Page 38 of The Duke’s Suspicion

On the night of his arrival, Whitby’s story had kindled a flicker of doubt that roared now into flame. Did his friend secretly hope that he would be exposed and forced to stay in England? Tristan had told himself it was understandable: an unspoken, unspeakable wish to return to the way things had once been, the two of them outwitting a common foe. Tonight, however, it smacked of pettiness. Jealousy.

“Even you?” Tristan asked softly.

Whitby pushed away from the table and stood. “The Major Laurens I once knew would not even have had to ask.” He strode toward the door, pausing on the threshold. “You told me you desired to return to France out of concern for the greater good, Tris. Lately, I wonder if your motives might not be a bit more selfish.”

Tristan rose too. “You presume a great deal, old friend.”

“Including our friendship. My mistake.” Whitby nodded crisply. “Right, then. Do as you please, Your Grace.” The honorific stung, as had no doubt been the intent. “Regarding Miss Burke and…all the rest.”

When the door shut none too quietly behind Whitby, Tristan threw himself into a chair before the fire and studied its dying flames. His thoughts were an uncharacteristic jumble, and he found himself recalling Erica’s description of her chaotic mind, a novice rider jounced about on a trotting horse. Exhausting, indeed.

In three days, he’d uncovered no proof of Whitby’s allegations, nothing more than the most circumstantial connections—Newsome’s brother, Caroline’s French gowns. And even if one of his guests were desperate for information, which of them would be fool enough to imagine that a man like him left his secrets lying about? No, he kept them close, tucked safely away, like…like…

Like Erica clutched her journal to her breast.

Whitby’s accusations. His own suspicions. Everything coalesced around that battered, leather-bound book. If only…

Behind him, the longcase clock struck half-past twelve. By now, everyone would be safely abed. He might investigate certain avenues, and no one the wiser. He might put his intelligence-gathering skills to good use, answer his questions once and for all. And perhaps set himself free of his foolish fascination in the bargain.

Pushing up from his chair, he set off for the south wing and Erica’s chamber.

* * * *

Erica pummeled the down-filled pillow with one fist, then tossed herself backward into its cloud of softness. It didn’t help, of course. It never did. Stillness and darkness were but excuses for her mind to take its nightly journey down the shadowed, rutted lanes of her memory. Every mistake she’d made. Every misstep. Most from so far back in the past that no amends could be made.

At least tonight, her brain was focused on more recent events. Very recent. The fingers of one hand crept to her lips, wondering if they would feel somehow changed by his kiss. Wondering what might have happened if she had not chased him away.

Another whomp to the pillow, and she almost missed the click of the door latch.

Who could be coming into her room at this hour? Even the servants must be asleep. No one here was in her confidence. And until tonight, no man had ever so much as followed her into the next room for the pleasure of her company. She was certainly not so much a fool that she imagined the Duke of Raynham had waited until his other guests had retired before sneaking into her bedchamber to—

Her spinning mind ground to a halt when Tristan’s tall, broad-shouldered form slipped through the narrow opening.

Through slitted eyes, she watched him enter and close the door soundlessly behind himself. Somewhere in the furthest recesses of her mind it occurred to her that perhaps she ought to find it alarming to have a man entering her room in the dead of night. But oddly, it didn’t alarm her—not this night, not this man. For one thing, if he had wicked business in mind, it would have been foolish in the extreme for him to have waited to enact his plan until she was back in her room, with every one of his guests in easy earshot. She had only to shout to bring half of Hawesdale running to her aid. And for another…well, it was difficult to imagine the officer and gentleman she had come to know plotting something truly wicked.

Perhaps just a little wicked, though.

In the darkness she pressed her lips together, waiting for him to speak to her. But what had he come to say?

Or do?

For a long moment, he stood without moving, presumably allowing his eyes to adjust to the near darkness. She had not drawn the drapes, but the moonlight was feeble, losing its battle with the lingering clouds as it struggled to cast its glow around the chamber.

By its thin, silvery gleam, his shirtsleeves glowed white. He’d shed his coat—and his boots, she realized when he took his first silent steps across the carpet. Strange. Or maybe not. Maybe that was the ordinary way of such things. Though he did not strike her as the sort of man who would have vast experience with midnight assignations, she had even less.

He paused to watch her, and she fought the instinct to hold her breath. Having always shared a bedchamber with her elder sister, she had a great deal of experience in feigning sleep. Slow, even breaths. One, two, three. Eyes closed fully now, lest a glimmer betray her. Surely in a moment, he would speak.

He watched her for an inordinate length of time—or so it seemed to her. Minutes did have a tendency to crawl more slowly in the darkest hours of the night. And she itched, literally itched, with impatience to know what he was thinking, what his expression might be. Nerves fired at random, first on her back, then her shoulder, then the end of her nose, demanding she chase them with a vigorous scratch. In another moment, she would be unable to hold the sensation at bay.

He moved first. She heard the whisper of fabric sliding against itself as he walked. His formfitting breeches…Lord, but she did not need an excuse to be thinking about his breeches just now. Concentrate. Was he leaving, disappointed in his hopes of finding her awake and waiting for him? Ought she to stir, ever so slightly…?

Once more, she dared to crack her eyelids. Just enough to pick out his silhouette against the darker shadows of the room’s furnishings. He had indeed moved away from the foot of the bed. But not toward the door. He stood beside the vanity table. Its mirror doubled what little light there was and showed her his movements twice. She knew when he passed his fingers over the borrowed hairbrush and a little pot of scented powder the duchess’ maid had left behind. Over the inkpot and the quills Miss Chatham had supplied from the schoolroom. Over the cover of her journal…

He paused for a more thorough exploration. She felt his touch as surely as if his fingertips had been caressing her skin, tracing every smooth curve. Too familiar. Too intimate. The nerve endings that only moments before had been demanding she scratch a nonexistent itch began to work in concert, all their energy now focused somewhere near the base of her spine. Desperate to appease them, she wiggled her hips soundlessly beneath the coverlet.

He heard her nonetheless. Or else the movement, though slight, had caught his eye. He turned, the journal in hand, his long fingers pale against its dark cover. She had startled him. Surely he had not meant to pick it up. A soft sound, a murmur of disappointment, slipped past her lips, and she shifted again, hoping these would be mistaken for the noises and movements of sleep.

Though he did not seem to imagine she was fully awake, gone were the leisurely motions, the careful study of moments ago. He turned rapidly toward the door and was to it in half a dozen strides. When he reached for the latch, she saw he still held her journal in his other hand.