Chapter Fifteen
Raven woke to pale morning light filtering through his bedchamber curtains and the most extraordinary sensation of contentment. For a moment, he couldn’t place what felt different. Then Ashley shifted in his arms, her bare skin sliding against his, and memory returned in a rush.
His wife. In his bed. Where she belonged.
The realization should have felt strange after three months of careful distance, of separate bedrooms and formal politeness. Instead, it felt natural. Right. As if something that had been fundamentally wrong with the world had finally clicked into place.
Ashley was still deeply asleep, her fair hair spread across his chest, one hand curled loosely against his ribs.
In sleep, she looked impossibly young—the lines of worry and guardedness that she wore while awake had smoothed away, leaving only the delicate features and soft mouth that had first caught his attention at that masquerade ball.
Had it really been only a week ago? It felt like a lifetime.
Like he’d been a different person then—the austere Duke of Blackstone, controlled and distant, bound by grief and guilt.
That man would never have carried his wife from a bathtub to his bed, dripping wet and past caring.
Would never have snuck down to the kitchen to steal food.
Would never have allowed himself this quiet domestic moment of simply watching his wife sleep.
Raven brushed a strand of hair from Ashley’s forehead, his touch feather-light to avoid waking her. She made a small sound of contentment and burrowed closer, and he felt his heart do something complicated in his chest.
He was falling for her. Past simple desire, past duty and obligation, into something that felt dangerously like—he wasn’t sure.
It wasn’t what he’d felt for Kitty. It was more.
Something primal. Something deeper. The knowledge should terrify him—he’d promised himself never to risk that kind of pain again.
But somehow, with Ashley warm and trusting in his arms, fear seemed a distant concern.
The clock on his mantle chimed seven. Soon the household would be fully awake, servants would be starting their morning routines, and Henderson would arrive with the morning’s correspondence. Raven should get up, should see to his responsibilities.
But Ashley chose that moment to stir, her eyes fluttering open. For a heartbeat, confusion crossed her features as she registered her surroundings. Then recognition and something warmer—pleasure, perhaps, or satisfaction—replaced it.
“Good morning,” she murmured, her voice still rough with sleep.
“Good morning.” He couldn’t resist dropping a kiss on her forehead. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mmm. Better than I have in months. You wore me out.” She stretched like a cat, unselfconscious in her nakedness. “Though I may have a few new bruises from our…activities.”
Heat crawled up his neck. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I tried to be careful—”
“Raven.” Ashley pushed herself up on one elbow to look at him directly. “You were perfect. I have absolutely no complaints about how you touch me. Clear?”
The directness of it, the absolute lack of shame or coyness, made desire stir again despite their energetic night. This woman—his wife—continued to surprise him at every turn.
“Very clear,” he managed.
Ashley’s smile turned mischievous. “Good. Because I fully intend for there to be many more such activities in our future, and I’d hate for you to start holding back out of some misguided sense of propriety.”
Before he could formulate a response to that—before he could do more than register the heat pooling low in his belly at her words—a soft knock sounded at the door.
“Your Grace?” Simpson’s voice, carefully neutral. “I have your morning coffee and correspondence.”
Raven bit back a curse. Of course, Simpson would arrive precisely on schedule, regardless of whether his master had spent the night with his wife.
“Just a moment,” he called out, then looked down at Ashley with genuine regret. “I should—”
“Go ahead.” She pressed a kiss to his chest and rolled away, pulling the sheet up to cover herself. “I’ll just stay here and look thoroughly ravished while you conduct business. Don’t mind me.”
The mental image that created was almost enough to make him send Simpson away entirely. But responsibility reasserted itself—barely—and Raven forced himself to get out of bed and pull on the dressing gown Ashley had borrowed last night.
He opened the door just wide enough to accept the tray Simpson offered, blocking the valet’s view of the interior. The man’s expression remained professionally blank, but Raven caught the knowing gleam in his eyes.
“Will you be needing me to lay out your clothes, Your Grace?”
“Not immediately. I’ll ring when I’m ready.”
“Very good, Your Grace. And shall I inform Cook that breakfast will be served in your chambers this morning?”
Raven glanced back at Ashley, who had propped herself up against the pillows and was making no effort to hide her presence. She gave him an encouraging nod.
“Yes, thank you, Simpson. For two.”
“Excellent. I’ll have it sent up within the hour.” The valet bowed and withdrew, and Raven closed the door with a soft click.
“The entire household knows,” Ashley observed with amusement as he carried the tray to the bed. “By noon, half of London will probably know that the Duke and Duchess of Blackstone have finally consummated their marriage.”
“Does that bother you?”
She considered for a moment, accepting the coffee he poured for her. “No. Actually, it’s rather nice. To have people assuming our marriage is normal instead of speculating about why we maintain separate bedrooms.”
Raven sorted through his correspondence as he sipped his own coffee. Bills, invitations to various social events, a letter from his man of business. And then—his hand stilled as he recognized the seal on one envelope.
Lady Featherington.
The viper herself had written to him. How on earth had she learned of his enquiries? Had someone overheard at the club? Who was she currently seeing?
Rage flared hot and immediate, but he forced it down, forced his hands to remain steady as he broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Your Grace,
I believe you have been inquiring about certain events from three years past with great interest. It has been some time since anyone has asked about Lady Ashley’s unfortunate scandal, and I confess, I had been expecting your interest in the matter, given she’s your wife.
If you wish to discuss what I witnessed that day, I would be happy to accommodate you. Perhaps tea at my residence tomorrow afternoon? Say three o’clock?
I look forward to our conversation.
Most sincerely,
Lady Georgiana Featherington
“Raven?” Ashley’s voice penetrated the fury pounding through his veins. “What is it? You look ready to commit murder.”
He bent and placed a kiss on her head. “Nothing of import. Another summons from Prinny.” He hated lying to her, given their newly found trust, but it would only upset her to know he was still investigating.
“Sometimes, I think Prinny calls you to attend him just because he’s lonely. I feel sorry for him. Perhaps we could invite him for dinner one night.”
He loved her kind heart, but Prinny was… well, Prinny. “I’m sure that would be a nice idea. But I want you to myself for a while. So let’s hold off on the entertaining.” And he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Then Ashley shifted, moving to sit directly in his lap, the sheet falling away as she straddled him.
“We have an hour before breakfast arrives,” she said, her hands already working open his dressing gown. “And I find I’m still quite hungry. Just…not for food.”
Despite everything—the letter, the investigation, the weight of three years’ worth of secrets—Raven found himself smiling. This woman. His wife. She could make him forget the entire world with nothing more than a look and a touch.
“Then let me satisfy your appetite,” he murmured against her mouth, and proceeded to do exactly that.
*
An hour and a half later—breakfast had been delayed and relocated to the dining room, when they’d gotten somewhat carried away—Raven and Ashley finally emerged from his bedchamber, dressed and presentable.
They descended together, and if the household staff noticed that the duchess was glowing and the duke couldn’t seem to stop touching her—a hand at her back, fingers brushing hers as they walked—they hid it well.
They settled at the table, and Henderson materialized to instruct the serving staff personally.
The old butler’s expression was carefully neutral, but Raven caught the satisfied gleam in his eyes.
Henderson had served three generations of Blackstones, and he took the continuance of the line seriously.
Seeing his master finally acting like a husband clearly pleased him.
“This is nice,” Ashley said as she buttered a piece of toast. “Breaking our fast together. We should do this more often.”
“Every morning, if you like.” Raven accepted the coffee Henderson poured for him. “I confess, I’ve grown rather fond of having you in my bed.”
The blush that crept across Ashley’s cheeks was charming. For all her boldness in private, she still retained some capacity for shyness. He found it endearing.
He turned her hand over, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Now, what are your plans for the day? I have meetings with my man of business and of course Prinny, but I’m free this morning.”
“Actually,” Ashley said, her eyes lighting up with an idea, “I was thinking about your study. It’s very masculine and handsome, of course, but it could use a few touches to make it feel more…welcoming.”
“Welcoming?”