The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,42

more sense when he was in London. “I’m not certain. I think all those questions about when I was going to get married and have a little marquess and a few spares running about. They all have their own families, and I feel...extra.”

“Ah.” She was silent for a moment. “That’s a silly reason not to visit.”

“I think so too,” he admitted. “Maybe they were right.”

“About what?”

“To question me. I was just enjoying my life so much. I-I should have seen them more.”

“Well, at least you still can,” Portia said.

“Yes,” Colin said. “There is that.”

Portia was silent, and he wondered if she was thinking about the fact she couldn’t see her family. He hoped not. He didn’t want to give her pain. He wanted only nice things for her.

“I wanted to suggest—” Portia stopped suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Well, I hope you don’t think I’m too forward, but I—er—just wanted to let you know that you could sleep beside me.”

He blinked.

Did she mean?

He shook his head. Of course she couldn’t mean that.

“I don’t understand. I am beside you.”

“On the bed, you silly thing.”

“Oh.”

He was silent.

“Unless you don’t want to.”

“N-no, that would be nice.”

“It would be warmer. And—er—softer.”

Dash it.

She didn’t realize what she was saying. Now he was thinking of her warm body, her soft body, her—

His throat dried. “I—er—don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Because I don’t like thinking of you as uncomfortable.”

Colin certainly wasn’t going to fault her for her values.

“And if I think you’re uncomfortable, I can’t sleep,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Even if I tell you I don’t mind?”

“Especially then,” she said. “You’ve already been so kind and good and wonderful. You can’t do that at every opportunity.”

Portia didn’t seem to realize she’d been the person being kind and good and wonderful.

“If you truly want me to—”

“Yes.”

“Well then... I—er—suppose I can join you.”

“Splendid,” she said.

Colin raised his torso and scrambled up.

He was certain this was a bad idea.

But the thought of a soft bed was tempting, and it would be ungentlemanly to refuse such a generous offer.

At least, it would probably be ungentlemanly to refuse.

Colin decided he wasn’t going to linger too much on the precise ethics of the matter. That was the sort of thing that might make his head hurt, and he was quite certain that was not the point of all of Portia’s kindness. Colin scrambled from his makeshift bed. He picked up the covers and put them on the bed. Too late he remembered that his manhood was stiff.

Thank goodness the light was out. He spread the blankets over the bed. “Now we’ll both be warmer.”

“How nice,” she murmured.

Her voice had a delightful drowsy sound to it, and now Colin was certain he was doing the right thing. He lifted up a corner of the blankets and slipped into bed, careful not to touch Portia.

There.

That wasn’t dreadful.

They could both be in the same bed. No touching of anything, not even an elbow.

He smiled happily. “Good night, Portia.”

“Good night, Colin.”

His heart continued to move quickly, but then it settled, eased by the sound of Portia’s regular inhalation and exhalation of breath, and everything was wonderful.

LIGHT STREAMED INTO the room, and Portia opened her eyes. An odd contentment surrounded her, as if she’d just eaten a hearty soup, drunk some wine, and listened to music.

There was no soup, no wine, and no music.

But something seemed different. The furniture certainly seemed different. And the room shape. And those pink drapes on the bed...Portia would have remembered those.

And that breathing...Was that her? Portia held her breath. No, the breath remained.

And then she remembered.

Heavens.

Was she in the same bedroom as a duke? Had she told a duke and duchess she was married to the same duke? And had she then told the duke to spend the same night as her in the bed? As if four feet of space between them was not sufficient, he then had to sleep a foot apart from her?

Fiddlesticks.

What must the man think? She turned around carefully. The last thing she wanted to do was to wake him. Perhaps if she managed to sneak out of the bed, dress herself, she could pretend that she’d never made such an audacious statement.

Was he still sleeping? She hoped he was still sleeping. Because if he wasn’t sleeping, she didn’t want to slip out of bed with only her night rail. She rather wished she’d packed her heavy flannel one instead of this cotton one which was more becoming underneath dresses, but also more revealing.

She finished turning around.

Heavens.

The man