The next morning Sebastian woke with a crick in his neck. Light came through one tall unfamiliar window he squinted against. It took him a moment, and an erection, to remember he was asleep outside Rebecca’s bedchamber. The settee, thankfully, did not have arms, allowing him to stretch out instead of being curled up like a bear squeezed into a hole carved out from a mole. Slowly, he rose to sitting, rolling his head side to side and wincing at the cracking.
This room matched her bedchamber in its simplicity and restful color scheme. He would have thought an Amazon preferred something more bold in the way of furnishings and trophies.
Apparently, he had much to learn when it came to women warriors.
Sebastian lowered his bare feet on a Turkish carpet pattern in light yellow and green. The wood was stripped oak, and the settee hadn’t been horribly uncomfortable, at least not compared to the one at The Hanging Moss.
His gaze was drawn to a painting over the ornate fireplace. An amateurish work that resembled the Highlands in summer. He pulled on his stockings and boots, pulled his sadly wrinkled cravat around his neck, and tied a simple knot, then slipped on his waistcoat and coat. He went and stood before the painting. He knew instinctively Rebecca was the artist. This was not a work worthy of a museum, but he liked it and suspected that Rebecca cherished it. He wondered when she’d had the occasion to visit Scotland. The brilliant green grasses were dotted with dabs of lavender and heather. There was a longing and delight that reached out and touched the viewer. At least it touched him.
He shook his head at his fanciful thoughts and moved to the adjourning door to the bedchamber, pushed down the latch and peered in.
Rebecca slept soundly. Something she desperately needed despite her protestations the night before. He strolled quietly to the bed and stood there a moment, taking her in, thinking how inappropriate a wife she was for a man in his position. An Amazonian woman who championed children, animals and, apparently, Gabriella. Not men, he reminded himself. She was nothing like anyone he’d ever known. And he was a person who protected his standing in society, craved structure, obedience—something she would never adhere to. Was he wrong in forcing this union?
He leaned over and brushed the hair from her face, studied the scar on her temple. She would jump into the fray for her cause and fight to the death. The very idea set his cautious, disciplined equilibrium askew. But their circumstances had changed. The duchess charging their chamber at The Hanging Moss had set them on an irreversible course. Honor and his name would allow no different.
Life with Rebecca would not be one of tranquility, something which gave him pause. Her impulsiveness would create havoc in his well-ordered existence. But never, never would she be uninteresting. This union did not bode well for his reputation, but seeing her now, like this? He couldn’t make himself care. He wanted her. She gave him life.
There would be talk, but as a duke he was not powerless.
Her eyes fluttered open. “What is it?” she said, her voice full of sleep. Her eyes widened. “What are you doing in here?”
Sebastian leaned over, caging her between his arms, excitement thrumming his veins. “I’m leaving. I shall have to dress a bit more formally than a wrinkled cravat and a travel worn coat to meet the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
That drew her quick smile, but it quickly disappeared.
He laid his lips on hers, drew in the soft lavender that was so prevalent. So her. “Will you wish me a safe journey?” It was a taunt unworthy of him. He hadn’t the slightest idea what made him ask such a thing.
“Men don't need reassuring of that sort.” She scooted deeper within the coverlets. “I do believe you may be touched in the head.”
“Just as I suspected,” he said, struggling to keep his tone light, though he feared his irritation bled through. “Your avenging only extends to those of your choosing. Not a true warrior at all, are you, my lady?”
“Sebastian,” she said with a touch of impatience. “What are you talking about? What is this nonsense about a warrior?”
“Sometimes men require saving, my lady. Perhaps it is you who is touched in the head.”
Her lips twitched. “Go away, Sebastian.”
The sight made him smile. “Obviously, you are not at your sharpest first thing in the morning. I’ll see you this afternoon for a ride.”
“A ride?” She started to rise, and he wrapped his arms around her.
In a swift and unsettling tide, her arms locked behind his neck and her lips latched onto his, her mouth parting beneath his. He reveled in her undaunted and quick response. Raised her night rail to reach the incineration of her core and singed his fingers in the molten liquid fire that clenched around him. He swept his tongue in her mouth, moved his fingers to mimic his tongue, while his erection surged to a painful swell. He pulled his mouth from hers. “You’re so tight. I can hardly wait to make you wholly mine.”
Something snapped in Rebecca, and she pushed him away. “Out,” she said, panting. “And don’t let anyone see you.”
Grinning, Sebastian tapped his lips to hers one last time, then tucked her back beneath the covers. She was right. “I’ll find you here, my lady. I’ll pick you up this afternoon for a turnabout Rotten Row.”
“Yes, yes, all right. Now leave,” she said on a breathless huff. “Wait! I have to see Gabby.”
Why did she have to argue at every turn? He stifled his exasperation. “Then I suggest you get dressed. I shall see you safely there.”
Rebecca rolled over, turning her back on him. “I can manage a jaunt to Gabriella’s without your assistance.”
He stripped the coverlets away. “Not if I don’t see you there myself. Now, rise or I shall go to your father and explain the situation with the twins and mention how a scrub is possibly after you.”
She bolted up and he could detect the outline of her nipples through her night rail.
His mouth watered.
She tugged the covers back over her head. “Go away, Your Imperiousness. Serena and Barrett shall accompany me.”
Sebastian paced her chamber. “Serena needs to pack a trunk for you. What time are you planning on leaving? Perhaps you should accompany me to see the archbishop.”
Slowly, Rebecca fell back against the pillow, spearing him with a look that spelled his death. “I will not accompany you to see the archbishop,” she bit out. “’Tis bad enough the duchess of Oxford has landed me in this situation. I am a woman grown. We are not yet married, Your Grace. I can take care of myself.”
“Rebecca—” he started.
“That is Lady Rebecca to you. Not your wife. Not Your Grace.”
The painting in her sitting room floated before him. If he pushed her too hard, she was liable to take off for parts unknown. “Fine. Go see my sister but be back here by the time I arrive. You shall have a trunk packed and ready. Four of the clock. I must go lest I end up not returning until the morrow.”
“What a pity that would be.” She tugged the coverlets up, moaning.
Sarcasm was a good sign. He slipped back through the sitting room and into the corridor. The servants were stirring. No matter. Everyone believed him and Rebecca already wed. He went down the grand stairs and found the butler to request his horse.
The Dorset House, as it had always been referred to before Sebastian’s father’s death, was located in Portman Square and showed much the same as the Rivers house, except Dorset had been modernized. The servants had also set to their tasks, clearing grates and setting fires. The house had always been on the cold side, but the enticing aroma of fresh bread filled the house and warmed him through.
Fosse met him at the door. “Sir.” He bowed. “Let me be the first to congratulate you on your nuptials. The staff and I are most pleased for you.”
“Er, yes, thank you. Has Néo returned from his family’s home?”
Fosse was eyeing his overgrown beard. “Yes, Your Grace. He explained that the notice in the Times sent him “dashing back” as he put it. He shall be glad to see you, I suspect.”
“Excellent.” Sebastian tugged on his short beard. An uncharacteristic dry wit speared him. “I expect that’s so.”
“Might I enquire”—Fosse looked past Sebastian—“after your bride?”
“Your new duchess and I stayed the night at her father’s home last night.”
“Ah, of course, Your Grace. Might I have the kitchens prepare you something to eat?”
“That would be much appreciated.” Sebastian took the stairs to his apartments two at a time. He was met by a most annoyed valet.
“I knew I should have accompanied you to Dorchester.” Néo’s French accent thickened with his irritation. “It appears you have not had a shave in a week.”
“Damn near. And, in case you’ve forgotten, I insisted you tend your family. How is your mother faring?”
“Bah! She missed her son. I shall not be fooled a second time,” he said, throwing out a hand. There was nothing so dramatic as an angry French valet. “And where is this virtuous bride who has absconded with jour heart and jour shaving blade?”
A crack of laughter erupted from Sebastian. “Absconded with my—” The urge to refute such a ridiculous statement was strong, but the words stuck in this throat. There was something. But to have taken his heart? That wasn’t possible, he had no heart. “Order a bath, please. I’ve a busy day ahead and wish to get an early start.”
As Sebastian made the ride to Lambeth Palace, he couldn’t get the picture of Rebecca flush with sleep out of his mind. He could still smell the lavender that clung to her skin and his seat in the saddle grew decidedly uncomfortable. His ten-minute ride slowed as he reached the palace grounds, intuition hitting him solidly in the chest. Lady Rebecca was fiercely independent. For whatever reason, she did not want this wedding. It was not only honor forcing Sebastian’s hand.
What if…
What if, indeed! The stench of the river effectively knocked the lavender and her heated skin from his mind. His mission did not change. He was to secure a special license, marry Rebecca as quickly and as quietly as possible, then get Gabriella settled. Not necessarily in that order. Without his sister taken care of, he was fairly certain Rebecca wouldn’t otherwise leave her side.
Thus was the Amazonian way.
And… for the moment, bought him time.