Under A Duke's Hand (27 page)

Minette reached for the wet towel, wrung it
out and mopped gently at Gwen’s forehead. “Is the fever coming
back?” he asked.

“No. She’ll be fine. I imagine the both of
you will be perfectly fine.”

He walked around to Minette’s side. “Do you
think it will bother her if I sit on the bed?”

The lady gestured for him to take a place
beside his wife, and then handed him the toweling. “It might soothe
her to sponge her arms, and her neck. It’s calming for invalids to
be touched.”

He took her hand before she moved away.
“Minette. I still remember you tripping about in short skirts, with
your curls in tangles and your ragged dolly hanging from your fist.
When did you get so grown up, and so wise?”

“I suppose it was when I married, and
realized the sheer complexity of loving another person,” she said.
“It gives trouble to the best of us, but I’m sure you’ll be all
right. Love is not an easy thing, but the struggles are worth
it.”

“Barrymore is lucky to have you.”

She grinned at him. “And Gwen shall be lucky
to have you too, once the both of you sort out your feelings.” Her
smile wobbled, turned into something more sad and sober. “Just love
her, Arlington. Don’t make her wonder and question. Don’t make her
suffer anymore.”

* * * * *

Gwen opened her eyes and blinked into moonlit
darkness. She felt as if she’d been sleeping a thousand years. She
turned to her right and found her husband asleep beside her, still
in his shirtsleeves, a blanket pulled up over his legs. Why was she
in his room? Why did she feel so groggy? Her thoughts cleared as if
from a fog, and she remembered. She had tried to run away from him,
and as expected, he had brought her back.

She began to remember other things, like cold
and numbness, and a fall from her horse. She remembered the ladies
leaning over her, mopping her forehead, and a physician speaking to
the duke in a hushed voice, and the duke yelling back at him.

He must be so angry. She feared to wake him
and face the consequences of what she’d done. She’d run away in the
middle of his party, doubtless ruining the whole affair and
sparking a new spate of gossip. Now, afterward, she wished she had
made a different choice.

She wouldn’t wake him, that was for sure. She
wouldn’t hasten the reckoning between them. She slid from the bed,
being careful to make no noise, and stood propped against the side
of it until her legs were not so wobbly. She found a cold, weak pot
of tea on the side table and drank the entire thing, staring out
the window at the moon.

Why was she so thirsty? How long had she
slept? Was Eira all right, and cozy in her stable stall? She seemed
to remember one of the ladies assuring her some such thing. Gwen
felt grimy, as if she needed washing. She crossed into the duke’s
bathing room and lit a lamp, and ran some lukewarm water into a
basin.

Her flannel nightgown felt as grimy as her
skin, so she cast it aside and stood naked, and washed herself all
over with one of the duke’s soft towels. Her hair was a tangled
mess so she washed it too, undoing the snarls with scented water
and a fine tortoiseshell comb.

It must be Arlington’s comb, she thought,
looking at it. He had uncommonly long hair for a man, and always
kept it in decent order. She wrapped herself in a towel and sat on
a bench near his other things, razors and brushes and bottles of
cologne. He kept an army of valets for when he wished to look
smart, but sometimes he dressed himself.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the comb, or
rather, how he would look standing there combing his hair, dealing
with snarls and knots just as she did. His grooming tools were so
practical, like any other man’s, like her father’s, or her
brothers’.

She felt cold, and she didn’t want to put the
flannel gown back on, so she took the lamp into his dressing room
and found a long row of linen shirts. Surely he wouldn’t mind if
she borrowed one. She squeezed the last of the moisture from her
hair, set aside the towel, and pulled his shirt over her head. How
soft it was. It smelled like him, like the fragrant herbs they used
to launder it.

She knew the scent of him so readily. Why
could she not know
him
, the man who combed his tangles out?
The man who got dressed in this room, after putting on one of these
shirts? She went to the next shelf, studying his shoes and coats,
and hats, and cravats. There were drawers of gloves and stockings,
all arranged in impeccable order, sorted by color.
Help me
understand him
, she prayed to the heavens.
I don’t want to
run away. I want him to love me.

She crept along the shelves, touching bits of
lace and silver buckles, and velvet-covered buttons. She found the
outfit he’d worn on their wedding day, the fine dark coat with
glittering embroidery. How handsome she had thought him, and how
horrible at the same time.

But had he really been horrible, or just
unfamiliar? She had been so frightened to go to bed with him that
first night, but he had taken the time to calm her. Told her silly
tales of marauders and medieval maidens. The next morning, when
everyone had come barging into the room, she had been clothed.

Somehow.

It could only have been by him.

She had never thought of it until now, that
he had done those things for her when he barely knew her. And what
had she done in return? Cried, and reviled him, and caused him
trouble at every turn. Perhaps he would have loved her if she had
not been such an adversarial shrew from the outset. Now, since she
had run away and humiliated him again, she feared he would never
love her.

She wished she could start all over and do
things differently. Perhaps when he woke and started shouting at
her, she could appeal to him with those words.
Give me another
chance.
Maybe she could appeal to his sensual side. Maybe that
was all they would ever have, their lurid compatibility in bed.
Maybe that was what she deserved, to be pleasured, but not to be
loved.

She crossed to the other side of his dressing
room, past a leather-covered bench and chest of drawers. There was
a large, rectangular parcel propped against the chest, swathed in a
cloth. She peeked beneath it, then pushed it back to reveal their
formal painting. Tears rose in her eyes. Someone had savaged the
thing, torn it to shreds.

“Gwen.”

The deep voice startled her. She spun to find
her husband watching her. His gaze traveled over her shirt, or
rather
his
shirt, and returned to her face. She didn’t know
what to say. Nothing came to her lips. No excuses for her flight,
no asking for another chance. Nothing came but anxiety.

“Someone has ruined it.” She gestured to the
torn canvas. “Someone destroyed our painting.”

“I destroyed it,” he said.

So it was
that
bad. Gwen shrank away,
ducked behind the ruined painting as if it could protect her from
this moment.

“You put my shift back on the morning after
the wedding,” she blurted from behind the frame. “It must have been
you. And the night before, you told me those stories about wedding
nights and marauders to distract me, so I wouldn’t be afraid.”

He said nothing as she reminded him of these
things, only stood there looking at her with his hands open at his
sides.

“And you tried to stop me running off on Eira
that time, so I wouldn’t be hurt,” she said. “And you kept her for
me, when you would rather have gotten rid of her. You loved me
once. In the beginning, you loved me, at least a little.”

His voice sounded soft after her panicked
outburst. “I have always loved you, Guinevere. Not just a
little.”

“Then why...why did you rip up our
painting?”

“Because I thought it was horrible.” He held
out a hand. “Come here, please. Come away from that wretched
thing.”

She crossed to him and he caught her up and
sat with her on the bench, holding her in a smothering hug.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for all the
ways I’ve hurt you. I tore the painting because I was cold and
wrong, and I’d like to start over. I’d like another chance.”

Gwen blinked at him. “I was going to ask you
that same thing. For another chance. I’m so sorry I ran away and
ruined your party.”

“I don’t care about the party, Gwen. I care
about saving this marriage. I care about your happiness, because I
believe it is inextricably tied up with mine.”

His eyes were so sad. So deep and blue and
sad
.

“I want to make you happy,” she said. “I want
it more than anything. I just don’t know how.”

“Darling.” His hand trailed up and down her
arm, over the soft linen of his shirt. “If I’ve been unhappy, it’s
my own fault. There’s nothing at all wrong with you. It was my
loftiness, my pride.”

“No, it wasn’t all you. I asked you for love
when I behaved so unlovably. You must admit it’s true. I’ve been
awful.”

“Not awful,” he said with a hint of a
smile.

“Mostly awful. The way our marriage began...
I was so confused by you, and so afraid.”

“I was also confused by you, and afraid.”

“You were afraid?” She couldn’t imagine him
afraid of anything.

“Yes. Afraid of going about everything the
wrong way. Which I prevented by...well...going about everything the
wrong way. I was so concerned with maintaining my authority over
you. There you were, spirited and strong as anything, and I thought
I’d better hold you down. I can only ask you to forgive me, and let
me begin again, with less pomposity and hauteur this time. Less
authoritative nonsense.”

She blushed, and reached to trace the Viking
lines of his jaw. “I like your authoritative nonsense at times,”
she admitted. “Goodness knows, I like it a great deal. But I miss
having friendship in my life. Sweet words and soft touches, and
affection.”

He put his hand over hers. “Then I promise
more sweetness and affection. On one condition.”

“What condition?”

“That you call me Aidan instead of ‘Sir,’ and
stop referring to me as ‘the duke’ in conversation. ‘Arlington’ or
‘husband’ will do in a pinch.”

“All right,” she agreed. “But will you do
something for me?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t call me Guinevere in that biting
manner when you’re scolding me. It always terrifies me.”

“What if I generally try to scold you less?”
A smile crinkled his deep blue eyes. “I’m going to try to scold you
less and appreciate you more, for there are so many things I
appreciate in you. Your spirit, your sensuality. Your beauty and
determination, and appreciation for nature. The way you cared for
my mother’s garden in Oxfordshire, and the way you sailed with Eira
over the fence. Your stubborn, peevish tirades, which I have always
secretly admired.” He took her hand. “And of course, your enduring
belief in the necessity of love.”

She saw some new softness in his regard, and
curled her fingers about his. “Love is necessary, isn’t it?”

“Unavoidable, with you around.”

Goodness, he meant that he loved her. “You
ought to kiss me now,” she said. “This seems like the perfect
moment for—”

His lips cut off her words. He kissed her
gently at first, for this was a new beginning. She supposed they
were both a little scared. She shifted closer, wrapping her arms
about his neck to give him strength and encouragement. His kiss
deepened and she responded with all the hope in her heart.
I
love you.

He said he had always loved her, and she had
loved him too, this lofty duke who protected her and understood
her, even if he had his own flaws. With love, they could work out
their differences. Oh, she hoped...

But first, this warm and wonderful
reconnection. As soon as one kiss ended, another began, until she
was dizzy with his closeness. How had she ever left him to ride out
into the icy night? And why? She drew away, battling a surge of
nerves.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, stroking his
thumb along her lip.

“Are you not…the slightest bit...angry about
what I did last night?”

“Last night?” He grimaced. “You mean three
days ago?”

“Three days?”

“You’ve been in bed for three days, my love,
and there were hours I feared you wouldn’t wake again. And yes, I
was angry, then panicked, then sad, and generally beside myself.
But my friend told me your actions were a cry for love. And I
should tell you that when I shouted at you to leave...”

“That was a cry for love too,” she murmured,
when he couldn’t finish. “Perhaps we ought to develop more
appropriate ways to talk to one another.”

“I would like that,” he said.

They sat in silence a while, in his dim
dressing room with his arms around her. She could feel his warmth
like a blanket, and his steady heartbeat made her drowsy. “I think
I want to sleep again,” she said.

“I think you are already halfway there.” She
clung to him as he picked her up. He carried her back to his
bedroom and laid her in his bed, and crawled in beside her.

“I borrowed one of your shirts,” she said,
snuggling into his embrace.

“I noticed. It looks good on you, and is
probably more comfortable than that matronly nightgown. You know,
you had a fever for two days. I worried so much I couldn’t sleep.
The gents had to drug me to put me to bed.”

“They drugged you?”

“Without remorse.”

“I can hardly believe that.”

“You may believe it.” He sighed. “We’ve got
the best friends in the world, you know. They were determined to
save our marriage, but I think it’s up to us now.”

She buried her face beneath his chin. “For my
part, I swear I’ll never run away again. Especially in a freezing
snowstorm.”

He chuckled and dealt her bottom a
half-hearted crack. “For my part, I swear I’ll blister your arse if
you ever so much as attempt it.”