His breathing was labored, and it took him a full minute to gather himself before he finally rolled off of her. This was the moment, she thought, that regret would start to sink in. The moment that he’d shower her with apologies and beg forgiveness. She’d promised herself that if she went through with this, she wouldn’t remain long enough for him to pollute the moment with shame. What was done was done, and she was happy for it.
Without a word, she kissed his forehead and pulled away, just as she felt him reach for her.
“Stay,” he said.
She hesitated, drawn by his warmth and by the rough, erotic rumble of his voice. How desperately she wanted to curl up within the shelter of his arms and drift off to sleep…but she couldn’t. She’d already risked too much by coming here.
“I can’t,” she whispered, disentangling herself from his arms. “Someone will discover us.”
Quickly, she scrambled off the bed. She stumbled around in the darkness and retrieved her robe, sliding the silky material over her shoulders. She blew a kiss into the air, smiling to herself. Edward was hers. Surely now, after their passionate encounter, he wouldn’t hesitate to propose. It was the next logical step.
She slipped out the door and into the passageway, tiptoeing her way back to her bedroom. He was hers now. And no one, not even her brother-in-law, could possibly object to the marriage. Smiling to herself, she ran her fingers along the cool surface of the wall when someone rounded the corner from the opposite end of the passageway, candle held high.
Daphne stopped abruptly and looked up, into the face illuminated by the orange glow of the candle flame. “Edward?”
“Daphne,” he said, surprised.
Her heart stopped, then leapt into her throat. “My God,” she gasped. “What have I done?”
* * *
The next morning, Ashton Lewis Fitzgerald, Duke of Claymore, rolled onto his back and drew in a deep, satisfied breath. The smell of sex still lingered in the air, permeated the crisp white sheets. Gwendolyn had found her way into his bed. She always did, one way or another. And he always welcomed her with fervor. And last night had been unparalleled. His blood still buzzed from the feel of her skin, from the taste of her sweet honeyed lips. Perhaps it was just the brandy, but last night had been different, powerful. The way she’d moved, the way she’d arched into him, giving herself completely, had taken him to new heights. Their couplings had always been pleasant and passionate. But until last night, he’d never truly felt connected to her.
Already he craved more.
Even her scent had changed. New soap, perhaps. Lavender with just a touch of mint. He’d drawn it into his lungs and inexplicably felt a sense of rightness.
Owens, his valet, pushed the curtains open to let in the blinding midmorning sun. Ashton rolled onto his stomach and pulled the pillow over his head to block out the light. On his next visit, he must remember to request a westward-facing room. He lifted the pillow just enough to speak and be heard. “Is James awake?”
“He is, Your Grace.”
With a heavy groan, Ashton threw the pillow aside and lifted himself up onto his elbows. The white sheets were tangled around his legs and a flash of color in his periphery drew his attention. A dark-red substance was smeared across the mattress. He squinted and drew his brows together. It looked curiously like dried blood. A quick assessment of his person revealed no open wounds, thank heaven. “What in the devil happened…?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess,” Owens replied in his usual monotone.
Ashton stared down at his ruined sheets. Perhaps it was Gwen’s time, and she’d been too overcome with lust to wait until her courses subsided. That must be it. Ashton smiled to himself. What other reason could there be?
The breakfast room was filled to the brim with guests, all mingling politely, taking their breakfast and talking about the tour around the lake that was planned for later that morning. As he moved to the buffet, a familiar voice rang out from across the room.
“There you are, old man. I was wondering when you’d finally show your face.” James Leventhorpe, his friend and host, was sitting at the breakfast table, a newspaper spread out in front of him.
“I was up late.” Ashton poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat in the empty chair beside James and lowered his voice to a conspiring whisper. “She came to me last night, and she was quite extraordinary.” Ashton winked and sat back in his chair, awaiting James’s gentlemanly praise.
“You couldn’t mean your pretty little widow.”
“The very one,” Ashton said.
James threw his head back and laughed.