he’d traveled all day in a miserable rain that had turned hard and icy, and then carried Abner from the overturned carriage back to the inn. The long day and foul weather would have been enough to make any man weary.

He knew that his tortured dreams would return tonight. He’d been spared only the one night. That was the logical explanation.

Then there was the Dillie explanation.

He had pleasured her. Twice. But she had worked her magic on him as well. There was something about her smile that grabbed his heart, and something about her touch that he always found soft and soothing.

She had a way of easing his pain.

He didn’t know how she managed it, she just did. Even last night, the way she’d cuddled against him to seek his warmth, had made him feel so good. Peaceful. Contented. He hadn’t felt that way since his brother’s death.

She must have sensed his gaze on her, for she opened her eyes and sat up in bed. She cast him a sleepy, vixen smile that made his heart soar. “Good morning, naked Ian.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Good morning, Daffy. You’re looking rather naked yourself.”

She glanced down. “Oh, dear.” She drew the covers over her breasts. “Have you seen my nightshirt?”

“My shirt, to be precise. I’ll look for it in a moment, though it’s an awful pity to cover up your heavenly body. You look much better with nothing on.”

She blushed. “That isn’t the point. The innkeeper and his staff are stirring downstairs. We’ll have to let them in sooner or later.”

“But not yet.” He tossed some kindling into the hearth to get the fire started, and once it began to burn, tossed in several logs. Then he turned to inspect the clothes he’d hung up to dry last night. They were still a little damp, but would be dry within the hour. “It’s still early. We have time before anyone bothers us. How do you feel?”

She cast him another soft smile. “Very wifely. I enjoyed... you know.”

“So did I,” he said with a chuckle, “very much. But I meant your foot. You didn’t take any laudanum before you fell asleep. Does it still hurt? The lump on your brow seems to have subsided.”

She touched her hand lightly to her forehead. “It’s much better. I hardly feel it now. The foot’s still sore.” She drew back enough of the covers to show her leg. Her ankle was swollen and a deep purplish blue.

He grabbed two pillows and carefully tucked her injured foot atop them. “Try not to put your weight on it, at least for today.”

“But I must see Abner. Will you carry me over to his room later? I wonder how he’s doing.”

“He’s safely on the mend, I think. We would have been alerted otherwise. I instructed Mr. Gwynne to let me know at once if Abner took a turn for the worse.”

She nibbled her lower lip. “That was before you shocked the poor man by locking yourself in with me.” She sighed. “At my behest, no less. What must he think of me?”

“Are you regretting last night?”
Damn
. He shouldn’t have asked the question, for he might receive an answer he didn’t wish to hear.

She glanced at him in surprise. “No, of course not. Last night was wonderful.”

He nodded. “I thought so, too.”

“I know. You’re strutting around like a dominant male baboon. See, even now you’re casting me a baboon grin, that I-satisfied-my-woman, smug sort of grin.” Then she made a silly monkey face and uttered a monkey sound, and Ian burst out laughing. In that moment, he was happy. Unrestrained. Heartfelt. Happy.

Happy because he was with Dillie.

There was no artifice about the girl, only genuine warmth. She’d given him everything last night and demanded so little in return. He owed her, but not out of a sense of duty. He owed her because she meant something to him. Because he cared about her and didn’t ever wish to hurt her.

He cleared his throat as he picked up the shirt that had lodged between the mattress and the footboard. He handed it to Dillie.

“Will you help me to put it on?” she asked with an impish, glowing smile that reached into her eyes.

“No. If I help, you won’t ever get it on you. I love the way you look right now.”
Had he just used the word love?
“You’re prettier than a perfect sunrise.” He turned away before he spilled the rest of his thoughts, most of which had to do with his immediate sexual urges. Last night hadn’t been nearly enough for him. He wanted more time with Dillie. Hell, he wanted Dillie.

The frightening part was that he wanted
only
Dillie.

Not just for now.

Possibly forever.

BY LATE MORNING,
Dillie was propped in bed, tended by Mrs. Gwynne and Hilda, a sturdily built older woman with thick, curly hair that appeared quite orange against her mob cap. She recognized Hilda as one of the maids who had taken care of her the night before. “Eat up now, Miss Dillie,” she said with a motherly concern in her bright green eyes. “There isn’t much meat on yer bones.”

She’d set a hearty breakfast of poached eggs and sausages before Dillie, and once Dillie had devoured it—she was the first to admit she was famished—Hilda and Mrs. Gwynne had helped her to prepare herself for the day. One brushed her hair and braided it. The other assisted her in washing.

Neither mentioned that both sides of the bed were rumpled.

Or that she was still wearing Ian’s shirt.

Or that Ian, the Duke of Edgeware, could have asked on her behalf to borrow a gown or robe or something similarly suitable from Mrs. Gwynne or any of the maids. He would have compensated them handsomely.

She glanced at her own gown draped over one of the chair backs. It looked torn and stained, not at all fit to be worn by a young lady of her genteel upbringing. No matter, for Ian had ordered her to remain in bed today. She would worry about what to wear tomorrow... or the day after... or day after that.

The storm would have to pass eventually. What would happen then?

Mrs. Gwynne and Hilda were still smiling at her. She thought it quite odd, for they appeared cheerful and not at all disapproving of her when the evidence of what had taken place between her and Ian was all around them.

Her father would learn of it shortly. There would be no arguing with him afterward or stopping the men in the Farthingale clan from coming after Ian. Not that Ian was resisting. She was the one who had been reluctant to wed, but not anymore. “Has His Grace returned yet?”

Her soon-to-be husband, as she was now beginning to think of Ian, had promised to carry her into Abner’s chamber for a short visit after he’d returned from scouting the site of the accident.

“No, Miss Dillie,” Mrs. Gwynne replied, casting her yet another kind smile. Dillie had expected curious looks and condescending frowns, but both ladies were exceedingly polite. She didn’t know what Ian had said to them, but he’d obviously told them something outrageous. What was it? “He and Mr. Gwynne are still out in that storm, hoping to salvage some of your baggage. They’ll try to recover the carriage as well.” She shook her head and grumbled. “Never seen such beastly weather in m’life.”

“Please let me know when he returns.”

Mrs. Gwynne chuckled. “Oh, ye needn’t worry about His Grace. I think he’ll come straight up to see ye. I doubt ye’ve been out of his thoughts since he first set eyes on ye.”

Dillie struggled not to blush, but her entire face heated, including the tip of her nose and tips of her ears. The women either didn’t notice or politely pretended that they hadn’t.

Hilda busied herself by clearing off the remains of her breakfast while Mrs. Gwynne crossed to the shutters and opened them to peer out. She must have been concerned about her husband battling his way home even though it was now daylight. The storm was a dangerous one, blinding snow and thick ice mingled with torrential spurts of frigid rain. It seemed as though the skies had opened up and launched all manner of weaponry in the celestial arsenal at them.

Dillie was concerned as well.

“No letup yet,” Mrs. Gwynne muttered, but a moment later she let out a soft gasp. “Oh, heavens be praised! The men are returning.”

“Do let them in, Mrs. Gwynne. You needn’t stay to fuss over me. I’ll manage.”

“Thank ye, Miss Dillie.” She bobbed a curtsy and bustled out of the room.

Hilda remained, but not for long. “I’ll bring up a pot of freshly brewed tea and some cakes. His Grace will surely need something to warm ’im up, though I’m sure the sight of ye will be enough for ’im.”

Dillie shook her head and smiled.
What in heavens had he told them?

Her heart beat a little faster when she heard the appealing rumble of Ian’s voice downstairs and then recognized his confident stride as he marched up the steps. Within moments he was at the door, entering their chamber.
Their
chamber, as in the one they were still sharing. His expression was serious until he saw her, and then it seemed as though his entire being lightened. He grinned at her. “I missed you.”

Her heart took a small leap. This was Ian. Duke Ian. The Duke of Edgeware. The rakehell all mothers warned their daughters about.
Her
Ian, and he’d missed her. “I missed you, too. Warm yourself beside the fire, then you can tell me what you found. Hilda’s bringing up tea and cakes for you. I’ll ask her to bring up something more substantial if you’re hungry. Some chicken stew or... Ian, you’re still grinning at me.”

“Am I?” He hung his oilcloth and cloak on hooks beside the hearth, and then ran his fingers through his wet hair. His normally deep honey-gold hair appeared darker because it was wet, more the color of chestnuts.

“Yes, you are. What are you thinking?”

He shrugged. “That you look quite content in that enormous bed. Is it because of me?”

She rolled her eyes. “The inn contents me. It’s warm and inviting and I’m being well cared for. You, on the other hand, confuse me. What did you say to the innkeeper and his staff? I’m being treated like a princess.”

“And not a fallen angel?” He ran a hand once more through his hair. “You ought to be treated with utmost deference, for you and Abner are in my care. I would expect no less from them. I needn’t say a word. I’m a duke. Dukes do not explain themselves to anyone but the royal family.”

“Most odd. Well, make yourself comfortable and tell me what you found.”

He brought a chair to her bedside and settled his large frame onto it. “The carriage is destroyed,” he said with a shake of his head. “The frame is twisted and bent. The seat cushions are not only soaked, but muddied and torn. The roof is cracked. So are two of the wheels.”

“Oh, dear. Father won’t be pleased, though I suppose it’ll be the least of his concerns once he finds out how I’ve spent these past two days.”

“You needn’t dwell on your father’s response. A wedding band on your finger will cure all ills.” He studied her, appearing to steel himself against her protest.

She made none. “You’re right. Were you able to save any of my gowns?”

“I’m right?” He made no effort to mask his surprise, and seemed pleased by her decision. She supposed it was better than seeing a look of resignation on his face.

“You are,” she admitted, casting him a soft smile. “However, I refuse to be called Duchess Daffy. Merely being addressed as
duchess
will be disconcerting enough.”

He shook his head and laughed. “I’ll add it as a condition to the betrothal contract. I suppose I’ll have to add a clause about your clothing allowance. You’re going to need a new wardrobe, since the contents of your trunk were mostly washed down the river. What remains is ruined rags.”

“Madame de Bressard will be pleased,” she said, referring to London’s most sought after modiste, who had designed most of her gowns.