Page 28 of My Dearest Duke

Near Canterbury

Ten days later

From beneath half-closed eyes, Kingston observed his dozing wife of just over eight and forty hours. He’d wed Vanessa Euphemia Samantha Becket the day after her third and twentieth birthday in a simple ceremony at her Berkeley Square house, witnessed by her maid, Daisy Struthers, the Earl of Wainthorpe, and the Duke of Asherford.

The latter two repeatedly and emphatically vowed he was out of his bloody mind at least a dozen times before Vanessa glided into the drawing room. Mouths gaping, his friends had exchanged astonished glances and said no more to dissuade Kingston from throwing his life away.

Owen Elligon had not been invited.

Nonetheless, Kingston made sure to have a letter delivered to the wretch’s residence, making him aware that his stepsister was legally under Kingston’s protection now. And should Elligon be imbecilic enough to venture within ten miles of Vanessa for as long as he drew breath, he’d feel the full power of Kingston’s wrath.

Let the conniving bugger make of that what he would.

For the short ceremony, Vanessa had worn the diamond and sapphire brooch pinned at the throat of her ice-blue and white satin gown that Mrs. Dorrian-Lane had returned to her after commenting on the uniqueness of the jewel. Clearly, the brooch held great sentimental value, but Vanessa hadn’t explained why.

Kingston had meant to inquire, but a number of tasks had distracted him from doing so.

Unfortunately, her other jewels had been sold, and their whereabouts were unknown. Kingston had fleetingly considered hiring an investigator to search for them, but reality had swiftly nixed that idea. Simply put, he didn’t have excess funds to spend on such a venture, particularly when a positive outcome was as likely as Vanessa wanting to remain married to him.

Remain married?

Where had that utterly absurd thought come from?

Is it ridiculous? Really?

Unable to help himself, he looked his fill, memorizing every delicate sloping angle of her face and lush contour of her body.

Vanessa had been an ethereal vision descended straight from heaven in her finery on their wedding day. Kingston made a mental note to purchase earrings to compliment the brooch and give it to her as a belated birthday gift. Except, once she’d transferred a portion of the monies to his account, the irony struck him full force.

Buying her a gift with her coin was the height of poor taste. Besides, there were many, many things the funds could be better put to use for other than fancy baubles for his stunning new wife. She required no adornment to enhance her beauty.

Since boarding the coach yesterday morning, they’d chatted about all manner of nonsensical trivialities. However, today, Vanessa’s eyelids had repeatedly drifted low until, at last, sleep had claimed her. The past few days had no doubt been exhausting for her, as well.

He’d been tempted to disembark the equipage and ride Tito. Tied to the back of the coach, the gelding had given him a gimlet eye each time the coach had stopped as if to say, “Do spare me further indignity and take your place upon my back rather than sit within the coach like an insipid dandy.”

Though Kingston loved the faithful horse who’d seen him through adolescence and a bloody war, he couldn’t tear himself from Vanessa’s presence. She sat curled into the comfortable coach’s opposite corner, pretty lips slightly parted and a pink flush on her ivory cheeks. Her eyelashes, several shades darker than her moon-spun hair, kissed her high cheekbones as she slept.

God, but she was exquisite.

From her delicate features and her porcelain skin to her bountiful bosom, tapered waist, and full, rounded hips, she was temptation personified. Such seductive shapeliness wasn’t common in a woman of her slight stature.

Though he’d chosen to do penance by remaining celibate, he was still a flesh and blood man. It came as no surprise that his passion-starved body reacted predictably when present with such feminine abundance.

Kingston’s gaze slowly traveled the inches from her face, peaceful in repose, to the swell of her breasts straining against her modest but expensive traveling costume. She’d opted to wear rich dark purple, the color of pansies, rather than black, and the shade did astounding things to her skin, eyes, and hair. The rest of her too.

His attention gravitated to the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Was there anything as wondrous as a woman’s breasts? As she slumbered on, he permitted the rigid restraints on his imagination to relax. Were her breasts firm and round like peaches? Plump and full? Bell-shaped? Teardrops? Would they nest snuggly within his palms, or would their bounty spill over his hands?

His mouth alternately watered and went dry as a charred bone at the thought.

And what about her nipples?

Did they match her lips? Were they dusky rose, petal pink, or purple-brown?

Full and supple or small, pebbled nubs?

Kingston groaned and shifted on the velvet seat.