Tamed by her Duke (Seductive Mysteries #4)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

C hewing on the end of one’s braid was the habit of a naughty child, Grace knew, but as she sat and waited on the low bed in that remote inn, she was extremely tempted to do so.

Was she supposed to just…sit here?

It shouldn’t be such an onerous task, just sitting, but she was tired, and it was making her impatient. She had a full belly, courtesy of the hearty, well spiced meal that Mary had brought up to her rooms, and the warm bath had been nothing short of heavenly after a long day in a constricting gown.

There had been red marks on her ribs from where her stays had been cinched too tightly. The maids in her father’s household had been well trained to privilege fashion over comfort, when it came to dressing the Duchess of Graham and her daughter. Grace had grown accustomed to it, and scarcely noticed it much of the time, but today’s endless carriage ride had not been her typical day.

She wanted to sleep . But it was her wedding night, so she gathered that she was supposed to do…something.

Well, she knew what she was supposed to do eventually . For all that her person had gone unharmed during her period of captivity, her sensibilities had been hardened by all she’d seen and heard.

Not only did the Packards kept animals, which were prone to, ahem, animalistic behavior, but Mr. and Mrs. Packard’s bedchamber had been directly above the little closet where they’d locked Grace each night. She’d…heard things, though she still shuddered to think about it. She didn’t know which part she’d hated the most, the unpleasant grunting sounds or the theatrical praises that Mrs. Packard had heaped upon her husband’s, um, manly attributes.

Grace frowned, wishing Mary and her brothers hadn’t taken away the bathwater. Maybe there was a way to scour one’s memories clean, if one tried hard enough.

Still, she knew—mostly from the dazed, happy glances that her friends often gave their husbands—that not all marital relations were the stuff of nightmares. She was optimistically determined to give her new husband the benefit of the doubt, not that he had done a single thing to earn it thus far into their marriage.

With each passing minute, she felt he’d earned it even less. Of all the rude things to do, making her wait for him—after the long day they’d had—was the rudest of all.

She’d had enough, she decided, rising to her feet with a huff. She threw open the door to her small room and marched down the hall to her husband’s chamber, knocking smartly on the door and not stopping knocking until he yanked the door open with a glare.

“What? ” he demanded. “Christ, woman, is somethin’ on fire?”

“Don’t blaspheme,” she said prissily. “I merely came to ask when, precisely, I can expect you.”

His dark hair was sticking up a bit on one side. He might, she thought, have been asleep.

She retracted her previous assessment. Ruder than making her wait was making her wait, awake , while he took a nice little nap.

He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, as if she was simply more than he could bear, which was appallingly rich, in Grace’s opinion.

“Go back to bed,” he said. “I’m nae interested in hearin’ whatever ye’re on about just now.”

His accent, she thought, had grown even thicker with exhaustion. Or maybe it was geographical—the closer they got to Scotland, the more his homeland became apparent in his voice. By the time they crossed the border, she might not even be able to understand him.

That, she considered, might not be a bad thing, given his tendency toward saying the most awful things.

“But,” she said hesitantly, “it’s our… I mean, we were married today.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. The movement drew her attention to what he was wearing—or rather, to what he wasn’t wearing. He was dressed in only his shirt, which came down far enough to cover all the, erm, personal bits, to be sure. But it didn’t go longer than that. She could see his calves. Hell, she could see his knees .

Certainly she shouldn’t feel so shocked. But she did. She well and truly did.

“Your—your legs.” She was staring, and she shouldn’t be, but she struggled to tear her eyes away.

Her husband’s snort of laughter was mocking. “I ken ye English think ye’re the center of the world, but ye do realize that Scots wear kilts, aye? What d’ye think we wear beneath them? Trousers?”

These were very likely sensible questions, but Grace’s mind was not working, because she’d noticed that his forearms, too, were exposed, his sleeves rolled away from his hands. Did men have more muscles than women? She felt certain that her body did not possess that ropy bit there.

“You’re—you’re barely dressed,” she breathed.

“Aye, I thought I’d wear a bit more to sleep than usual, bein’ as how we’re in a public inn and all,” he said.

Her eyes widened. More to sleep than usual?—?

“I see ye did not feel it necessary to do the same,” he said, “given that ye’re traipsin’ around lookin’ like that. I know ye married me to salvage yer reputation, Gracie girl, but I daresay, this won’t help matters.”

He gestured down at her and only then did she realize that her nightgown, the beautiful French one she’d been assured by the modiste was the absolute latest fashion, was almost entirely transparent.

Flames lit her cheeks as she realized that she could see the color of her own nipples as they pressed against the fabric. With a sharp inhale, she looked up at her husband, only to find that he, too, was looking at her chest.

The sight emboldened her, and she took a hesitant step forward until she was halfway over the threshold into his bedchamber. She bit her lip delicately, watching his eyes track the movement?—

And then he laughed at her.

“Stars above, girl, are you really that desperate to get into my bed?”

Grace reeled back like he’d slapped her. The dripping mockery he’d placed on the word desperate had been as brutal as a blow.

She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed. “It’s my duty,” she said firmly. “You said yourself what you wanted me for.”

When her husband took a step forward, it was not the cautious, nervous movement she’d made moments earlier. Instead, it was the decisive, deadly prowl of a predator.

“Ye know nothin’ about what ye’re asking for, lass,” he murmured, voice low. She felt a frustrating flutter in her belly and feared, if she looked down, that she’d see the points of her breasts had become even more prominent against the thin lace of her night dress.

He took another prowling step forward and Grace, despite her bold intentions when she’d banged at his door, found herself taking a nervous step backward. The look that flashed across her husband’s face was not quite triumphant. Nor was it quite a smile.

“When ye come to me askin’,” he all but growled, “ye’d best be sure. Deadly sure, aye? Because if ye dangle yerself as a temptin’ little morsel, ye never know what kind of beast ye’ll end up catching.”

Another step and Grace’s back met the wall of the narrow hallway. She felt her cheeks flame with nerves, with anticipation. She had nowhere else to retreat, and so his next step would bring him flush against her, and then they would?—

He took a step backward, instead, shooting her a satisfied, mocking look.

“Lock yer door, eh, lass?” he ordered, for all that it was phrased like a question. He gave a last long, probing look over her scantily clad form. “Lest I change my mind, aye?”

And then he closed the door in her face, turning the lock with enough force that Grace could hear it click into place with a decisive thud.

Mayhap it said terrible things about his character, but as Caleb watched his little wife fume for the rest of their journey the following day, he couldn’t summon anything but amusement. She was fetching in her ire, all flashing eyes and pink cheeks. She wasn’t very good at being angry, either, he noted. Her gaze kept flicking back to him when she thought he wasn’t looking, as if she was seeking some sign that he was about to give her an apology for the night prior.

Well, it that was what she was waiting for, she’d be waiting a long, long time. He didn’t regret his actions in the least, nor did he intend to show his bonnie little broodmare the whole of himself before he had to spend near on a full day trapped in close quarters with her.

If she was going to be prissy and astonished and appalled about her Scottish brute of a husband…? Well. He didn’t need to bear witness to it.

This was likely why, when she shot him those entreating little glances, the ones that begged him to repent, to make peace between them, he instead decided to poke at her.

“Somethin’ sittin’ wrong in yer belly, there, lass?” he asked conversationally after the seventh or eighth time she’d torn her gaze from the window to peep at him.

This time, instead of darting nervously back to the landscape, those eyes went round.

“No! I mean—that is most improper to ask a lady!” she blurted, clearly shocked.

He shrugged a careless shoulder. “Ye’ve spent the whole morning looking as good tempered as a bee-stung pig, so I wondered if the sausages at the inn this morning weren’t up to yer exacting English standards.” He paused, “Nor yer delicate English constitution.”

She didn’t even respond this time, just gaped at him.

Caleb privately thought this might be the most fun he’d had in…ages. No doubt this was due to a contrast to the interminable carriage ride, not anything to do with his present company.

“’Course,” he added, letting his tone turn thoughtful, “I can’t say ye’re much likely to see aught else up in Northumberland, so perhaps ye’d best accustom yourself to rougher fare.”

She jolted. “Northumberland?” she demanded. “I thought you said we were going to Scotland.”

He stifled a grin. She’d caught that, had she?

“Nay,” he replied. “ You said we were going to Scotland. I said we were going north. Tis nae my fault you’re a city girl who thinks England starts and ends with London.”

“I’ve been north of London!” she protested.

“Oh, aye? Where? House parties in Hertfordshire? This is nae quite the same, lassie.”

Her eyes flashed with rage and—something. She turned to stare out the window some more, arms crossed in clear irritation, before he could figure out what that something was. He indulged himself in a small chuckle, knowing it would only stoke her ire. From the way her cheeks flamed, he was right.

Oh, he had his little bride pegged good and proper, didn’t he? She was shallow as a puddle, transparent as the best glass money could buy. He felt satisfied in the knowledge. Managing her would be easy.