He studied her in the same manner he pored over his architecture plans. Every detail was worth consideration. She was conscious of her sloppy braid, and the faint lines etched at the outer corners of both her eyes. Her maid said they were from smiling too much.

Wherever the duke’s gaze touched, her skin got warmer. He traced a visual trail down her leg and back to her foot peeking half out from under her skirt. A white stocking covered her, but he stared with such interest that her skin pebbled.

“I spent a good portion of my night waiting for you.” He tore his attention off her foot. “Then I wondered why would a woman kiss me passionately, elicit my emotions, and hide.”

She twisted the edges of her shawl. “I already told you.”

Arms crossing, he leaned back in his chair. “You’ve told me nothing. You’re a confident woman, Mrs. Chatham. I don’t believe this is about our ages, or station, or wealth.”

She mirrored him, mulishly crossing her arms. “You appear to be well-informed about us. Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

“We finally admit to our attraction, and that, madame, scares you.”

Oh, it frightened her out of her wits. Marriage to Mr. Chatham had been a comfortable affair. Sexual congress had been enjoyable, the occasional tup, but no exploration, no sharing of secret desires. She’d mourned her husband’s passing. They’d had a good life. He was a friend, a partner, but passion failed to burn bright.

It took a dalliance with a rake to open her eyes. Then a dalliance with another man, and another after him. Widows were afforded certain freedoms if they were discreet. But, the excitement, the sense of exploration eventually faded in favor of a new want—love.

Was it too much to ask for love and bed-shaking, rope-creaking sex? She’d resigned herself that never the twain would meet. Hence, she’d purchased Butterfly Cottage in Kent and prepared to lose herself in vigorous gardening, but no woman could live by spade and dirt alone. That point was driven into her soul the day she’d spied an intelligent-looking, auburn-haired man with impossibly wide shoulders in a public house in her new home village.

The first time their eyes had met devastated her.

Hot, lustful seeds were planted that day. She couldn’t deny it.

After two agonizing years, they finally, finally acted on their mutual attraction. One kiss was all it took for her to know love and sex could live under one roof.

And that scared her most of all.

Because he was a duke, and she’d never be able to give him what men in his position needed most. An heir.




CHAPTER 7




LOVE WAS PROFOUND AND UNRULY. He’d known versions of it with his family, but the emotion blossoming between him and Mrs. Chatham was a tempest. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, give her a good shaking, and make her tell him the truth about her difficult secret.

He already knew. George had told him.

His brother imparted the substance of a conversation he’d overheard months ago. In it, Mrs. Chatham had tearfully shared a confidence with the dowager. Now she needed to share it with him. That was how trust and respect worked. Love fed on those qualities.

He and Mrs. Chatham needed to entrust their worst pain, their harshest disappointments, and their greatest joys for love to grow. His good, affectionate family had struggled with this truth as well. This past year showed him that.

Today, he and Mrs. Chatham had a taste of honest words in his sitting room. It was their beginning. Now they must continue to feed their wildly chaotic, yet fledgling, emotions, but it couldn’t be forced.

She had to give him the deepest recesses of her heart.

Seeing this truth was no different than glimpsing a corner of a magnificent painting, knowing the beauty that was coming…and having to wait for it. And wait. And wait.

Gentleness helped. Thus, he unfolded his arms and leaned forward. He brushed the back of his knuckles on her knee. She was wary, watching him like a curled-up cat unsure of being petted. Her gaze followed every stroke on her wool-covered knee, her leg, and her half-exposed foot.

Two candelabra lit the room. Flickering candles brightened her sherry-colored eyes. Their rich, liquid hue filled her face.

“Your Grace—”

“Nathan.”

Her eyes flared wider.

“When I’m alone with you, call me Nathan. It’s what my brothers called me as a boy.”

His voice was hoarse from intimacy twining between them. Mrs. Chatham might wish to slow the swirling changes going on between them, but she couldn’t deny their palpable presence.

She nibbled her lower lip as a puzzled dent camped between her eyebrows. Her breathing ebbed and flowed with greater tenacity. She fought something.

“Tell me what it is,” he coaxed.

Her soulful gaze met his. “We’ve opened Pandora’s box, and now we ought to close it.”

Careful strokes to her skirt-covered leg stopped. This was puzzling. And enlightening. He expected a garden metaphor or an outright confession of the heart, not a mythical reference.

“What do you mean?”

“Pandora, the first woman in Greek mythology,” she explained patiently.

“I know who she is. The gods bestowed their choicest gifts on her, and she married...” Perplexed, he searched the air.

“Epimetheus.” She supplied the name, looking at him as if comprehension would come. Seconds ticked on the Dutch clock tucked in the corner before she added, “He was warned not to marry her, but he did anyway, bringing him misery.”

He toyed with her hem. He had a good idea where she was going with the tale, but he had something to add of his own because art and precision were in his blood. “Some say the first translation wasn’t correct. Pandora had a jar, not a box. Another translation has misplaced curiosity at fault, while another—”

“I don’t need a lesson in the details of Greek mythology,” she huffed in frustration.

“My point was only to enhance the—"

“I’m barren!” Color was high in her cheeks. She blinked as glossy wetness filled her eyes.

He scooted forward, his knees bumping her chair. “That doesn’t matter. I want to be with you. Isn’t that enough?”

She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her shawl. “You can’t mean that. You’re the Duke of Richland. The very design of this house party has been to find your duchess.”

He could argue a different point. Oh, she had one facet correct: the guests, the week-long entertainments were meant to find him a wife, but today…tonight shed new light on a dark, dark year. What if the true motive of his heart was to restore Richland? To fill it with love and happiness however such a gift might come?

Was the greater thing progeny? Or love?

He knew how he’d answer, but marriage was an equation with two hearts and minds.

Mrs. Chatham was prickly. “Don’t you understand? I can’t give you children. If you pursue this—this passion between us, you’d be leg shackled to me.”

He grinned. “I could use a good leg shackling. If it’s with you.”

Her jaw dropped. “This is not a light-hearted matter.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have ventured the leg-shackling quip.

“Mrs. Chath—"

“You must go. Now.” Her trembling voice brooked no disagreement.

His inborn stillness cracked. The heels of his hands dug into his thighs. None of this was going as planned. He was raised to give the utmost respect to women. He wanted to persuade her against her angry demand, but wisdom whispered otherwise.

Retreat was in order. He’d regroup and reassess how to fully win her heart.

Wearily, he pushed up off the fragile chair and returned it to its rightful place at the escritoire. The soles of his shoes scraped the floor from leaden footsteps. He made his way to the door and tarried there, bitter disappointment washing over him. He wouldn’t be the one to dry her tears tonight. But he was determined. They would have more nights together. Of that he was certain.

Before he closed the door, he faced the stubborn woman who would someday be his duchess. He was quite certain no other dukes had to work this hard to gain their duchesses. He’d take this as further proof of the widow’s worth: her refusal came from a wish to protect him, albeit misguided. Her valiant effort made her all the more endearing.

She wiped another tear, managing to be fierce and soft while sniffling in her chair. “Why do you linger in my doorway, Your Grace?”

“Because I must own that my poor choice of humor caused you pain. I will carry that with me for the rest of my life. I hope someday you will forgive me.”

“It’s done.” Chin to chest, she plucked a loose thread on the chair’s upholstered arm.

A million stars winked encouragement at him through the dormer window. Those heavenly bodies had witnessed centuries of lovers in turmoil. No doubt they’d preside over many more.

“There is something else…if you’ll allow…”

“This is your home,” she said peevishly. “I can hardly toss you out.”

A giant hand could be squeezing his heart. His fingertips whitened from their staying grip on the door. He’d failed her this night, a lesson to harbor for the future.

He took a labored breath and gentled his voice. “I think you’ve forgotten that there is more to Pandora’s tale. All translations end on a similar note. After the badness fled, there was one thing left.”

Her spine was off the back rest. She dabbed her nose with a kerchief and slipped one foot, then the other into her shoes. “I can’t recall what it is, but I’ve no doubt you’ll supply me with the answer.” Hands resting primly on her knees, she met his gaze and waited.

“Hope.”




CHAPTER 8




HE SUNK onto his bed and fell back onto a sea of the finest cotton money could buy. Mrs. Staveley and a battalion of chamber maids had prepared his bed for warmer weather: a fluffy summer counterpane, lighter draperies to shut around his bed, and the downiest pillows.