Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(65)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

He leaned forward to nuzzle his lips against the nape of the sleeping woman he held. She was so warm, so soft, in sleep, with none of the prickling edges of the maiden warrior she showed when awake and alert. He loved that maiden warrior—the woman who looked him in the eye and told him they were equals—but this sweet, vulnerable lady made his heart ache. Like this he could imagine that she would yield to him, come softly into his arms, and agree to all that he said.

The mere thought made him huff a breath of laughter against her hair.

She stirred, making a small moaning sound. “What time is it?”

He glanced at the window—bright with the sharp, new light of day—and made an estimate. “Not more than seven of the clock.”

She exclaimed and tried to move away from him.

He hugged her tighter.

“Maximus,” she said, her voice gruff with sleep. “I have to leave at once. The servants will be up.”

He bent and licked her neck. “Let them be up.”

She stilled, her face turned away so he couldn’t see her expression. “They’ll see me. We’ll be discovered.”

He pulled back a little to try and see her face, but her hair had fallen over it, making her look like a naiad in mourning. “Does it matter?”

She turned then to lie on her back, looking up at him. Her dark brown locks fanned out around her serious face, and a bold nipple peaked from beneath the sheets. He noticed that she had a triangle of tiny moles just below her right collarbone.

Her dark gray eyes were lovely looking up from his pillow. “Then you don’t care if everyone knows?”

He bent to taste those moles.

“Maximus.”

He swallowed and raised his head. “I’ll buy you a house.”

She lowered her eyes so that he could no longer see their gray depths, but didn’t speak.

His contentment was leaching away, an urgent need to make her agree taking its place. Something very like fear was freezing his heart. “Either here in London or in the country, though if you’re in the country I won’t be able to see you as often.”

From without the room he could hear the padding of servants.

He ducked his head, trying to catch her gaze. “Or I can buy both for you.”

Silence. He could feel himself beginning to sweat. Many a parliamentarian could learn something of the art of negotiation from her.

He’d never wavered in Parliament, but he wavered here in his own bed with her. “Artemis…”

Her eyes flicked up, entirely dry and completely free from emotion. “Very well.”

It should have been a moment of triumph—he’d snared his goddess—but instead he felt an odd sense of sorrow, even loss. Suddenly he knew: he’d never have her, not truly.

Not like this.

Perhaps that was what made his kiss so harsh, almost desperate.

But her lips parted beneath his as easily as if she were a biddable wench, merely here for his own pleasure. Her very passivity made him more frantic, for he knew it wasn’t real. He rolled onto her, his body caging hers as if he could cage her heart as well. This woman. His woman. He’d make it all up to her, give her anything she’d wish for, if only she’d never leave him.

Behind them, the door to his bedroom opened.

“Get out,” he growled to whichever servant had dared disturb him.

There was a squeak and the door was hastily shut.

Below him, Artemis cocked an eyebrow. “That was ill done.”

He scowled. “Would you like her to witness our coupling?”

“Don’t be crude.” She pushed against his chest and he reluctantly gave way—only because he knew he was behaving like a churlish knave. She rose gloriously nude from the bed. “Besides, they’ll all know soon enough, won’t they? That I’m your mistress?”

He snorted, hitting the bed with one arm as he sprawled.

She raised a delicate eyebrow. “That is what you want, isn’t it?”

“I can’t have what I want.”

“Can’t you?” Her voice was light, nearly careless. “But you’re the Duke of Wakefield, one of the most powerful men in England. You sit in Parliament, you own many estates, you have so much money you could bathe in it, and if that weren’t enough, you go into St. Giles at night to risk death.” She bent to pick up her chemise, discarded from the night before, and when she rose she pinned him with a challenging stare. “Isn’t that right?”

He sneered. “You know that it is.”

“Then, Your Grace, it follows that you can have anything and anyone you like even, apparently, me. Please don’t insult me by telling me otherwise.”

He closed his eyes. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Shouldn’t there be a little bit of joy in making her his? “What do you want?”

There was silence, broken only by a faint rustling. When he opened his eyes she was buttoning his banyan over her chemise.

“Nothing, I think,” she said to her hands. Then, “My freedom, perhaps.”

Freedom. He stared. What did freedom mean to such a wild creature? Did she want to be entirely quit of him?

“I’ll not let you go,” he snapped.

She glanced up at him and her look was sardonic. “Did I ask you to?”

“Artemis—”

“At the moment,” she said, suddenly brisk, “the only thing I want is my brother’s release. You’ve put chains upon him.”

“Of course I put a chain on him—he’s recovering fast and he’s quite muscular.” He frowned on a thought. “You shouldn’t be visiting him now that he can move about—he might grab you.”

She gave him an incredulous look.

He grimaced. “I can find a suitable place for him, perhaps a room with a barred door—”

“You mean a cage.”

“We’ve already discussed this: I’ll not let a madman near you.”

She sighed and came to sit on the bed beside him. “He woke up in a tavern four years ago with the bodies of three of his friends around him. He didn’t kill them. The most he can be blamed for is drinking too much.”

Maximus cocked an eyebrow. “Then why was Kilbourne committed to Bedlam?”

She reached over and stroked his uplifted eyebrow. “Because no one believed him when he said he didn’t remember what had happened or how his friends came to be killed. Because my uncle thought it better to hurry him into Bedlam rather than risk a trial.”