Her Mystery Duke (4 page)

She peeled out of her pelisse and let it drop to the floor,
then rushed to the bed.

Her gaze traveled over his well-tailored cutaway coat with
its brass buttons. She reached out and ran her hand over his dove gray
pantaloons. Velveteen. A finer nap than could be believed covered his hard
musculature. She jerked her hand back.

Good heavens. She’d never been alone with a gentleman so
finely attired. His wealth must be spectacular. That was a bit daunting to be
perfectly honest. Still, a man was a man. Only with much tugging, pulling, and
shifting on her part did she manage to get his jacket and waistcoat off. His
pantaloon buttons proved to be so damned tight. Inexpressibles. Ha!

He groaned a few times but never awoke. She, however, paused
many times, sweating, trembling with fatigue. She’d never actually disrobed a
man. She hadn’t expected it to be so damned difficult. But she dared not ask
for help. The other women here were rather prone to gossip. And if they knew
she had such a fine gentleman in her garret, they might actually come in the
night and attempt to take his clothes, his fine Hessian boots, and his money.

With no other choice, Jeanne pressed on, peeling every layer
off. The tremendous heat of his body seemed to singe her fingers and her hands
began to shake with urgency.

Her hands still shook as she stood holding a basin of cool
water and sloshing the contents on to the wooden floor. From his broad shoulders
to his well-muscled chest, flat stomach and narrow hips, he was absolutely
gorgeous. She’d never seen a man so well formed. Well, at least not bared.

She sat on the side of the bed, dipped a cloth into the
water, and wrung it out. She ran the cloth over his forehead. The linen quickly
became warm. Her mouth dried considerably. Would she really be able to care for
him adequately herself? When she lifted his head and ran the cloth across his
nape, her hands were shaking again. She had no choice. She must care for him.
Must do the best she could—no, better than her best. She couldn’t allow herself
to fail.

Inspiration hit her. She took the basin and gently lowered
the back of his head into it then left his hair wet to continue cooling his
head. She fetched another basinful of water, then worked the cloth over the
angles and planes of his body, again and again. Gradually his flesh felt less
feverish. She put a hand over her stomach and tried to rub away a sudden empty
ache. She needed to eat, to remain strong for the gentleman’s sake. Jeanne
pulled the coverlet over his nakedness then hurried away to gather some food.

The cold, stale tea washed over her dry gullet like pure
bliss. Day-old bread and hard cheese had never tasted so good. Hunger, thirst.
They were such basic drives. Maybe that was what she needed to write the last
story. Something drawn from the basics of life. Her mind ran through several
scenarios. Each left her grimacing in disgust. Trite, so trite—every thought
and idea she had was more ordinary than the last. It had once been so easy.
What had happened?

Deep groans echoed.

She jerked around and looked to the bed. The large form
under her covers startled her. Oh yes, the gentleman!

He would need something to drink. She took the pot, heated
more water and steeped some elderberry tea. Then she filled a cup, grabbed the
spoon, and hurried back to him. Settled on the bedside, she spooned small
amounts between his lips. Aided his natural functions with the chamber pot.
She’d played nurse many times for Papa. There was a resignation about the act.
An acceptance that calmed her. It took her mind off the ever-present ache. The
emptiness within her. The sense of having been denied and never being given any
recompense. It was pure self-pity and enough to send a spiral of shame through
her any time she admitted the true source of that inner aching. That pervasive
frustration.

She couldn’t help it. She hurt inside, every moment of every
day and every night.

She shook herself. He would need gruel. She’d better make
some.

Like an automaton, she worked. Bathing his body until it
cooled, feeding him sips of tea and watered gruel, and snatching bits of rest
in between the times his restiveness and ravings wouldn’t allow it. He
developed a rasping, dry, unproductive cough that alarmed her more than
anything.

But by the morning of the third day, his body felt markedly
cooler whilst she bathed it. Exhausted and dreamy minded, she found her strokes
growing slower, lingering, as her fingers kept straying from the edges of the
cloth to feather over his smooth, slightly moist skin.

The chiseled angles of his face, shadowed with a thick
growth of black beard, caught her eye once again.

 
He opened his eyes. Wondrous,
clear pools of emerald, framed by thick, dark lashes, gazed at her with
lucidity.

Her heart skipped a beat. Then, hit by the beauty of those
eyes, she sucked in her breath.

He touched her hand. “Who are you, darling?”

“Jeanne.” Goodness, her voice sounded almost as raspy as
his.

The barest hint of a smile flitted across his dry, pale
lips. “Jeannie.”

“Jeanne.” She repeated firmly. Papa had called her Jeannie,
had screamed the name in his sleep, roared the name in rage. She sagged at the
thought.

“Jeanne.” Her name spoken in his voice sent tingling warmth
through her insides, chasing away bad memories.

She stared at him, a little bemused. She knew next to
nothing about him, and yet she felt closer to him at this moment than she’d
been to anyone in her whole life, except Papa.

He enveloped her hand with his. As she stared into his
compelling eyes, it grew harder to think clearly. She glanced away and studied
the lines of a crack in the plastered wall.

“And what is your name?” Perhaps she should have said “sir”
but seeing as he was naked in her bed and she had already touched every inch of
his body, she didn’t.

“David…” His voice faded. Wheezing resumed.

She glanced at him again. His eyes were closed and his mouth
was open.

The warm, soaring energy building in her at his unexpected
lucidness, at the sound of his voice, at his touch, suddenly disappeared and
she was left weakened.

Her gaze drifted towards the rise and fall of his muscled
chest. The strong, perfect lines of his nakedness. Her fatigue eased, replaced
by a baser type of energy than a moment before. She was aware her mouth hung
open. She was aware that she was ogling a helpless, unconscious man. But her
greater worry was fighting the urge to run her hand down that expanse of fine
dark hair and hard planes. The compulsion to watch his now flaccid, and rather
sizable shaft, swell into throbbing life.

Oh, good heavens, she wasn’t about to take advantage of a
helpless gentleman, just to humor her fancy. Yet how novel to be the one in
control. Completely in control.

She’d always been the one desperate for a gentleman’s money.
Willing to do anything he wanted to get what she needed for herself. For Papa.

She took a deep breath, then put the cool cloth to her face.
It smelled of masculine sweat: musky, spicy, primal. Sparks of arousal
electrified her nerves from head to toe. She tossed the cloth back into the
basin. It landed with a splash.

Water droplets hit her. She startled.

A man in her bed. No wonder she was edgy. She had never
shared this space with another soul since Papa, when she used to sleep on the
trundle. Not even a visitor. She had no need for visitors. Her respectable
lovers could never risk their neighbors seeing her coming or leaving from their
homes. She always visited them in the rooms they rented at sordid little
disorderly taverns. Places where no one asked questions and upstairs, no one
looked each other in the face. Places where people kept most of their clothes
on and didn’t turn back the covers. A memory of the coarse, raucous coupling
sounds echoing through the wall, the scent of cheap gin and stale sex from
previous occupants lingering in the air, as strong as if though had only been
yesterday that she had spent that last afternoon with Bernard.

Her mind traveled back in time.

* * * *

Bernard had let the last page fall from his hand. It had
drifted slowly to join the remaining pile upon the shabby blanket that covered
the bed.

She released the breath she’d been holding. “Well?”

“Sentimental pap.”

She’d known him since shortly after Papa died. His star was
on the rise. But he took the time to tutor her in the finer points of writing.
In exchange for certain favors, of course. All men were the same, even
brilliant playwrights.

She smiled. “Don’t tease me, Bernard.”

 
He looked up,
peering over his spectacles with dark eyes so flat, so serious that she sucked
in her breath again. He shook his head. “I work with you and work with you. It
does no good.”

Her mouth fell open in surprise.

“Don’t stare at me with that loose fish expression. It
doesn’t flatter you.”

“I toiled hard on those.”

“That’s the pity of it.” He made a sweeping gesture over the
stack of pages. “It’s complete rubbish.”

“I am going to submit that tomorrow and you are telling me
it is rubbish?”

He chuckled, the sound cold, almost snide. “Believe me,
Ratherford will take it. The public will consume it with relish.”

Her chest had gone tight. “I don’t understand.”

“It is beneath you, Jeanne.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“If it brings some enjoyment to those who read it, haven’t I
succeeded in my endeavor?”

“You could create works of far more depth, if only you
weren’t such a dreary little ice queen.”

“Ice queen?”

“You’ll never be a great writer.”

“Bernard, this is not something I wish to be teased over.”

 
He leveled a stern
look. “I told you already, I am not teasing. You’ll never be a true author or
playwright or poetess. Or anything else until you let yourself feel.”

Her heart began to pound and her chest grew even tighter.
“You’re saying I don’t feel? I feel.”

He cocked a brow.

“I
feel
.”

“You feel nothing. For anyone.”

“I feel inside. It is not easy for me to bring that out into
the open. You know that.”

“You merely toy with the sensation and drama of feeling, for
your own amusement. That’s the only value you place on others—their ability to
generate these sham passions in the depths of your imagination.”

Surely all the blood had drained from her head, for she’d
gone all-lightheaded. The candles seemed a bit too bright. Her heart pounded
even harder. He couldn’t be right. But why was he being so cruel to her? “Take
it back, Bernard.”

He stared back with a hard expression, his arms crossed over
his chest.

She wanted to run to him and hit him. Hit him again and
again until he took back every damned word. Until he became so angry, he would
take her to bed and she could feel in the only way that seemed safe.

But she didn’t. Instead, she took a deep, shuddering breath
then fixed him with a steady, cool look. “I feel for you. We’re friends, are we
not?”

He made another sweeping gesture over the bed. “You open
your legs to me. That’s all. And you let me read and critique your little
scribblings. But here in this bed, even after all this time, you remain a
stranger.”

“From what I have observed, you haven’t a need for
complaint.”

“Haven’t I? Do you think I am without feelings?” His lip
curled. “Like you?”

“What are you saying, Bernard?”

“I am saying I am done with being one of your playthings.
Done with you. “

“Just now, because you didn’t like my latest story, you’re
giving me a
congè
?”

“This didn’t just happen this moment.” His expression eased.
No, closed was a more apt term. “Ratherford told me if I didn’t either wed you
or let you go, he was going to call me out.”

“But why? What does it matter to him?”

“An authoress must be beyond reproach, especially if she is
writing for children. Consider it a compliment, sweeting. He considers you a
very valuable asset.”

“Wait, you knew you would say goodbye today? Before…?” She
had to stop and pant a moment, so great was the outrage. “Then what was this
afternoon, an extended farewell?”

“Call it that if you like.” He looked off to the side, as
though he must avoid her gaze. “You know my weakness in regards to your
physical attributes.”

He meant her bosom. He’d told her often enough that he’d
seen none to compare. Renewed heat boiled through her.

He laughed softly. “From appearances, one suspects you to be
a woman with strong and deep passions. The sad truth is that you have merely
wanted me to refine your innate talents and make a writer from a scribbler.”

Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. Pure fear that he
spoke the truth. That she was nothing inside. Nothing. The constant ache inside
her swelled into agony. The hurt was bone deep. How could she hurt so deeply
inside, all the time, unceasing, and yet he said she felt nothing? He wasn’t
the first to say that. Only the latest.

Harsh words rose to her lips. The only protection she knew.
“I like the rent money, too, Bernard.”

He laughed again, the sound cold, empty.

It cut into her like shards of ice.

“I had hoped for so much. You were my perfect ideal of
feminine attractiveness. You can spin your stories and write quite well.
However, you could do so much more if only you weren’t so damned closed off to
others. To life itself. You want to stay cloistered here. You want to hide. I
don’t want a wife who wants to hide. I want someone who will strive to be the
best she can be. I want someone who will share life with me.”

A series of jarringly hard heartbeats slammed her chest.
Marriage? The shock left her reeling. He was leagues above her, in social
station, prospects, and talent. “Bernard, please, we never spoke of matri—”