His thoughts drifted. Nellie’s soft body beneath his hands, her sweet breath on his neck, her mews of pleasure. She would be awake now, and perhaps… A desire to go to her had him half out of his chair.
“Your Grace?”
Charles sank back down, reluctant to let go of the memory. “Yes, Barlow?”
“You asked me to tell you if more roses were delivered.”
Charles glared at his secretary. “And were they?”
“I believe so, Your Grace.”
“The housekeeper has them?”
“They were sent to the duchess’s suite, Your Grace.”
“The deuce!” Charles stared at him. “Why were my instructions not carried out?”
Barlow gulped audibly. “Her Grace requested roses to be sent to her. It appears she is fond of the flower.”
Was this coincidental? Nellie could not possibly know who sent them. But it could not continue. He removed the still unopened perfumed letter from the drawer of his desk and shoved it into his pocket. He would have this out with Angelique today. He left the letter he was writing, his train of thought lost, and nodding at the pile of correspondence, climbed to his feet. “This can wait, Barlow.”
“There are several more to be signed, Your Grace and that matter from…”
“I am aware of it. We’ll attend to them later.”
Barlow bowed. “Very well, Your Grace.”
“Have a cup of tea, Barlow.” Charles had been harsh with the man. “I’ll return at eleven.”
He took his hat, gloves, and cane from Grove, who after a glance at Charles’s expression, knew better than to offer him a cheery good morning, then he strode off down the street.
Chapter Seventeen
Nellie yawned and stretched her arms in the wide bed. Peter barked from his position on the end, pleased to see a sign of life. She leaned over and rang the bell for Lilly, hoping she was within earshot.
It was close to noon, but she was still drowsy, her limbs deliciously heavy. She buried her nose in Charles’s pillow and breathed deeply of his male smell. There was the musky aroma of sex. They’d made love again before he rose, this time more leisurely, which had left her melting and mindless, before she drifted back to sleep.
She put her hands to her hot cheeks, recalling their rowdy lovemaking in the carriage. After she had saucily suggested it, Charles had closed the blinds and, kneeling before her, eased up her gown and made her breathless, drawing ripples, waves, and shudders before he pulled her onto his lap, and anchored her upon him. How good it could be in a cramped space. She’d arched over him, loving the sense of power the position afforded her, until he’d wrestled it from her and holding her hips, drove hard into her with a loud groan. Nellie had fallen against him, half giggling, half gasping.
“My reputation will be in shreds when you’ve finished with me, my lady wife,” he’d said with a laugh.
“You might have to carry me to bed,” she’d confessed when the coach drew up outside the house. “My knees are weak.”
Laughing, Charles had carried her inside, causing the porter to drop into a low bow and avert his gaze. Charles put her down. They were disgracefully disheveled. His cravat was untied, his hair tousled, and her attempts to restore her hair to its former elegance had been in vain. When they’d entered her bedchamber, he tossed her onto the bed and made love to her again.
All her earlier fears seemed banished in the afterglow of pleasure. And love. She gasped. “I must not fall in love with him,” she said sternly.
Peter wagged his tail.
“I’m a fool, aren’t I?” she asked the dog. She planned never to chance her heart again. Was it possible to love someone so much you forgave them anything? She frowned. Charles had not spoken of love. Even in the throes of passion, the declaration had not passed his lips.
She ran her hands through her tangled locks. If only she could overcome the distressing fact that he had not married her for love. Had she forgotten that during the evening, the woman he wanted, Drusilla, Marchioness of Thorburn, had been absent from the ballroom at the same time as he had?
Nellie sat up in bed and clasped her knees. She would not allow the marchioness to hurt her. She would not think of her now.
Lilly entered with her tray. “Good morning, Your Grace. I hope you and the duke had a lovely evening.”
“It was very enjoyable, thank you, Lilly.” Nellie took the cup of chocolate and sipped the flavorsome drink while her maid drew back the curtains.
“It is going to be a nice day.”
“How do you plan to spend your afternoon, Lilly?”
The maid twisted her fingers in the folds of her apron. “I thought I’d walk in the park, Your Grace.”
“An excellent idea, with so many celebrations in London, there’s always something to see. But you mustn’t go alone.”
“One of the servants will go with me, Your Grace.”
“Good.” Nellie put down the sweet roll she’d taken a bite out of, her mind on her wardrobe. “I’ll get up. I’m lunching with Lady Belfries this afternoon.” She felt guilty that she had worried Marian. She would put her sister’s mind at rest.
Lilly disappeared into the boudoir.
Nellie was in the act of donning her dressing gown when a downstairs maid entered. She bobbed. “Your Grace.”
Dismayed, Nellie stared at the vase of red roses she carried. “Who sent those, Maude?”
“Mrs. Knox, the under-housekeeper, said there wasn’t a card, Your Grace. I was told you asked for any roses to be brought up….”
“Yes, I did. Thank you. You may go.”
Nellie threw off the covers. She walked the length of the carpet. On her way back, she narrowed her eyes at the hated roses in their crystal vase, while she fought the urge to take them to Charles’s bedchamber and dump them, water
