delicate situation as this."
Merlin could feel the duke's fingers tremble and bit her lip in apprehension. For a moment she feared he would begin shouting again—there was that much rage and more in the braising pressure of his hand. But instead he let go of her. She heard him take a deep breath and exhale it slowly. He touched her shoulder, turning her toward him, and brushed her cheek with a brief caress. “All right. I'll be waiting, Wiz. Outside with Thaddeus."
Little good such gentle endearments had done him, Ransom thought bitterly, staring upward at the midnight shadows of the canopy. She might have been with him now, in this same bed where he'd loved her before, if Ragley hadn't made such a cock-up of the whole thing.
He must have botched it royally, the pontificating old bumbler. Ransom could think of no other reason why he was sleeping here alone while Merlin had retired to her own bedroom, with Thaddeus to guard the door and the bishop in the next room down the hall to preserve what was left of propriety.
And worse, for the ancient cleric to have called Ransom on the carpet—Ransom himself, by God, as if he were some common parishioner—and demand to know if he had a proper affection for this female he proposed to marry. If he loved her, for pity's sake! The old warhorse of Westminster Abbey was lapsing into senility. Love her! How the bleeding Hell could Ransom possibly love her? He'd only laid eyes on her the day before.
Oh, he was willing to do his duty, all right. More than willing, in all honesty. He was growing tired of the inconveniences of courtesans and mistresses, of the jealousies and expenses and petty tantrums that had to be endured in order to meet his physical needs. He'd been less and less inclined to tolerate them lately, choosing to spend his time in London at Whitehall instead of at Madame's—undoubtedly why he'd been so disgustingly susceptible to that thrice-damned aphrodisiac.
The worst of it was, Ransom was as hungry for her as he'd been under the influence of her cursed potion. He was having a devil of a time getting control of himself. In fact, he was failing utterly. He lay there burning and ready for her, and thanked God that Thaddeus and the bishop were such a pair of old maids as to insist on chaperoning her themselves. Otherwise, Ransom had a clear and humiliating knowledge of just how long he would have held out against his own desire.
He threw the bedclothes back and got up. He wanted to pace, but the hard contact of his bare toe with a carved chest effectively banished that notion. He sucked in a sharp breath and fumed at Thaddeus, who had left Ransom barely enough candle to get undressed and into bed—probably on the theory that he'd stay there more readily without a light to guide him elsewhere.
A thin shaft of moonlight poured between the curtains drawn across the bay window. Ransom pulled the musty damask aside slightly and took an exploratory look out the open casement. Ground fog filled the yard, creating a billowy floor just a foot or two below the window. It was an illusion, he knew—the distance to the pavement was undoubtedly greater than he'd like to know about—but the appearance satisfied his private discomfort. His secret fear of heights was something that he lived with—if not exactly comfortably, at least without undue agony. He had contrived to arrange his life so that the problem had faded to the status of a minor nuisance. It had been months since he'd even thought of it, and he dismissed it now, feeling only a brief twinge of uneasiness thicken in the back of his throat.
He stood with his arms spread above him, leaning on the curtain rod. A light breeze caressed his unclothed body. To his chagrin, the night air did nothing to cool the heat in his veins.
She was, he thought, the most baffling and entrancing creature he'd ever had the misfortune to meet. None of his seasoned strategies worked with her, not reason or temptation or force. Not mild
Merlin could feel the duke's fingers tremble and bit her lip in apprehension. For a moment she feared he would begin shouting again—there was that much rage and more in the braising pressure of his hand. But instead he let go of her. She heard him take a deep breath and exhale it slowly. He touched her shoulder, turning her toward him, and brushed her cheek with a brief caress. “All right. I'll be waiting, Wiz. Outside with Thaddeus."
Little good such gentle endearments had done him, Ransom thought bitterly, staring upward at the midnight shadows of the canopy. She might have been with him now, in this same bed where he'd loved her before, if Ragley hadn't made such a cock-up of the whole thing.
He must have botched it royally, the pontificating old bumbler. Ransom could think of no other reason why he was sleeping here alone while Merlin had retired to her own bedroom, with Thaddeus to guard the door and the bishop in the next room down the hall to preserve what was left of propriety.
And worse, for the ancient cleric to have called Ransom on the carpet—Ransom himself, by God, as if he were some common parishioner—and demand to know if he had a proper affection for this female he proposed to marry. If he loved her, for pity's sake! The old warhorse of Westminster Abbey was lapsing into senility. Love her! How the bleeding Hell could Ransom possibly love her? He'd only laid eyes on her the day before.
Oh, he was willing to do his duty, all right. More than willing, in all honesty. He was growing tired of the inconveniences of courtesans and mistresses, of the jealousies and expenses and petty tantrums that had to be endured in order to meet his physical needs. He'd been less and less inclined to tolerate them lately, choosing to spend his time in London at Whitehall instead of at Madame's—undoubtedly why he'd been so disgustingly susceptible to that thrice-damned aphrodisiac.
The worst of it was, Ransom was as hungry for her as he'd been under the influence of her cursed potion. He was having a devil of a time getting control of himself. In fact, he was failing utterly. He lay there burning and ready for her, and thanked God that Thaddeus and the bishop were such a pair of old maids as to insist on chaperoning her themselves. Otherwise, Ransom had a clear and humiliating knowledge of just how long he would have held out against his own desire.
He threw the bedclothes back and got up. He wanted to pace, but the hard contact of his bare toe with a carved chest effectively banished that notion. He sucked in a sharp breath and fumed at Thaddeus, who had left Ransom barely enough candle to get undressed and into bed—probably on the theory that he'd stay there more readily without a light to guide him elsewhere.
A thin shaft of moonlight poured between the curtains drawn across the bay window. Ransom pulled the musty damask aside slightly and took an exploratory look out the open casement. Ground fog filled the yard, creating a billowy floor just a foot or two below the window. It was an illusion, he knew—the distance to the pavement was undoubtedly greater than he'd like to know about—but the appearance satisfied his private discomfort. His secret fear of heights was something that he lived with—if not exactly comfortably, at least without undue agony. He had contrived to arrange his life so that the problem had faded to the status of a minor nuisance. It had been months since he'd even thought of it, and he dismissed it now, feeling only a brief twinge of uneasiness thicken in the back of his throat.
He stood with his arms spread above him, leaning on the curtain rod. A light breeze caressed his unclothed body. To his chagrin, the night air did nothing to cool the heat in his veins.
She was, he thought, the most baffling and entrancing creature he'd ever had the misfortune to meet. None of his seasoned strategies worked with her, not reason or temptation or force. Not mild
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