Adrian stood over them, still panting from exertion and rage. His coat was ripped by the seam of the shoulder. His buttons had snapped. He ached in many different places that he could not care to focus on right now because a cut on his temple started to bleed and he had to find a way to staunch the flow of deep crimson before it dribbled into his eye
“Your Grace, apologies for you getting involved in the matter!” Kettering exclaimed. “As a token of regret and appreciation for your expert handling of that terrible scene, please accept a month’s free drinks from us. It is the least we can do for a loyal patron!”
Adrian nodded curtly, not saying anything, playing with the public cover Kettering provided for him. He must go home. He needed to wash the dirt and attend to his wounds. He strode out of the Obsidian Card, thankful because Kettering knew how to deal with the mess the drunkards had left behind.
At the Wolfcrest townhouse, Daphne felt restless. There was something different in the air tonight. She had been soothing her tension by playing the pianoforte, but the listless melody she created no longer helped her. Her music never failed her before, but it was not what she needed tonight.
Her heart thudded with anxiety.
Could it be?
She knew the Duke dealt with dangerous things.
Where is he?
He always went home late, but she felt something was amiss. She tried to shake off the feeling of superstition. As she was about to walk up the stairs to retreat to her bed, she stopped dead.
The Duke stood near the doorway, looking bent and crumpled. It was not like him. He always stood with a posture that boasted his height. He tossed his coat onto a nearby chair.
As he walked closer, she saw that his shirt was ripped with most of the buttons gone. She could see his sculpted chest and abdomen. The sight of him made her breath catch. Her eyes would have continued to devour him with lust, but she noticed bruises all over him: the gash above his temple, blood on his cheek, and many more on his torso.
The Wolf might be half-naked before her, but he was also injured. He still looked magnificent, but he needed help. Daphne knew that she should call for assistance. She ought to alert the staff and allow them to deal with the blood. She had been taught, as a proper lady, to keep her countenance and only react when it was absolutely necessary.
All resolve and training were for naught.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, half-choking a sob, stepping closer to him. “You’re hurt.”
Chapter Eleven
“It’s nothing,” the Duke said, his voice raspy and tired. He glanced at her quickly but generally did not want to meet her eyes.
Daphne should have been frightened for him, with the bruises and the blood, but a different feeling kept on interrupting her common sense.
A baser instinct. Desire.
Even when battered, the man before her was a specimen of a man, towering and beautiful. Half-naked but also in need of urgent help. The answers to some of her questions stood before her, making her mouth water.
No.
She chided herself at the way her mind swerved back to her physical response to the man before him. Still, she could nothelp the primal awareness she had at the sight of him. Her mouth, initially dry watered. She did not know what kind of reaction that was. She fought it, shaking the haze away.
“Your Grace, this needs tending to, immediately,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
What replaced the desire was a feeling of helplessness at the sight of him.
Who hurt him? How could they do this?
“Go to bed, Duchess. I will take care of it,” he said, his voice soft. Almost pleading. The man would rather die than have her find out what he had been going through, what dangers he was in.
“No, I cannot leave you on your own with your injury. You have suffered greatly and there will be bruising,” she insisted, as she felt her voice gaining strength.
Daphne believed in what she was saying. She could not leave him like this, not just because she made vows to be there for him at times like this. She moved closer, ignoring the sense of danger his body seemed to continuously emanate.
She placed a gentle hand on his forearm, careful how she touched it since she could not see what the remaining cloth covered. “You were in a fight, or you were attacked. You do not have to give me the details. All I know is that your energy hasbeen spent and you lack the strength to clean your own wounds. You must come to my chambers. I will take care of you.”
His eyes were on her, intensely assessing. She knew what he was thinking. Having him enter her room to be taken care of would be a slight breach of their marital arrangement. It was a practical one.
The Duke of Wolfcrest smirked when he asked, “Is this what I had to do, Duchess, for you to allow me into your bedroom? Must I get into more brawls, then?”
