“You will not do that,” he said as he settled her against the pillows.
Truly baffled, she said, “If you do not want me to drink champagne, then you should not pour it for me.”
He shook his head fiercely and looking at her with glaring disapproval, as if she were being deliberately obtuse. “No, don’t pull away from me.”
Of course, he had known what she had done—not the physical withdrawal but the mental. Over and over he had displayed a disconcerting omniscience, seeming to know where she was or what she was thinking without any explanation.
She was disquieted by it now, for it made her feel as though she had nothing of her own, not even her thoughts, and although she knew it was a pitiable attempt, she blinked with exaggerated coquettishness, hoping for a comical effect, and said, “Did I do that?”
He would not allow it. “No, Bea, no. We will discuss your investigative habit.”
How serious he sounded, she thought, nodding slowly as she shifted her position until her back was upright and her shoulders pressed against the headboard. If she was to be put in her place by her husband, it would not be while she was underneath him. “All right, your grace.”
Inexplicably, he began with an observation about himself. “I never expected to feel joy.”
It was a perplexing statement, a seeming non sequitur, and although Bea could not fathom what the information had to do with her future, she knew precisely how it applied to her past. For the vast majority of her life, she had felt exactly that way, and if she was startled to discover a duke lived with the same limitations, she was not entirely surprised. “All right,” she said again.
“I have been happy,” he amended with scrupulous precision, “for my life has been filled with comfort and convenience and I have denied myself little. I will not pretend that a dukedom is an albatross around my neck. But this thing with you, what I feel, what we have…I close my eyes and see such glories, so much joy. It is not what I expected to ever feel. In truth, I would never have even sought it out because it did not seem necessary.”
Bea, who had discovered herself in the wake of Mr. Otley’s murder to be clever, knew the moment called for some droll remark, some sly comment. Always, she had something to say that would draw attention away from herself or lighten a mood or poke fun at a vanity.
But now she had nothing. All she could do was stare in wonder into his earnest and brilliantly blue eyes.
“I have some concerns for your happiness,” he added.
Bea was astonished that he could possibly doubt the joy she herself felt with him. Close his eyes and see glories? She saw them with her eyes open wide. “Don’t,” she said.
“Oh, but I do,” he insisted gravely.
The solemnity of his tone angered her as much as it caused her to worry that she had somehow done something wrong. “Don’t,” she said again, catapulting herself into his arms and pressing one soft kiss against his lips, then another and another. “Don’t, don’t, don’t.”
Whatever she had failed to do was forgotten as his mouth moved hungrily over her own, his fingers inching under the plain fabric of her night rail and sliding it off her shoulders. But even as she quivered in delight, succumbing to the mind-numbing pleasure of his touch, he pulled back and laying his lips softly on her forehead, said, “I do. A dukedom is not an albatross around my neck, but it is a smaller bird, like a ptarmigan. There is much that is boring and stultifying, and for all the toadying there is thrice as much spitefulness and malice. I can insulate you only so much from the Mrs. Nortons and Lord Tavistocks of the world.”
Perceiving now his concern, Bea felt on much steadier ground and insisted she had acquitted herself admirably on both accounts. “Recall, if you will, that I figured out Mrs. Norton’s game before she had a chance to make her final move, and I managed to elicit the information I required from Tavistock despite his uncooperative attitude. Have no worry, Damien, I do not need you to insulate me from them.”
Kesgrave smiled faintly. “The Marlows, then.”
Although her eyes twinkled, she kept her expression serious and said with sober approval, “Ah, well, yes, obviously, I would be grateful for anything you can arrange on that front.”
“Obviously,” he repeated fondly.
“As you may recall, I recently suggested that you put in a good word for me and you refused out of hand,” she said. “Perhaps that proposal is worthy of a second look.”
“I recall, yes, your wanting me to assure him you would make a biddable mistress,” he said. “I remain resolute in my refusal to lie to the staff.”
“So much for insulating me, your grace,” she muttered.
“I want you to be happy as I am,” he insisted, “and so—”
“Joyful,” she corrected.
He tilted his head slightly. “Excuse me?”
“You said I make you feel joyful,” she explained. “Ordinarily, I would not enforce the distinction, but I know how highly you prize precision and seek only to satisfy your own requirements.”
Now he laughed. “Yes, brat, you do, and I want you to be joyful too, which is why I have decided not to intercede with your investigative habit if you choose to pursue it. In the interest of fair disclosure, I will admit that I say this fully believing that it’s simply too implausible for yet another murder victim to cross your path. You are, after all, a gently bred young lady, and the excess of corpses that have entered your life in recent months strains credulity. But I have believed that from the
