Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
“So some hack who thought that they were being witty called you the Delinquent Duchess of Debden—there are worse things to have levied at you.” His mother reached over and squeezed her hand, which was one of the few parts of Portia not draped in brocade.
“Remember, being a duchess is a state of mind, dear, so straighten your shoulders, keep your chin up no matter what, smile as if you know a secret that nobody else does and, whenever you feel a little intimidated by someone, imagine them on the commode and I promise you that you will instantly feel better.”
“That is good because I currently feel sick.” And she looked it.
“Or you could just be yourself and to hell with the lot of them.” Without thinking, Leo covered her hand in his, then tried not to notice how his mother delighted in witnessing that rare show of spousal affection.
“I will be right beside you at all times and if anyone tries to belittle or insult you in any way, they will have me to answer to.”
Portia was clearly not herself because, to his mother’s further delight, she laced her fingers gratefully through his and held tight.
“How am I supposed to be myself when I am dressed like this?” She pointed to the feathers.
“And I have to hold my silly matching feathered fan just so?” Then her eyes widened as she tugged her hand away and patted the seat around her.
“I have forgotten my fan!” She went to rise and he stayed her.
“I’ll go fetch it. Where is it?”
“Probably still on my bed.”
He hopped out and jogged up the stairs to her room.
For obvious reasons, he hadn’t ventured inside any bedchamber that Portia happened to occupy since he’d accidentally caught her in the bath because he hadn’t fully recovered from that mind-boggling experience.
He suspected the image of her alabaster breasts glistening with water was one that would be remembered to his grave, so he did not need any more erotic images of his reluctant wife to join it.
He had lost count of how many dreams those saucy, dark, puckered nipples had invaded since he had seen them, or how many times he had awoken hot and hard and desperate for her as a result.
Despite only occupying it for one night, the alluring scent of orange blossoms teased his nostrils as he entered her room.
Her enormous ostrich fan was indeed on the bed and he grabbed it, turned to leave, and spied her battered old pen sitting in an inkpot on her dressing table next to an untidy little pile of paper.
The top sheet was tantalizingly covered in her flamboyant handwriting.
Leo knew that he shouldn’t read whatever it was after he had accused her of writing sedition last week, but it drew him like a magnet anyway.
Perhaps he would glance at just the first line?
Accidentally?
In passing?
He leaned closer and almost choked on his own tongue.
Is it possible that Kitty is correct and I have foolishly fallen in love?
As there was no way in hell he could leave it at that, he snatched up the paper and carried on.
It is undeniable that Leopold Sloane, the illustrious Duke of Debden, is not a typical duke.
If one ignores that he is as handsome as sin, which is nigh on impossible if you happen to be a woman in possession of a pulse, he is also kind, funny, clever, charming, principled, and liberal.
In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that he was a duke with an annoying propensity for overbearingness, he would be exactly the sort of man I would willingly give my heart to if I were the sort to give it to anyone.
But there is the rub. Am I actually the sort to give my heart to anyone or are all the odd and overwhelming feelings that I feel for him merely a classic case of pent-up lust caused by our enforced proximity to one another?
There is, undeniably, an element of forbidden fruit about our situation but …
Leo hastily turned the page.
… there is also
And on that unsatisfying cliff edge the essay ended.
He sunk to the mattress and went through it again trying to read between the scant lines to find the answer to her initial question. When he couldn’t, he could only surmise that she was in two minds.
But two minds were certainly better than the indifference or abhorrence he had been convinced she felt for him. And if she was in two minds and needed a persuasive reason to decide one way or another, then surely he had to try to persuade her that being in love with him wasn’t foolish at all?
Which also rather suggested, in no uncertain terms, that if he wanted her, then he should bloody well go and get her before it was too late.
Do as his mother had claimed his excellent father before him had done and pursue the woman his heart wanted relentlessly.
Perhaps this essay, this unwelcome trip to the capital, and Portia’s forgotten fan were all signs from the universe that it was long past time that he stopped dithering in wounded indecision and set about shamelessly wooing his reluctant wife until she ran out of excuses to resist him?