Read Online A Duke Deceived by Cheryl Bolen - Free Book Online

alone had taken pains to inform the ton of his intentions. She should feel elated, but she didn’t. She could not entirely blame her mother’s death for her lack of enthusiasm. Her discomfort with Radcliff stemmed from the distance between herself and her husband. There was no easy intimacy between them. No words of love. Not that she could fault him for that. No woman had ever married a more compassionate, unselfish man than her Richard. She had observed so many of his kindnesses during their long journey to Milford. He had made her mother’s final days very happy ones. And with every action and every gaze at his bruising masculinity, he stole another piece of her heart.
    If only he could love her with the depth of emotion her father had felt for her mother. If only he cared for more than a lovely face and young body to bear his children.
    She looked into his weathered face. “What a wretched wedding day for you,” she said shakily.
    “Quit worrying about everyone else, Barbara. It’s all right for you to hurt for yourself.”
    “You’ve been in my shoes, haven’t you.”
    He nodded solemnly. “When I was three and twenty, my father died. Less than a year later, my mother joined him.”
    She swallowed hard, tears once again springing to her eyes. “How did you handle your grief?”
    “I thought getting foxed would lessen the pain, and the habits I adopted after my parents died very nearly had me joining them.”
    “You must have felt so terribly empty.”
    “Utterly.”
    The thought of him lonely and suffering nearly overpowered her. She wanted to love him so thoroughly he would never know pain or loneliness again.
    They stood facing each other, the wind slashing its chill into their very bones. She raised her head to kiss him, her arms slipping under his greatcoat to pull him into her as his arms encircled her. The feel of his lips on hers was just as powerful as before, but this time he did not pull away. And this time she parted her lips. When she had heard of the French custom of kissing with tongues, she had been horrified, but now she couldn’t get enough of him as they exchanged hungry, wet kisses, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
    She no longer felt chilled, but rather fevered, as she clung to him, the evidence of his own ardor swelled against her skirts.
    He pulled away ever so slightly, his hands brushing stray strands of hair back from her damp temples. “What a passionate little baggage you are, my love, but I shall wait to take you in the marriage bed at Hedley Hall.”
    “When will that be?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
    “We shall leave tomorrow.” He pulled her cloak tightly about her, lifted her gloved hand and kissed it.
    Walking back toward the hollow, her hand in his, Bonny said, “But I need to go through the things here.”
    “This is not a good time for you to do that. We will come later—after you have had time to heal—and my servants will help you pack and go through everything. In the meantime, I have arranged for Mrs. Melville to stay on here.”
    God, but he was glad to change to talk of the mundane. He had already revealed to his wife far more than he had ever revealed to anyone, telling her of the suffering when he had lost his parents. He had never admitted the pain to anyone before. Only a weakling let people see his wounds. Just as weak was letting those he loved know how deeply he cared.
    He remembered setting off for Eaton like a miniature man, hearing his mother’s soft cries in the distance, while he willed himself not to break down and run back into her secure embrace and admit how desperately he wanted to stay back with her.
    But always his father urged him to behave like a man. And a man did not give in to weakness. A man concealed his deepest emotions.
    With a grim set to his mouth, he remembered how he had sat beside his mother’s grave and spoke of his love for her—words he had never been able to tell her while she was