A Duchess in the Dark(8)

Rubbing her sore neck, she peeked out into the hallway. The house was dark, all the occupants having gone to bed—even the men, it seemed, who’d been smoking and drinking in the drawing room for God knew how long. They often stayed up all hours, laughing and drinking, but over dinner, she’d heard them discussing plans to go shooting in the morning, which would require a proper night’s sleep.

Her mystery man must already be abed. The wise course would be to go back to bed, then wake early and try to catch him on his way out. But, Daphne having discovered her own weakness to doze at inopportune times, the prospect of catching a glimpse of this man was getting slimmer by the moment.

No, she must set her mind at ease and see him tonight—if only to assure herself he was not Ashton Fitzgerald. It was likely he was well asleep, and all she need do was sneak into his room, glimpse his face, then remove herself before anyone was the wiser.

With a lit candle, she stepped out into the dark-as-pitch hallway, and tiptoed to the room across from hers. Mercifully, the door was unlocked, and she crept in, closing the heavy oak door behind her.

Curiosity gnawed at her as she padded across the room, her breath tight, shallow. Was Ashton truly the man who’d touched her so intimately, who had invaded her every thought since? Fear and anxiety churned in her stomach, making her queasy. If it was him, then she’d be no better than the scores of women who fell at his feet—the women he’d cast aside. Could she bear it? Watching him in society, visiting as though nothing had happened?

Holding the candle above her head, she peered into the bed. She held her breath as the flicker of the candle alighted on a man’s form. He had dark hair—she could tell that much—but most men of James’s acquaintance did. And it was impossible to see the exact shade in so little light.

She set the candle on the nightstand and leaned over him, trying to snatch a glimpse of his face. She shouldn’t have, for the shock of it was almost too much to bear. Before sense and reason could take hold, she gasped loudly.

In an instant, a strong, warm hand wrapped around her mouth and pushed her back against the nearest wall. Ashton was a wall of muscle, something she could confirm quite readily now. He wore nothing, not even a scrap of sheet to conceal his indecency. And that indecency was pressed firmly against her hip. Heat spread through her limbs, then pooled and swirled low in her belly.

He waited a moment, his warm breath brushing her cheek, his heated body pressed against hers. He put a finger to his lips, signaling for her to be silent, then released her. The second she was free, she darted out the door and across the hall, into her room. She’d almost managed to get the door shut when he pushed inside, a blanket wrapped loosely around his hips. He closed and locked the door behind them.

“What are you doing?” she asked, breathless.

“What am I doing?” He narrowed his eyes dangerously. “I could ask you the same, Daphne, but I imagine I already know the answer. You were my midnight visitor last night, were you not?”

He didn’t look the least bit shocked by the revelation. Had he known it was her all along, just as she’d suspected—feared—it was him?

“I—” Should she admit to being the guilty party? She hadn’t ever planned to confess. And now, with his intense gaze focused on her, confessing didn’t seem wise. “Well, I was passing by…” Lord, she was a horrible liar. Her voice shook and her gaze darted to the floor, to the silk-covered wall, anywhere except his face.

He looked at her critically, angling his head to the side as though trying to solve a perplexing mathematical equation. Finally, he stepped forward and captured her chin, then muttered, “Pardon me,” before leaning in and seizing her lips with a kiss.

If there was ever a doubt she’d cornered the wrong man, that doubt was obliterated with the gentle caress of his lips. His hand slid up her neck and cradled her head as his tongue explored her mouth, teasing, tasting.

Panic swelled in her chest—he’d caught her. He’d call her out, tell James, or worse, tell Edward. Everything in her wanted to push him away, deny last night had ever happened. But she couldn’t. Despite herself, she never wanted it to end. She could die quite happily now, with the taste of him on her lips, the feel of his tongue entwined with hers…

When he pulled back, she was almost delirious with want.

“Yes.” He drew in a long, unsteady breath. “You are most definitely the woman from last night.”

“Yes,” she whispered, unable to deny it.

He let out a curse and turned toward the fireplace, bracing one hand on the mantel as he gazed into the unlit hearth. The sheet dipped dangerously low on his hips, revealing a shocking amount of skin and muscle. He was all lean strength, coiled tight, ready to unravel at any moment.