Page 34 of The Duke Meets His Match

He rose and went to a basin and returned with a clean cloth. Sitting at her hip, his hands were infinitely gentle as he skimmed her skin and cleansed her and the linens of the evidence of their lovemaking. When he finished, he brushed his lips against hers with tenderness that melted her misgivings.

“If I had known, I would have taken you slowly and leisurely and with infinite care.”

Her heart was a slippery slope, and he was playing havoc with her emotions. He stood and returned the cloth to the basin, and she leaned up on elbows and watched the play of muscles on his back and buttocks. Without a stitch of clothing, he was a magnificent sight.

She sat up as he returned to the bed. She was still in her dress. She smoothed the skirts and righted her bodice. Her satin shoes had fallen off and dropped to the floor. Her hair was disheveled, and she righted the blond tresses as best as she could. “I must look a mess.”

He sat beside her on the bed. “You look lovely.”

She felt her face heat at the intensity of his look, and she felt suddenly shy. The emotion made no sense after what they’d just shared in his bed, but nonetheless, it was there. She wanted to reach up and brush the silky, dark hair that fell across his forehead, but her fingers clenched in her lap. He was a complex man, a powerful duke who could be confident and arrogant, yet a remarkably gentle and considerate lover. She found herself fascinated.

The need to learn more about him arose. What could cause this strong man to have nightmares? “You said a name while you slept. Who’s Gavin?”

He stiffened and remained silent for a while. She thought he wouldn’t tell her, but then he finally spoke. “Gavin was Henry’s father, the former Lord Sefton. He was a childhood friend from Eton and then Oxford. He died saving my life in battle.”

“I’m sorry.” She couldn’t imagine the trauma of watching your friend die…a friend who’d sacrificed his life to save hers. She’d struggle with the guilt for the rest of her life. Perhaps that was what was behind his fits…a deep-seated guilt that he’d survived rather than Henry’s father.

“We had sustained heavy casualties from the French soldiers and artillery. We finally thought the worst was over, then I glimpsed an enemy solider stealthily approach from behind. Before I could act, Gavin pushed me aside and took a bullet in his chest. I pursued and killed the Frenchman, but it was too late. Gavin died. He’d carried a letter asking for me to look after his only son.”

Chloe’s heart ached for him. He’d always feel protective of Henry. The promise he’d made to a dying friend who’d taken a bullet for him wasn’t something a soldier could ignore. And knowing the Duke of Cameron, he felt the responsibility even more than the average military officer. “Last night at Vauxhall Gardens when the fireworks exploded, you were reminded of the war?”

“Yes.”

“And the first time I met you at Bullock’s Museum, when we saw Napoleon’s carriage, you had an episode as well?”

He nodded. “I’m powerless to stop the fits. Anything can trigger them, and I’m taken back to the war, to the battle where I lost my best friend. I’ve had difficulty sleeping since my return.”

Chloe’s nightmares weren’t of bloody battlefields, but of sickness, poverty, and running from constables in dark, damp alleys. Both had the same effect. Neither of them could sleep peacefully through the night.

“You helped me last night. I’m grateful,” he said.

“Anyone would have done the same.”

“No, you’re wrong. You are no wallflower, Chloe, or a delicate miss. Your past has shaped you and made you different from all the other debutantes. It’s made you special and I admire it.”

He admired her past? Heavens. She wondered if he could hear her wildly beating heart.

She patted the bed beside her. “Lie down.”

A corner of his lips turned upward. “I’m more than happy to oblige you, but I think you’d be too sore.”

Her cheeks heated. “Not for that. I have an idea to help ease your tension. Now lie down on your stomach.”

“Your wish is my command.” He flipped over.

He had to have the most perfect backside. She rose on her knees beside him and began to stroke his scalp. Her fingers stroked his temples and kneaded the muscles at the base of his neck and across his shoulders. He flexed and she watched the play of muscles across his back and buttocks.

He groaned. She felt his breathing relax and the tenseness in his shoulders ease. They sat in silence as she soothed his stress with her fingers. His breathing grew deeper until his eyes closed and he became drowsy. Soon he slept. She watched him for several moments. His face was relaxed and he appeared younger.

She had no regrets. One afternoon of passion may have changed her forever, but she refused to allow it to alter her future.

She grabbed her reticule and quietly slipped out.

…

Michael woke feeling better rested than he had in over a year. He had slept a deep, dreamless sleep free of horrific nightmares of shadowy battlefields and bloodcurdling screams. Chloe’s smooth, stroking fingers on his neck, across his shoulders, and down his back had released much of the tension he’d been carrying.

If only a cure to his condition were that simple.