A Duchess by Midnight by Charis Michaels

Author:Charis Michaels
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2022-07-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

Ian entered the duchess’s suite to find it empty.

He hovered on the precipice, confused. “Hello?” he tried.

“I’m here, Your Grace.” At the sound of her voice, he gripped the doorknob, squeezing the worn brass in anticipation.

No guarantees, mate, he told himself. Keep calm. You’ve come to discuss logistical practicalities, nothing more.

Also, there wasn’t time for more.

Ian had business tonight on the docks of South London of all places. His estate manager Loring had sent a note after the wedding. Avenelle tenants were attempting to embark on a smuggling venture to sell their lace abroad.

Loring had tracked their scheme to a smuggling crew who were, at this moment, provisioning and making repairs in Blackwall.

Before Ian approached the tenants, he wanted to know everything about what they had planned. They trusted him so little after the riots, he could hardly come to them with gossip and conjecture. He must know who, and when, how much, and why. Only then could he offer some alternative to dissuade them.

As loathe has Ian was to venture out on this of all nights, smugglers were not known to remain in port for long, and they kept hidden in the light of day. Now was the time. Loring was set to meet him in Whitechapel in a matter of hours; they would ride to Blackwall and see for themselves.

It was highly unlikely that he’d spend “a matter of hours” with his new wife; but he could hardly go out without speaking to her at all. And so here he was, stepping around the door.

The room was dim, illuminated only by a low fire. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. He craned his head, following the sound of her voice. He was just about to call out again, when he saw her.

She was perched in the window seat. Perched. Shoulders tight, feet drawn up, like a girl on a village wall. He blinked, struggling to make out the fine details. He took another step.

“Miss Trelayne?”

Outside the window, a cloud was tugged from the moon and white light flooded the alcove.

Holy bleeding hell. She was not a girl on a village wall, she was a goddess who’d fallen from the sky and settled in the window.

Her pale face was half obscured by her hair. So much hair. Ian stared, distracted like a—well, like a man who’d seen a beautiful woman.

“Hello,” he repeated.

Her expression was open, innocent, and uncertain. It was the same way she’d stared at him in the gallery. It propelled him in a way he would not have imagined. His mouth watered and his body grew languid and heavy. The reaction was strange, because he’d never before dealt in innocents; his uncle had taught him better than to chase after virginal women. His past lovers had been aggressively assured of what they wanted and how they wanted it. The untried, open question on her face was an elixir from which he wanted to drink and drink and drink.

But first things first. He’d come in to discuss any of a number of arrangements not yet defined about their future.

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