A Duchess in the Dark(3)

“I fail to see what is so damn funny.”

“Gwendolyn isn’t here, old man. You’re getting your women mixed up, you fortunate bastard.”

Ashton lifted a questioning brow, which prompted James to elaborate. “Margaret received a letter from her this morning. She’s been delayed—her mother’s health or some such nonsense. She isn’t due to arrive until early this afternoon.”

No, that wasn’t possible. He’d ravaged the woman, for God’s sake. Clearly it was a misunderstanding. “Well, whatever that letter said, I’m certain it was her. She must have arrived earlier than expected.”

James shook his head. “Afraid not, ol’ chap. That one isn’t likely to escape anyone’s notice.”

Ashton had to concede to that fact. She wasn’t likely to slip past the servants or the other guests. But if she wasn’t here, then who had climbed into his bed?

Ashton narrowed his gaze on James. “Someone climbed into my bed last night, and when I awoke this morning there was blood on the sheets. If you’ve orchestrated this as a joke…”

James raised his hands in surrender, looking far too amused by all this. “I wouldn’t dream of risking my wife’s anger by causing discord among her guests. I swear it.”

And Ashton believed him, damn it. And besides James, there wasn’t anyone else present who’d play such a cruel joke. He could only conclude that the woman had purposefully placed herself in his bed.

Ashton reflected on the woman herself. Even in his brandy-induced haze, he remembered the heat of her breath on his skin, the sweet taste of her as he licked and savored those pert little breasts. He paused. Pert little breasts.

“Christ.”

“What is it?” James asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

How much should one reveal of one’s own stupidity? Ashton let out a sharp, aggravated breath.

“I’ve only just realized that the woman in my room last night had rather small breasts.” He remembered how perfectly her breasts fit in his palm, how splendid they felt brushing against his chest as he slid into her.

“Then we can safely rule out your widow. Aside from the fact that she isn’t present, her breasts aren’t exactly small.” James buttered a piece of toast. “Any idea who your mystery lady could be? We have a houseful, you know. My wife insisted on inviting half of London. It could be anyone.”

Ashton’s gaze swept the room critically, taking in all the young women present in a different light. All he knew for certain was that the woman had a sweet little moan, delicious breasts, and… “She was a virgin.”

Astonishment and a liberal amount of sympathy crossed his friend’s face. “Well, we hardly need to guess, then. She’ll be making herself known soon enough. No doubt it’s a proposal she’s after, whoever she is.” He slapped Ashton on the shoulder. “You’d best pack up and run while you still can.”

Ashton cursed under his breath. What had he gotten himself into? He’d been too damned foxed to realize another woman had crawled into his bed. Had he seen the woman’s face and known she wasn’t his mistress, he would never have taken liberties.

But, God, how she’d heated his blood, her lithe body sending him over the edge, into oblivion. He hadn’t even seen her face and already he was entranced. He had to find her, whoever she was, if only to satisfy his curiosity and uncover her motives.

“I will not run.” He sat back in his chair. “I have no other option than to seek the woman out and make amends.” He stirred his coffee distractedly. “How does one detect a newly deflowered virgin?”

“Quite simple,” James said. “They almost always twitch for days afterward. Nothing dramatic, mind you, just a subtle twitch of the eye or lips.”

Ashton stared at him. He was quite serious. “That’s preposterous, James. You really are addled.”

James raised a brow. “How many virgins have you deflowered?”

“Only one, it would seem.” He’d only ever bedded widows. They were plentiful enough in London, and in the country. Why would one purposely set out to dally with a troublesome virgin? James, on the other hand, had no such objection. He’d deflowered at least two women during their years together at Eton.

“Precisely,” James said confidently, taking a bite of his toast. “Find yourself a twitchy eye, and you’ve found your mystery woman. Mark my words.”





Chapter Two



Daphne had spent the night pacing, cursing her own impulsiveness, anxiety swirling like a tempest in her belly. Somehow, she had to set this all to rights.