Page 72 of The Duke's Only Desire

Chapter Twenty-One

Sophie lay besideShay in his large mahogany four-poster bed, her head on his bare chest and her long hair spilling across his shoulder and the arm he’d tucked around her. Her naked body nestled warmly against his beneath the velvet and down covers. They hadn’t bothered to pull close the heavy bed drapes, choosing instead to let their body heat keep the cold night away.

Dawn would be coming soon to wake the house, although the maids and footmen who came early into the bedrooms to light the morning fires knew to stay away from both their bedrooms until each was stirring and properly clothed. Was that what Malcolm’s spy had reported to him as the change in their marriage? Or was it that they had simply been happier in the past month than they’d ever been in their lives?

“You’re frowning,” he murmured into her air. “What’s wrong?”

His breath was sweet with the lingering scent of port, his favorite bottle of which sat on the bedside table. Half-empty. Because after carrying her up from the dining hall, he’d poured it across her body and licked up every delicious drop. She doubted she’d ever be able to think of men and their glasses of after-dinner port again without remembering the very wicked way he’d lapped at her bare flesh.

“Malcolm and his threats,” she admitted with a long-suffering sigh. She idly drew circles across the hard planes of his chest. “What are we going to do?”

“Nothing, not until we have to.”

She lifted up onto one elbow and stared down at him, her heart panging with worry. He was far too calm about the matter. “Why on earth would we do that?”

“Because most likely he’s bluffing and won’t do anything.” He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “And because taking the offensive will make us look guilty, and we’re not.”

“And if he’s not bluffing?” She paused long enough to let that worry sink in, then added, “We should be prepared in case he carries out his threats. We don’t have to make the first move, but we should be ready to respond immediately, just in case.”

His eyes softened in the shadows as he searched her face. “Will it make you feel better if we do?”

“Immensely.”

“All right.” Placing a quick kiss to her lips, he rolled out of bed and reached for his wine-colored satin banyan with its wide velvet collar lying tossed over the foot of the bed. He slipped it on and tied it around his waist. “What’s your plan of attack, then, General?”

His teasing warmed her chest and eased the worry and apprehension sitting there like a lead ball. “I was hoping to draw upon the skills of a war-proven soldier for that.”

He grinned at her and reached for the bottle of forty-year tawny Kopke port on the nightstand.

Sophie felt his smile tingle happiness through her, not because it portrayed a roguish expression of a man at his prime—although it did—but because only half his face could smile, and he no longer cared that the scarred side couldn’t. He wasn’t at all self-conscious about his face or the scars that marred his body, and he never tried to hide them from her anymore.

Yes, she thought as she remembered his earlier words from the dining hall. They were certainly married now.In every way.

“The generals who are best at strategy craft both offensive battle plans but also defensive ones, in case the battle turns.”

A small thrill bubbled inside her that he was sharing his soldier’s way of life with her. “How do we do that?”

He splashed out a small pour of the ruby-brown liquor and eyed her over the rim as he raised it to his lips. “Start with your enemy. What do you think is his most likely battle strategy?”

“A full frontal attack,” she stated decisively, a grimace tugging at her lips.

“Ah, then you don’t know your enemy very well.”

She sat up in bed, propped the pillow behind her, and drew the blankets up to her bosom to keep herself warm. “But Malcolm confronted me directly in the garden.”

“After he sent me all the way to Scotland,” he reminded her, “then made certain you were alone in the garden without Pearson or Henley to protect you. Not the actions of a man who’s brave or confident in the face of battle.”

She corrected, “So the enemy is a spineless bully who stoops to intimidation and threats to get his way.”

“Exactly.” He winked at her and held out the glass to her. “How will he attack, then?”

“By using the same cowardly, underhanded measures he used with me in the garden.” She thoughtfully traced her fingertip around the rim of the glass and felt the place where his mouth had warmed it. With a soft sigh, she put her lips there and took a small taste. “But what? It’s one thing to threaten me and use my love for you against us, but what could he do to convince Parliament of your guilt? He can’t threaten them.”

He walked to the window to pull back the thick drapes, pushed open the wooden shutter, and stared out across the countryside where a thin layer of orange outlined the distanthills, announcing the approaching dawn. Sophie recognized his preoccupied expression and knew he wasn’t paying attention to the view. Just as he’d left the bed so he wouldn’t be distracted by her. He might be presenting an unconcerned façade so as not to acerbate her worry, but she knew he was just as uneasy as she was, just as determined to create a plan to protect them.

“He’ll attack my character,” he muttered almost to himself as he leaned a shoulder against the folded shutter that hadn’t been closed against the night. “That’s all he can do. If he adds new evidence to the accusations he leveled in the past, they’ll seem more plausible than before, even though they’re the same ones.Becausethey’re the same ones. After all, if someone put voice to a lie often enough, people hear it so often they’ll start to believe it.”

“The bigger the lie, the more readily it’s spread,” Sophie added in a mutter. “And the more we deny it, the more it will be believed.”