Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,126
purse her lips in disapproval when her mistress returned from wherever she’d been, wrapped in a grass-stained rug, under which her attire was in a haphazard order and her carefully arranged hair in wanton disarray.
This merely increased the maid’s respect for the English couple. They were not bourgeois. As well as being handsome enough for his striking wife, His Grace was, apparently, an inventive and amusing lover. His French was passable, while his lady’s was impeccable. The duchess knew Paris, too, and not merely the obvious places, where all the English aristocrats went.
All in all, Fougère felt her position was more than acceptable. She demonstrated her approval by making her mistress as enticing as possible—not that it was any great labor—and discreetly withdrew thereafter, leaving the lady to await her bridegroom.
Cassandra waited, marveling at what Ashmont had done already, to bring her here and create a magical first night of marriage in a place that held so many fond memories.
She and Alice had taken refuge in the fishing house many, many times, after the boys had gone back to school. She knew Alice still came here from time to time, especially in the last three years, when all the family worried about Aunt Julia. Alice had stayed in the fishing house not long ago, in fact, shortly before Ripley married Olympia.
Blackwood had been there recently, too, but returned to London for his friend’s wedding. Matters between Alice and him had not seemed at all improved.
“Frowning, on your wedding night?”
She looked up. Ashmont stood in the doorway. He wore a dressing gown of deep blue velvet, with dark red piping. Apart from the red slippers, he seemed to be wearing nothing else. The neckline of the robe revealed a fine sprinkling of golden hair. He had a book in his hand.
“I was only woolgathering,” she said. “You are holding a book.”
He looked down at it. “Oh. Yes. Forgot for a minute. You’re even more ravishing than you were in your wedding dress. And out of it. And in the traveling dress. And out of it. Do you know, I’m beginning to believe you must be ravishing all the time.”
He came to the bed. “I thought I’d read to you.”
She stared at him. “This is our wedding night.”
“Yes, but we had the ceremonial deflowering already. And may I say I was never so petrified in all my life. Never did that before.”
“You mentioned it was your first time. You did well for a beginner.”
“Thank you.”
That was why he’d gone so slowly and carefully. To make it as enjoyable for her as he could. A considerate man.
Who’d have guessed?
Cassandra Pomfret, for one. She’d known he could be more, so much more, and he’d been proving her right . . . oh, for weeks now.
He came to the bed. He set the book on the bedside table, unfastened the dressing gown, and threw it onto the nearest chair.
“Warm night,” he said.
She let her gaze travel down his long, lean, muscled body, gleaming in the candlelight. A golden Apollo. While she studied him, a part of his anatomy began to swell.
“No, no, that won’t do,” he said.
“I believe it will.”
“No, I had this all planned. I’m going to read to you.”
“My dear, I never doubted you could read. You don’t have to prove it.”
“No, I want to read to you. Been waiting. Planning.”
“You had an idea,” she said.
“Yes.” He sat down on the bed beside her. “Make room for the duke, please.”
She moved aside.
He settled into the bed, plumping up pillows behind her and behind himself. He took up the book.
She couldn’t tell what it was. It was contained in an expensive leather binding, with a gilt design but no title or other identification.
“Just lean back and listen,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”
She liked being next to his nakedness. She liked his wanting to amuse her. She settled back against the pillows. “I’m ready.”
He began to read.
“AFTER considering the historic page, and viewing the living world with anxious solicitude, the most melancholy emotions of sorrowful indignation have depressed my spirits, and I have sighed when obliged to confess, that either nature has made a great difference between man and man, or that the civilization which has hitherto taken place in the world has been very partial.”
Cassandra sat bolt upright. “That is Mary Wollstonecraft.”
“So it is.” He went on reading, not page after page, but what she discovered were marked pages. He’d read the book. He’d found passages he wanted to share with her.