Page 21 of Duke of Rath

He let go of her and stepped back. The beast woke up and roared, angry at him now for starving it of its pleasures.

But he couldn’t do it. For better or worse, he gave a vow to one woman before God, and he simply couldn’t lay his hands on another.

“I can’t,” he growled, then turned around and strode out of Lilith’s room, his heart pounding and his mind reeling.

He had never walked away from pleasure before, never denied himself the satisfaction of his darkest desires.

And as he navigated the dimly lit corridors of Elysium, he still felt the need pulsating in his body. Unsatisfied.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, he promised himself he’d keep strong however difficult it might be. He’d ride harder. He’d swim longer. He’d hire a boxing partner.

Anything to alleviate this tension rising inside him like steam in a cauldron.

All he needed was to maintain his self-control. And not imagine his sweet, virginal wife moaning with pleasure as he thrust into her…

8

“Bonjour, Your Grace!” exclaimed a female voice with a strong French accent the next morning, and Patience jumped in her bed, tugging the edge of her blanket all the way to her chin.

She blinked through the semidarkness at the female figure who marched through her bedchamber towards the windows. Right, her French lady’s maid who’d come to help her undress last night.

“Bonjour,” Patience mumbled in response, “Mademoiselle Antoinette.”

She was a petite woman with delicate features, chestnut hair styled in the latest French fashion, and warm brown eyes. Mademoiselle Antoinette pulled the heavy curtains open to let the morning light in, and Patience squinted her eyes.

“Avez-vous bien dormi?” asked Mademoiselle Antoinette as she hurried energetically towards the next window. “Il ne faisait pas trop froid? Je me demande comment vous aimeriez être habillée aujourd’hui?”

Despite Patience’s limited French, she managed to understand that the woman asked if she slept well, if it was not too cold, and how Patience would like to be dressed today.

Yesterday afternoon, after the wedding guests left, the housekeeper, Mrs. Knight, had introduced the servants to her, but Patience felt so overwhelmed that all of the faces and names had blurred together. And when Mademoiselle Antoinette had come to help her to undress last night, Patience had sent her away as she was ashamed that a duchess’s lady’s maid would see the poor state of her clothes.

“Things could be better,” said Patience as she forced out a chuckle.

She was still tired, her body heavy and aching with insomnia. In Rose Cottage, she slept in the same bed as Anne and Frances. In Rath Hall, her bed felt enormous and cold.

“Oh, forgive me,” said Mademoiselle Antoinette with a heavy French accent as she marched back towards the door. “Do you prefer to speak in English?”

Mademoiselle Antoinette opened the door to pick up something and a small breeze rushed inside, bringing the faintest whiff of musk, bergamot, and pepper…

Her husband. Patience’s nipples hardened of their own accord. Surely due to the breeze, not because she thought of him.

“I would, yes,” said Patience. “I’m afraid my French is limited.”

“Oh,” said Mademoiselle Antoinette as she returned to the room with a large pitcher of steaming water. She approached the washstand, which held an ornate empty basin and a mirror. “Of course. If that’s what you prefer. Most ladies I’ve served preferred French.”

While she poured the warm water into the basin, Patience licked her lips nervously. It felt strange to have someone else prepare her wash water. Typically, at home, Emily would put the cauldron on the fire, and Patience was usually the one who’d bring jugs of warm water upstairs for each of the three bedrooms and pour it in the washbasins. Now, her hands felt empty, her stomach in knots with guilt and discomfort. What was she supposed to do with herself?

“Well, I did learn it when I was little. When Mama had more time and was able to tutor my oldest sisters, Emily and Beatrice. Some of it must have stuck in my memory. After that, someone would read out loud from the single French book we had in the house in the evenings when we all sat together after supper.”

Mademoiselle Antoinette nodded and smiled. “Bien sur! Whatever you’d like, Your Grace. Perhaps you’d like to wash now?”

Still in her night chemise, Patience washed up, feeling on edge from the presence of a stranger in such intimate vicinity.

After she dried her face with the softest of fabrics, she looked helplessly at Mademoiselle Antoinette.

“Voulez-vous vous asseoir ici?” she asked as she gestured towards the padded oval dressing stool standing by a vanity table with a large mirror.

“Right,” said Patience. “Of course.”