Page 30 of The Duke Meets His Match

Never before had he wanted a woman so badly. But he wanted her to acknowledge her own passion, to come to him willingly. If he weren’t careful, she’d become an obsession.

He raised his glass to his lips. The alcohol eased his frayed nerves and dulled the exploding sound of fireworks that continued to echo in his brain.

He welcomed the numbing oblivion.

Chapter Eleven

The following afternoon, Chloe slipped out of the house. She knew Eliza would assume she was going to the orphanage to visit Emily, but Chloe had another destination in mind. She walked a block, then hired a hackney and gave the driver directions to the Duke of Cameron’s residence.

She pulled the hood of her cloak down to shield her face as she took the steps to the front door. The risk that someone was watching and might recognize her in the bright afternoon sunlight was real, but her need to see Michael outweighed the risks.

She reached for the brass knocker. The door swung open and the duke’s butler glared down at her—the same servant who’d thought she was a woman of loose morals who’d visited his master in the middle of the night little more than a week ago.

Before Chloe could speak a word, the butler said in a curt voice, “His Grace is not receiving visitors today.”

Chloe refused to be waylaid. “It’s a matter of utmost importance.”

His lips thinned with irritation. “Perhaps miss did not hear me—”

Chloe pushed past him and stepped into the vestibule.

“Miss!” He shut the door and reached for her arm.

Evading his grasp, she whirled to face him. “I was with the duke last night at Vauxhall Gardens. I know.”

The butler hesitated, and a flicker of uncertainty crossed his rigid features.

Just then a heavyset woman of about fifty, carrying a stack of clean and folded linens, turned a corner and entered the vestibule. From the look of her black dress, with its starched white collar and cuffs, and the thick ring of keys at her waist, Chloe surmised she was the housekeeper.

The woman halted and took one look at Chloe before turning to address the butler. “Is anything amiss, Hodges?”

“Yes, Mrs. Smith. This lady”—a bright mockery invaded the butler’s stare as he emphasized the false title—“insists on seeing His Grace. She claims she was with him at Vauxhall last night.”

Mrs. Smith’s gaze snapped back to Chloe. “Is that so?”

Chloe cleared her throat and raised her chin. “I witnessed two of the duke’s episodes. One at Bullock’s Museum and one last night during the fireworks. I helped him return home, and I assure you that I’m here today out of concern, not curiosity.”

Chloe held her breath as the housekeeper measured her with a keenly observant eye before her expression eased and she nodded once as if making an important decision. Mrs. Smith handed the stack of linens to the butler and took Chloe’s arm. “We are all concerned. His Grace usually has trouble sleeping, sometimes has bouts of melancholy and drinks too much, but he was very bad last night. Even Hodges thought so. Isn’t that right?” She glanced at the butler, who stood frozen, his arms full of snowy linens.

“Where is the duke now?” Chloe asked.

“He’s in the master’s chambers and still abed,” Mrs. Smith said.

Chloe’s gaze flew to the longcase clock in the corner of the vestibule. “But it’s almost three o’clock!”

“We are all worried, miss,” the butler said, his voice low. “But we also know better than to disturb His Grace. On the occasion that any of us has tried, we’ve been very sorry indeed.”

Chloe glanced up at the ornate, gilded balustrade and winding staircase that led to the second floor and the bedchambers. “I will see to him.”

Mrs. Smith’s brow furrowed. “But he’s still abed!”

“His welfare is what concerns me, not propriety.” Chloe ignored the gaping servants and hurried up the staircase. She strode down the hall, her footsteps silent on the plush Brussels runner. Priceless artwork whirled by as she passed door after door until she reached what she suspected was the master’s chambers at the end of the corridor.

She rapped softly and waited. When there was no response, her fingers grazed the handle. She knew entering a man’s bedchamber was recklessly improper, but she thrust the thought aside. She’d seen him last night. He’d clearly suffered from shock when the fireworks had exploded at the end of Madame Saqui’s performance. She’d witnessed the flash of wild grief that had ripped through him…had glimpsed his pain and inner turmoil in the depths of his eyes. In his mind, he’d been transported back to the horrors of battle.

Without further hesitation, she pushed the door open. The room was dim and her eyes took a moment to adjust. A ray of sunlight that penetrated between the nearly closed curtains provided sufficient light to see. It was a purely masculine room with mahogany Chippendale furniture, a plush Oriental carpet, an escritoire in the corner, and a leather chair by the window. But it was the enormous four-poster that dominated the room—a bed large enough to fit a man well over six feet tall—that drew her eye.

The duke lay in the bed, sprawled on his back in a restless sleep. Heart pounding, Chloe tiptoed close and then stopped breathing at the sight of his bare chest. Unable to stop herself, she stared. Ropes of muscle defined his broad shoulders, biceps, and sculpted chest. His skin was bronzed, and she wondered how he exposed himself to the sun. Her knees grew weak as an image of him riding shirtless arose in her mind. A sprinkling of hair trailed down his flat stomach and disappeared beneath the bedclothes that covered the lower half of his body. One long, muscular leg was uncovered where he’d kicked the linens aside. The raw power of his body nearly stole her breath. With a start, she realized that he slept naked and hadn’t bothered with a nightshirt. Had he sent his valet scurrying out of the room last night?