The Devil's Own Duke by Lenora Bell

Author:Lenora Bell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Avon
Published: 2021-09-28T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Hetty was as prepared as she’d ever be. Gretchen had helped her select a peignoir in a pale shade of shell pink, gathered under her bosom with silk ribbons and embroidered rosebuds.

The silk slid over the tips of her breasts with a delicious friction every time she moved. Over the peignoir, she’d donned an ivory silk wrapper that tied at the waist.

Her feet were bare. Her hair loose and brushed until it shone.

Anticipation frothed inside her mind. Are you really going to do this, Hetty?

For all her fine resolutions to remain impassive and indifferent, there was a naughty little voice that said she would enjoy herself tonight.

There wasn’t anything wrong with enjoying it. What would be wrong would be to mistake it for anything other than what it was: a duty.

One hour of conjugal relations. That’s what she’d negotiated. She had a wooden hourglass under her arm. When the last grain of sand slipped away, she’d return to her own room.

There was a schedule to keep. There were boundaries to maintain.

She knocked softly on the door separating their chambers. No answer. She knocked louder. Still no answer.

“Ash,” she called. “Let me in.”

They both had the option to lock the door from the inside. She had made sure her side was latched as she had a bath and Gretchen had prepared her for the wedding night.

She tried the knob, and it turned easily. Swinging the door wide, she took a deep breath before walking over the threshold and into the arms of the wicked scoundrel who would take her virginity tonight.

The scoundrel who was . . . fast asleep?

He lay curled up on the bed with Lucy nestled in the crook of his arm, holding her as if she were a baby. The two of them were snoring lightly. Lucy’s paw was draped over his forearm.

They had matching contented smiles on their faces. Though Hetty could never be certain if cats really smiled, or if humans only assigned them this personifying trait.

Lucy looked as though she were dreaming of kippers.

Ash had an expression she’d never seen before on his ruggedly handsome face: vulnerability.

She gazed down at him, and her fingers wanted to run through his golden-brown hair. He’d fallen asleep fully clothed with a bottle of her wine, empty, beside him on the bed.

She didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved that he wasn’t ready and waiting, eager to have his way with her. She placed the hourglass on the mantel and had a look around the room.

He’d made himself at home, strewing clothing over chairs and piling books on tables. His shiny new boots already had a scuff and had been discarded in a heap by the fireplace.

There was a half-eaten plate of food on the table. He must have dismissed the servants and told them not to return.

She could tiptoe out of the room and let him sleep. He’d wake up when the room was pitch dark. Then he’d remember. This was his wedding night.

Maybe he’d knock on her door, but by then she’d be slumbering, her door latched.

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