be the one to find it. He wanted to be the one to wave it in Kate’s face so that this time she couldn’t deny it. It had nothing to do with the fact that the cloth was still warm from her body, or that her elusive scent still wafted from the fabric like incense. He was only doing his job.
Even so, he couldn’t help noticing how fine the material was, how sensuous. He could see his fingers through her chemise, which fit the Kate he knew now. He couldn’t forget, though, how indifferent Kate had once seemed to fine clothes. In fact, she’d always made a point of showing up in her sisters’ old hand-me-downs, which had never fit, even before she ruined them going over fences and sitting in the dirt to fish. When he’d asked her why she’d not had a better wardrobe, she’d challenged him with that sharp, bright smile of hers and said, “Why, this is what I wear,” as if it would explain all.
Harry had always believed that she’d done it just to be contrary. He’d obviously been right. There were certainly no hand-me-downs in the duchess’s luggage.
He wondered if it had been the duke who had taught her to skirt the edge of propriety. She was never vulgar, exactly. But each time Harry saw her in public, her attire was just shy of being too bright, too bold, too revealing. Her carriage dress was a prime example, cut to hug her figure, when most dresses were as shapeless as gunnysacks, the soft wool a bright lemon yellow. Her evening dresses were far worse.
Funny, though. He would have expected her undergarments to be even more decadent. Just like everyone else, he’d heard about Kate’s legion of lovers. Surely a woman intent on attracting a man to her bed would indulge in silk and satin, elaborately embroidered and made to slip off in a hurry. His mistresses certainly had.
The only embroidery on Kate’s chemise was a pair of honeybees just beneath each strap. And the chemise wasn’t silk. What was it, lawn? The same stuff they made handkerchiefs from. As soft as a whisper, true, and sheer enough to give a damn good idea what was beneath. But…plain. Practical. Not what he would have expected the most notorious duchess in the realm to wear.
How many men had run their hands over this chemise? he wondered. How many had slipped it off and tossed it to the floor in their hurry to get to her body?
Cursing, he dropped the garments as if they’d caught fire. He needed to stop this. He needed distance, time, perspective. Instead he had an aching cock, itchy eyes, and a growing conviction that he was about to walk off a shaky pier in heavy boots.
No matter what had passed between them, the last thing he needed was to join the procession into her bedroom. And yet here he was, fondling her garments as if she were in them, and he was sweating like a fat man in a steam bath.
“Unless you want to cut her open like a cadaver,” came Schroeder’s voice from the doorway, “I can guarantee there is nothing hiding anywhere on Lady Kate’s body.”
Harry was sitting at the freshly dusted library desk, Kate’s dress spilling over the side like a waterfall of sunlight. He couldn’t seem to look away from it, mesmerized by the conundrums it posed.
“Major?” Schroeder said with a cough. “What next?”
Harry yanked himself to attention. “We wait to hear from Diccan.”
“You’ll be sending a messenger off right away?”
He saw the direction Schroeder’s gaze had taken, and realized he was once again running the cloud of lawn through his fingers. Quickly he bunched it up and tossed it onto the desk, where Schroeder recovered it.
“See if Frank is finished in the stables.”
“What about the duchess?”
Harry leaned his chair back on two legs. “What about her?”
Schroeder tilted her head, her arms overflowing with Kate’s garments. “We didn’t find anything. Why don’t you let her out?”
“Because I don’t trust her.”
“She doesn’t have the verse.”
He wasn’t about to tell
Even so, he couldn’t help noticing how fine the material was, how sensuous. He could see his fingers through her chemise, which fit the Kate he knew now. He couldn’t forget, though, how indifferent Kate had once seemed to fine clothes. In fact, she’d always made a point of showing up in her sisters’ old hand-me-downs, which had never fit, even before she ruined them going over fences and sitting in the dirt to fish. When he’d asked her why she’d not had a better wardrobe, she’d challenged him with that sharp, bright smile of hers and said, “Why, this is what I wear,” as if it would explain all.
Harry had always believed that she’d done it just to be contrary. He’d obviously been right. There were certainly no hand-me-downs in the duchess’s luggage.
He wondered if it had been the duke who had taught her to skirt the edge of propriety. She was never vulgar, exactly. But each time Harry saw her in public, her attire was just shy of being too bright, too bold, too revealing. Her carriage dress was a prime example, cut to hug her figure, when most dresses were as shapeless as gunnysacks, the soft wool a bright lemon yellow. Her evening dresses were far worse.
Funny, though. He would have expected her undergarments to be even more decadent. Just like everyone else, he’d heard about Kate’s legion of lovers. Surely a woman intent on attracting a man to her bed would indulge in silk and satin, elaborately embroidered and made to slip off in a hurry. His mistresses certainly had.
The only embroidery on Kate’s chemise was a pair of honeybees just beneath each strap. And the chemise wasn’t silk. What was it, lawn? The same stuff they made handkerchiefs from. As soft as a whisper, true, and sheer enough to give a damn good idea what was beneath. But…plain. Practical. Not what he would have expected the most notorious duchess in the realm to wear.
How many men had run their hands over this chemise? he wondered. How many had slipped it off and tossed it to the floor in their hurry to get to her body?
Cursing, he dropped the garments as if they’d caught fire. He needed to stop this. He needed distance, time, perspective. Instead he had an aching cock, itchy eyes, and a growing conviction that he was about to walk off a shaky pier in heavy boots.
No matter what had passed between them, the last thing he needed was to join the procession into her bedroom. And yet here he was, fondling her garments as if she were in them, and he was sweating like a fat man in a steam bath.
“Unless you want to cut her open like a cadaver,” came Schroeder’s voice from the doorway, “I can guarantee there is nothing hiding anywhere on Lady Kate’s body.”
Harry was sitting at the freshly dusted library desk, Kate’s dress spilling over the side like a waterfall of sunlight. He couldn’t seem to look away from it, mesmerized by the conundrums it posed.
“Major?” Schroeder said with a cough. “What next?”
Harry yanked himself to attention. “We wait to hear from Diccan.”
“You’ll be sending a messenger off right away?”
He saw the direction Schroeder’s gaze had taken, and realized he was once again running the cloud of lawn through his fingers. Quickly he bunched it up and tossed it onto the desk, where Schroeder recovered it.
“See if Frank is finished in the stables.”
“What about the duchess?”
Harry leaned his chair back on two legs. “What about her?”
Schroeder tilted her head, her arms overflowing with Kate’s garments. “We didn’t find anything. Why don’t you let her out?”
“Because I don’t trust her.”
“She doesn’t have the verse.”
He wasn’t about to tell
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