He folded his arms behind his head, giving Ivy cause to appreciate the breadth of his shoulders beneath his crisp linen shirt. “Except that Mary knocked the screen over chasing Walker through the house and Carstairs removed it for repairs.”
“I thought something was missing.” She reached around in annoyance for her cloak. “I should also have realized that something was here that didn’t belong.”
“Sit down,” he said somberly.
“No.”
“Sit down on the bed. This is important.”
She wavered. Perhaps something had happened during her absence. Perhaps he had an excuse for his presence.
“Does it concern the children?”
He looked directly into her eyes. “Yes. Walker went into hysterics when he discovered you had gone.”
Doubting this, she perched on the edge of the bed nonetheless. “What happened?”
“I ran around being his horsey until I wanted to cry. Cook plied him with treacle all day until he felt sick and fell asleep. Mary is convinced you met the man with the pearls. I’m worn-out.”
“Oh, honestly,” Ivy said, putting her hand over her eyes.
Her heart was pounding. The intimacy between them had built into an inevitable confrontation. It was the end of a trying day; he had granted her no chance to rally her defenses. He looked too comfortable, too confident sitting in her small bed. He should not be here. This was a conversation that should take place between a husband and a wife.
Had no one ever taught the duke that he couldn’t behave exactly as he liked?
Why was she not more shocked to discover him lying in wait for her? Had she become completely detached from convention or so attached to him that nothing else mattered? In his presence Ivy felt as if she had taken leave of her senses.
“Did you meet him today?” he asked, after an interlude during which her anxiety escalated until she feared her heart would burst.
She felt him uncross his legs, his body leaning into hers. How foolish to pretend that if she couldn’t see him, he could not threaten her. His knuckles slid from her ear to her throat, an unsubtle declaration of intent to seduce that she responded to against her will.
“Ivy,” he said, his touch dipping boldly into the deep cleft of her breasts. “There was a male visitor today at Fenwick.”
She stole a glimpse at him through her fingers. A grave error. His eyes studied her with a wicked fascination that made her wonder what he saw in her that she didn’t. “How do you know?” she asked, lifting her hand to his wrist to thwart his next move.
“Carstairs drove by on an errand.”
“No one drives by Fenwick on an errand. You sent Carstairs after me.”
“I was worried that your coach would not survive the journey. How you traveled in that contraption to London is frightening to contemplate. I half expected Carstairs to come running home with word he’d found a pumpkin and liveried mice on the bridge to your house.”
His fingers continued to caress her—soon, she knew, she must object—as he recited what she judged to be a well-rehearsed although not implausible explanation. Sensual instincts and conflicting emotions warred inside her. He was a bewitching man. She knew that at any moment he would make a bolder play. This was no time to engage in a battle she could never win. Her body was defecting to his side, urging her to surrender.
Should she run from the room?
She sensed he wouldn’t stop her. Where could she hide wearing a shift and a cloak? She’d be the one who would look mad. Perhaps she could talk reason into him.
“How do you know that my visitor wasn’t a male relation?” she asked, reminding herself that one simply didn’t push a duke off a bed, no matter how dangerously desirable he made one feel.
His smile provoked her. “If you had any male relations, they would have claimed Fenwick the day your father died.” His thumb stroked the shape of her breast through her secondhand cotton shift. “He left you unprotected.”
“He didn’t expect to die.”
“No. I’m sorry for that. And I’m sorry that you’ve had no one to take care of you.”
The cotton abraded her nipple; an intense stab of pleasure pierced her belly. His lightest caress rendered her weak and wanting. She leaned her shoulder back against the bedpost, missed, and would have fallen to the floor had his other hand not lashed around her waist.
He gathered her into the core of his body. Her stomach fluttered in pleasure at the sensation of hard strength that embraced her. “Where is your lover?” she asked in one last bid to distract him. He was breathing unevenly, and she could hardly breathe at all. But it didn’t seem to matter as long as he held her in his arms.