Free Lord Ruin by Carolyn Jewel Page B

hand. Gratefully, he changed into clean clothes.
    At his desk, he quickly sorted though the afternoon post. Of all the correspondence, only one item interested him. He was by now so used to watching for Anne’s letters he no longer questioned why he so looked forward to one. Ignoring the stack of papers Hickenson had given him on his way out of Whitehall, he took her letter and sat down to read.
    Though mostly she penned polite recitations of the weather, Anne had a knack for deft descriptions of village life and of his staff at Satterfield, so he expected her missive would amuse him. Which was why he wasn’t at all prepared for what he read.
    “Cynssyr,” she wrote. “I believe I may be with child.”
    He went to Satterfield himself.

 
    Chapter Eight
      
    Slowly, reluctantly, Anne surfaced from deep sleep. Exhaustion pulled at her, clouding her mind. She didn’t know where she was or even who she was with. Someone shook her shoulder. “Anne, my dear.” The voice, a man’s rich and silky voice sent a thrill along her spine. Not her father, which it ought to have been. “We are home.”
    Cynssyr. Even before she fully recalled her situation, she felt a curiously physical recognition of the man. Electric. My God, the duke of Cynssyr was her husband, and she had been asleep, truly and deeply asleep with her head and hands on his lap. His warmth had seeped into her, she felt it still, could not shake it off. Her hands and cheek retained the feel of his thighs. A man’s legs, firmly muscled, and yet she had been quite comfortable. She sat slowly, letting her aching body resign itself to wakefulness. Her stomach roiled. She saw him make a sharp motion in the direction of the open carriage window.
    “Are you ill again?”
    “I don’t mean to be a nuisance.” She swallowed hard and still felt sick. He handed her one of the biscuits they’d discovered fended off the worst of her nausea. Gratefully, she nibbled on it.
    She tried not to be obvious about staring at him, but she couldn’t help it. If the duke of Cynssyr had physical imperfections, she had no idea what they were. She had, during her time at Satterfield, read everything even remotely connected to the duke.
The Times, The Court Journal
, anything at all. Her husband, she soon learned, was brilliant. She had good reason to feel intimidated. And embarrassed to have dismissed him as a dilettante. He was anything but.
    “Better?” he asked after a bit.
    “Yes.”
    “Good.” He opened the door. A footman held it open, gray periwig and tricorn hat misted with light rain. Cynssyr stepped down and, boots crunching on the gravel, turned with one of those carelessly melting smiles on his face. He held out a hand.
    Something inside her reacted to that breath-robbing, heart-pounding smile so that for a moment she sat frozen on the seat, leaving her husband with his hand extended and the footman holding the door and both getting wetter by the moment. Down she stepped. Another footman hurried forward with an umbrella, ready to escort them inside. Cynssyr moved to her side as grooms led away the coach, and she saw for the first time her husband’s home.
    Cywrthorn melted into a backdrop of low gray sky. Somewhere above, a flag whipped in the breeze, but fog shrouded all but the bottom of the flagpole rising from a central dome. Mullioned windows on the lower floors would let in whatever light there was on such a chilly, rainy day. The upstairs windows were wide and sashed. Brass gleamed atop the wrought-iron fence enclosing the courtyard.
    Behind her, the gate clanged shut with a hollow ring. Turning, she saw portions of the Cynssyr coat-of-arms fashioned on the black curves. Growling stone lions glared at the street from the gateposts and from the pillars flanking the stairs, holdovers from the days when the Bettencourt titles had not yet included the dukedom.
    Cynssyr took her hand and led her up the stairs. On cue, the massive front door opened. Two unsmiling