Silk & Scars (The Silk Series Book 3) Page 6

  Leading them to through the entrance hall, he said, “That should be my line. You look lovely, Gwen.”

  Now it was her turn to blush. She didn’t have a choice of gowns, limited to the two she’d brought with her, but she’d worn the newer of the pair for this evening and had arranged her hair into a style Etta had once proclaimed flattering. She’d even woven a sprig of violets into her hair before removing it, deciding it was too fanciful.

  The footman opened the dining room door, and Edward escorted her inside, helping her seat herself at the head of the table as surely great ladies did. Then, with his careful smile and a half-bow, he made his way to the other end of the table. The long table. She could barely see him at the other end, and they would surely have to shout if they wished to converse.

  At the other end, Edward wore a frown. “Smith,” he said, and the footman hurried to his side. They conversed in hushed whispers, then Smith hurried from the room. Next she knew, a veritable flurry of activity occurred. The placing was removed from before Edward while servants set a new one by her side, footmen moving the food from the middle of the table to be placed before her.

  The dining table so ordered, the servants melted away, leaving only the footmen to wait silently for direction during the meal. With long strides only slightly hampered by his limp, Edward made his way to the place beside her.

  Stunned, she watched as he seated himself. “Edward, is this at all proper?”

  He unfolded his napkin. “Of course not, but it’s just us, Gwen, and I have no desire to shout at you all night.” He glanced at her. “You don’t mind?”

  “Oh, no.” She glanced at the footmen. “Your servants won’t think it odd?”

  He shrugged. “It is not for them to think it odd.”

  Gwen ducked her head. Here it was, another example of the gulf between her and Edward. He thought nothing of the servants’ opinions. No doubt he didn’t even notice the six silent footmen stationed around the room, ready to carry out his slightest whim, while she…she was all too aware of them, of what they had to be thinking. She knew. She too had stood on the sidelines, silent and unseen.

  “What are you thinking so hard about?” Edward’s expression was open, his pleasure in her company plain for any to see.

  “Nothing.” Criminy, she was a fool. She had no call to complain, not when Edward looked at her so.

  They had worked most of the day, Edward sorting his legal correspondence and asking her opinion upon it. Though she’d reiterated again and again she was not a solicitor and could not give proper advice, Edward seemed to take all that in stride and counted her opinion worthy. She found herself making bolder and bolder pronouncements, and, toward the end, almost arguing with him about a particularly thorny part of estate law. He had not admonished her or made her feel her opinion was not wanted. They’d only parted as the dinner hour approached to dress for the evening. “How are you enjoying the new Gothic?”

  Edward’s features shuttered. “It is fine.”

  Gwen frowned. He’d received the book along with his correspondence yesterday morning. Before its arrival, the Gothic had dominated his conversation. The author was a particular favourite of his, and he’d been looking forward to devouring her latest tale. Gwen touched his coat sleeve. “Just fine?”

  He wouldn’t look her direct. “Do you truly wish to know?”

  “Of course.” She tugged his sleeve. “You like them, Edward. I want to know all about them.”

  The doors opened. Jerking her hand from Edward’s sleeve, Gwen wrestled a sickly smile onto her face as the servants placed the first course before them—a clear soup smelling of beef and vegetables. As silently as they arrived, they departed.

  Decidedly uncomfortable, Gwen shifted in her seat.

  “Gwen?” Concern creased Edward’s brow. “Are you well?”

  Taking a breath, she forced a smile to her face. “Yes, of course. So this Gothic. What is it about?”

  “I cannot think you wish to know. You said you didn’t like them.”

  Truer words had not been spoken. The turgid phrasing and overwrought situations were not her cup of tea, but it was clear Edward enjoyed them, and that was what she cared about. “Well, I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn to like them. I’ve just not had the opportunity to read many.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I cannot believe the daughter of a governess and a law professor did not find time to read whenever, and whatever, she wanted.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose when I lived with my mother and father, I could read whatever I wanted. But I’ve been in London for years now, and I don’t have the time to read much besides law books.”

  “Why do you read law books? Do you need to?”

  Criminy, such a question should not set her to blush. “No, I don’t need to. I just...like them.”

  A black brow rose. “You like them?”

  “I like you, too, you know,” she said, however she was more than willing to rethink that particular state.

  A grin burst across his face, so sudden it dazzled her. Stealing her hand, he rubbed his thumb over her skin. “And I am glad for it. However, you still read law books for fun.”

  “I’ll have you know they broaden the mind.” Trapping his fingers with her own, she tugged gently. “But don’t go thinking I’ve not noticed you’ve deflected conversation from yourself, Your Grace.”

  Fighting a smile at his chagrined expression, she said, “Tell me all.”

  He heaved a sign. “Fine.” Curling his hand into hers, he gently pressed the back against the cool wood of the table. “It’s a new tale by Lord Christopher Hiddleston.”

  She tried to ignore how his touch sent shivers up her arm. “I know that name.”

  “You do? How? One would only know it if you enjoy Gothics. Which you don’t”

  Distracted, she said, “I know him.”

  “What?” Edward dropped her hand. “You know him? Lord Christopher Hiddleston? You know him. How?”

  “He went to Cambridge. I think my father may have taught him.”

  “Lord Christopher Hiddleston. Your father taught him. This... I... You know Lord Christopher Hiddleston?”

  Amused by his awestruck reaction, she said, “I don’t know him well. Or really at all. I haven’t seen him since Cambridge, and not since he published his Gothics. Etta knew him better than I. They would always argue.”

  “You— Etta— Bloody hell. Lord Christopher Hiddleston.” He wiped his jaw.

  Taking his hand, she tugged lightly. “So. Tell me of this tale.”

  Gaze on their entwined hands, he shook his head as his thumb smoothed the skin of her palm. “A young woman is orphaned by the death of her father and is sent to live at Ravenscar Manor with relatives she’d not known existed prior to her father’s death. She stops in the village on the way, and the harbinger tells her of the legend—”

  “The harbinger? There’s actually a character called ‘the harbinger’?”

  “Of course not. That is the character’s purpose. Besides, I forget his name.” Brows drawing, he frowned so ferociously as to be completely unbelievable. “Don’t interrupt.”

  She didn’t bother to hide her grin. “Sorry, sir.”

  “As I was saying”—he gave her a meaningful look, to which she poked out her tongue. —“The young woman arrives at Ravenscar with the dread legend swirling in her head like doom. She—”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “The young woman. What’s her name?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, not really.” But it was so amusing to see him exaggerate his frustration at her interruptions.

  Lifting his chin, he turned upon her what she imagined was his best ducal glare, the one that bade dire misfortune on any foolish enough to interrupt. “Anyway, this young woman has the legend in her head. Longest night and darkest day, the lords of Ravenscar destroy all they survey. Only when white becomes black and
gold turns to smoke will the lords of Ravenscar mend what is broke.”

  “I don’t think that’s correct grammar.”

  “Of course it isn’t. It’s a curse, but that doesn’t stop our intrepid heroine from valiantly soldiering forward, braving Ravenscar and discovering its current lord, a dark and dangerous man.”

  A laugh bubbled from Gwen at that. Oh my, these Gothics weren’t at all subtle, were they?

  Edward ignored her. “Our heroine tempts her dark and dangerous lord, and before too long, they’re sharing torrid embraces.”

  “Torrid? Really?”

  “Have you never shared a torrid embrace?”

  “Not with a dark and dangerous lord.”

  Edward’s features became foreboding. “Then come to me, my petal, and we will share an embrace that will rock the heavens with its passion.”

  Oh. Oh, criminy. That was...was... She burst out laughing.

  A smile playing about his mouth, Edward leant forward. His fingers tangled with hers, his thumb beginning a slow stroke along the sensitive skin of her palm. “Gwen. Do you not think I could rock you?”

  Abruptly, the breath left her body. His dark eye burned into her, that small smile somehow knowing. It seemed to say he knew how she would taste, and he would like nothing better than her flavour on his tongue.

  Good Lord, he could rock her. So easily.

  “Your Grace.”

  Gwen jumped. Pulling her hand from Edward’s, she returned it to her lap and attempted to regain her breath.

  “Yes, Dobson?” Frown now genuine, Edward turned it upon the butler.

  Dobson gave no indication if he quailed before such a look. “Are you and Miss Parkes ready for the next course?”

  “Yes. However, please bring it in and leave it. Miss Parkes and I will serve ourselves.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Gwen waited for Dobson to leave before she said all-too-brightly, “Shall we walk the moors tomorrow? I feel there are simply a million places that need to be explored.”

  “Gwen.” Edward reached across the table. “Do not be disturbed by the servants.”

  “I can’t help it.” Unhappiness, uneasiness swelled within her. “I am their equal, not yours.”

  “You, more than anyone, are my equal,” he said, and in the fierceness of his tone, she heard his conviction.

  He didn’t understand. How could he? He’d always been a duke. “But not socially. I am a commoner, Your Grace.”

  Sitting back, he crossed his arms. “Don’t allow my title to come between us.”

  Miserably, she watched as he shut himself away from her. How had it come to this? She had destroyed their dinner with her insecurities and her fears. She would have such a short time with him. This couldn’t last, and she was ruining what little time she had. Leaning over, she laid her fingers against his jaw and gently turned his gaze to hers. “Let us talk of other things, Edward.”

  Hand tightening on his bicep, he regarded her steadily. “You are my equal, Gwen.”

  A burst of something pure and lovely rioted inside her. It was so very wonderful he believed that to the point where his conviction burned within him. Uncaring of the servants, she rose to place her mouth against his. His lips were warm beneath hers and quickly turned eager. Taking control of the kiss, his fingers slid into her hair to keep her still for his tongue. She welcomed him, desire a delicious curl in her belly. His thick hair slid between her fingers and she could taste the wine he’d consumed.

  Pulling back, he rested his forehead against hers. “Walk with me tomorrow?”

  Hand curled around his wrist, she nodded. His scent washed over her, clean soap and the faintest hint of— “Does your valet pack your clothes with rosemary?”

  Pulling back, he blinked. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Shaking his head, he sat back in his seat, but didn’t let go of her hand.

  Losing herself in him, she dismissed all thoughts of the servants lined silently against the walls. Who cared what the servants thought? She had Edward, and that was all that mattered.

  Chapter Seven

  EDWARD’S STUDY DOOR WAS a sturdy affair, built of solid oak. It was plain, having held its place for hundreds of years, most likely installed back when Sowrithil was Sowrith Hill Keep, a castle built by Edward’s ancestors to keep out the Saxon rabble.

  Hand resting on the dull brass handle, Gwen stared at the centuries-old wood. Darkness surrounded her, kept at bay only by the flicker of the lamp she held. Edward had told her the tale of his family as they’d sat on the moors and watched the sky change into a thousand shades of grey. He’d spoken first of the lords of Sowrith, and then the dukes, the line stretching countless generations and tracing back almost to the Conqueror. Then, with the half-smile he affected so it did not pull his scar, he’d told her his own tales of the stalwart knights and adventurers he’d imagined as a child seated in these very spots, his ruined leg speaking true of how he could never match thought to deed.

  Exhaling, she bowed her head. She had stood before this door for at least five minutes, staring at the wood. Why was she hesitating? Every night for a week, she’d met Edward in his study. Every day, they’d walked the moors, Edward showing her his favourite places, and he’d become increasingly verbose, demonstrating his way with words with greater frequency. They’d spent each and every day together, and each and every day was better than the one before it. Each and every day, she found more qualities about him to like and admire.

  So why, now, was she hesitating?

  Squaring her shoulders, she shook off the ill feeling and turned the handle. The door opened silently, revealing the study lit by a merrily burning fire. Edward sat before it, his bad leg stretched in front of him on the chaise as he massaged his thigh. The chaise had not been there a week prior, moved in deference to their desire to sit as close together as possible.

  Some small noise must have given away her presence for he turned, his face lighting when saw her. “Gwen.”

  Any uncertainty disintegrated in the light of his gaze, and the joy bubbling inside her threatened to burst. “Edward.”

  Cheeks ruddy, he ducked his head as he rose from the chaise, obviously still not used to her familiarity. Before she quite knew how it happened, she was before him. She wanted to embrace him, to wrap him in her arms and rest her cheek against his shoulder. She wanted to feel every part of him against every part of her. Edward, it appeared, seemed not quite sure how to greet her either, his hands raising and then falling.

  Oh, but this was ridiculous. Throwing her arms about him, she buried her face in his neck, grazing his skin with her lips. “Hello.”

  He cupped the back of her head, holding her to him for a moment longer before they broke apart. “Hello.”

  Taking his hands, she led him to the chaise, pulling him down to sit with her. “What have you been doing?”

  Brushing a lock of hair from her cheek, he gave her his half-smile. “In the hour and a half since we parted? Sitting in front of the fire, massaging my leg.”

  “Sounds exhilarating.” Quite deliberately, she raised a brow.

  His lips twitched. “Don’t.”

  “What?” Pretending she had no clue what he was about, she maintained the imperious look.

  “It is not amusing when you attempt to imitate me.”

  “No? Then why are you struggling not to laugh?”

  Adopting his own imperious expression, he looked down his nose at her. “I do not struggle. I am a duke. If I wish to laugh, I will do so.”

  “Ah. I am sorry, Your Grace. I should not presume as to your emotions.”

  He nodded. “Quite.”

  She hit his shoulder. “Idiot.”

  He smiled, a wide smile where he forgot to disguise his scar. Raising her hand, she cupped the left side of his face.

  He flinched.

  Gently, she combed the loose strands above his ear, her thumb tracing the line of his hair. He tensed u
nder her touch, but he didn’t protest. Growing bolder, she traced the scar that cut his cheek, her thumb running along his strong jaw while her fingers trailed the network of scars down his neck. “Does this pain you?”

  His good shoulder rose and fell, though he kept his eye fixed somewhere beyond her.

  She traced the cord of his eye patch. “If you— Would—” Taking a breath, she collected her thoughts. “Can I see?”

  For the longest time, he didn’t respond. Then he gave a sharp nod.

  Carefully, she lifted the patch. Where his left eye should have been were instead a sunken mass of scars, the eyebrow above cut by the thick scar snaking from his brow. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the pain he’d endured. Chest a burn, she feathered the lightest of touches over his eyebrow. Jaw tense, his right eye remained resolutely forward.

  Leaning forward, she placed a gentle kiss on his ruined eye socket. He sucked in a breath. She kissed his brow, his cheek, her fingers following the scar, the burn in her chest intensifying with every touch.

  His thumb drew along her cheek, collecting the moisture he found there. “Don’t cry, Gwen. It’s long past.”

  She hadn’t even noticed she was. “Edward...”

  He kissed her cheek, her brow. “Don’t.”

  Fingers drifting to his cravat, she bowed her head. The web of faint white scars disappeared beneath the fabric. Deliberately, slowly, she unknotted the cravat. He sat under her ministrations, his hand falling from her to the cushion of the chaise. Gauging his reaction with every movement, she pulled the fabric from his neck and spread the collar of his shirt, resting her touch on the bared skin of his throat. His fingers dug into the cushion, but he didn’t protest.

  Scars speared along his shoulder and down what was revealed of his chest, thick, ugly scars that marred his skin and spoke of so much pain. Playing with the first of the buttons on his waistcoat, she gave him time to stop her.

  He didn’t.

  Unbuttoning his waistcoat, she pushed it from his shoulders. A gentle tug separated his shirt from the waistband of his trousers and he bent his head to allow her to draw it from him. The moment the fabric cleared his head, his gaze returned to that spot ahead.