Chapter 5
Gregory pushed his half-finished shepherd’s pie across the knotty oak table and sat back in his chair with a groan, resisting the urge to rub his overstuffed belly.
He’d eaten too much, far more than he’d wanted to considering he wasn’t even hungry when he’d walked into the common room, but he hadn’t wanted the innkeeper to think the food was unsatisfactory, so he’d forced himself to eat until he could eat no more.
He sighed. It was all Justina’s doing. Whether she meant to or not, she’d worked him into a state, and he’d needed to put some distance between them before he embarrassed himself in that room.
Their room.
The room they would be sharing tonight.
Christ. His body was still thrumming, obsessing over her soft curves, her creamy skin, the scent of her hair, delicate, earthy, like wild roses in summer. He’d wanted to touch her, taste her, the desire growing with each button undone until he’d nearly given into it.
And he would have to sleep in the same room with her.
Of course, that was assuming he could sleep.
“Damn,” he muttered, before draining the last of his mug of ale.
A moment later, the innkeeper appeared at his elbow, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Another one for you, sir?”
“Please,” Gregory replied. “And my compliments. The ale is excellent.”
Mr. Martin grinned. “I’ll tell my wife you said so, sir. She’s our resident brewer, and a right genius at it, too.”
Gregory gave him a smile. “You’re a lucky man.”
“That I am, sir. That I am.”
The older man left to fetch another ale and Gregory watched him go, envy spearing him through the chest.
The innkeeper was not powerful or wealthy, but he seemed content with his lot in life, and why shouldn’t he be?
He ran this inn alongside his wife, and the two likely had a brood of children to look after, too.
No doubt it was a challenging life with as many hardships as there were rewards, but the couple had each other to lean on for support and encouragement and Gregory envied them that.
He’d been the Duke of Paxton for years and before that he was the Duke of Paxton’s heir. Being a duke was all he’d ever known, and it was difficult to imagine living a different existence.
Would he have been happier if he’d been born an innkeeper’s son?
He frowned. Where had that thought come from?
He wasn’t unhappy.
Was he?
His frown deepened. No, not unhappy, exactly.
But he did feel a certain degree of dissatisfaction with his life.
He was very aware that he had much to be grateful for, and he was grateful, truly.
Still, there was something missing, something he’d tried to find on his trip to the Continent, but which continued to elude him.
He might not be unhappy, exactly, but he was lonely sometimes. And sometimes he felt entirely alone.
His mother was his closest confidante, but he never shared his innermost feelings with her, and that was what he yearned for most. Someone to talk to and confide in, someone who would listen and care. Someone who would come to know him, the real him, inside and out.
He wanted a wife, a partner, a woman to share his life with, the small, every-day moments, the shared interests, the responsibilities and decisions.
He thought he’d found that in Olivia, but he’d been quite wrong there, and now he wondered if he’d ever find another woman who inspired those feelings in him. And if he did, would he be able to trust his heart again?
“Here you are, sir.” Mr. Martin set a mug of ale on the table before Gregory, startling him from his reverie. “Will you be wanting anything else?”
“Thank you, no. I’ll be turning in once I’ve finished my ale.”
“Very good, sir.”
Gregory lingered over his ale for a time, his thoughts unsettled, his body still restless, and soon the hour was up, and it was time to return to the room.
The room where Justina had just enjoyed a bath.
“Come on,” he muttered to himself as he pushed his chair back and rose. “You’ve faced greater challenges than this.”
But he couldn’t recall a single one at the moment.
With something akin to trepidation, he made his way up the stairs toward the guest rooms. He hesitated outside the door to their room, finally forcing himself to knock, and at Justina’s call to enter, he let himself inside.
The room was darker now with the curtains drawn, and a fire blazed in the hearth, heating the room, its flames snapping and crackling cheerily in the silence.
Justina was there, in the armchair beside the fireplace, her legs curled up beneath her emerald green dressing gown, her gaze on the flames as she ran her fingers through her long, damp hair.
God, she was bewitching. His cock hardened, apparently in agreement, and he swallowed past the lump in his suddenly very dry throat.
“How was your meal?” she asked, turning to look at him with those arresting sea-green eyes that made him wish he knew how to paint so he could capture her likeness in oils, lounging on the armchair with her dressing gown parted provocatively, revealing the swells of her breasts and perhaps the barest hint of one rosy nipple.
His face flushed hot and he averted his gaze. “The meal was very good, especially the ale.” He crossed to the wash basin and shrugged out of his coat. “How was your bath?”
“Very restorative, thank you,” she replied, and Gregory splashed water on his face, trying not to picture it but failing miserably.
“I’ve ordered a plate of bread and cheese for you,” he said as he dried his hands and face on a length of clean linen. “And a bottle of wine, in case you want to eat something before we go to—” He broke off before the word ’bed’ could escape his lips. “Before we...retire for the evening.”
He risked a glance at her and found her watching him, her lips curved into a little smile he couldn’t decipher. “Thank you, that was very kind of you. I think I could eat a little something, actually.”
And then, as if on cue, a brisk knock came from the door and a few minutes later, Justina was munching on bread and cheese and sipping a glass of burgundy, apparently content.
“Will you have some?” she asked, extending a hand toward the plate of food.
“Thank you, no. I couldn’t eat another bite.” He sat down in the chair next to hers and tried not to stare at her bare feet peeking out from beneath the hem of her dressing gown, or the wild mass of honeyed tresses curling down her back all the way to her waist.
What he needed was a distraction. Some conversation, perhaps.
“How long were you married?” he asked, blurting out the first question that popped into his mind.
She stilled, clearly taken by surprise, and he grimaced, feeling like the worst sort of boor.
“I apologize,” he said. “That was rude of me. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
But she shook her head and swallowed her bite of cheese before saying, “There’s no need to apologize. Phillip and I were married for two years, though we were promised to each other long before that.”
“An arranged marriage?”
“Not in the traditional sense. We grew up together, you see, and I think we always knew we would one day marry.” She shrugged one shoulder. “At least, I always knew.”
A soft smile curled her lips, and her eyes took on a faraway look, as if she’d slipped into a memory. A happy one.
“You were a love match,” he guessed, though it wasn’t much of a gamble.
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
“Phillip.”
He hated his next question and that it might cause her pain, but he had to ask. He wanted to know more about the man she had married, about her life with her husband and what he’d meant to her.
As if by knowing her husband better, he would come to know her better. Which was precisely what he wanted.
“How did he die?” he asked softly.
She sipped from her glass of wine, her gaze on the fire.
“It was a wasting illness. The doctors never knew what it was that afflicted him, but it made him very ill and kept him confined to his bed. I watched him waste away for nearly a year before he...” She trailed off, pain flashing in her eyes. “Before he was finally at peace.”
“I’m sorry, Justina.”
She smiled. “So am I.”
He wanted to take her hand, offer her comfort, but he held back, uncertain whether she would welcome the gesture.
“Well, now…” She set her glass down and cleared her throat. “I’ve had my bath and a meal, and now I think it is time to sleep. Shall we retire?”
“Good idea. It’s been a long day. I’ll sleep here and you may have the bed.”
He wriggled in his chair experimentally, suppressing a frown. It was not the most comfortable chair in the world, but it would have to do.
“That isn’t necessary,” Justina said. “The bed is large enough to accommodate us both.”
He shook his head. “I’d feel better if I slept in the chair.”
“Are you worried the wicked widow will try to seduce you in the night?”
He looked at her and was met with an arched eyebrow. “No,” he answered honestly. The thought had never crossed his mind. He wouldn’t dare to hope for such a thing.
“Then are you worried you might try to seduce me?”
He grunted. He wouldn’t know where to begin to seduce a woman, let alone one as attractive and self-assured as Justina. But he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself with her curves and soft hair and delicious scent all around him.
No. He absolutely could not get in that bed with her.
“I’m not worried about anything except doing what is right,” he said finally. “And sleeping in that bed with you would not be right. We only met yesterday, if you’ll recall.”
He knew he sounded like a prude with a stick up his arse, but it couldn’t be helped. It was his only defense against her.
“Very well,” she murmured as she rose from her chair. “Have it your way, Your Grace.”
His way. If he had his way, he’d be in that bed right now with Justina beneath him, warm and naked and begging for his touch.
Instead, he’d be spending the night alone in a hard chair with only a blanket to hold. His way, indeed.