“I will not,” he told her. “It is over.”
He did not explain what he meant. But it was a chilling little phrase—it is over. As though, once he had begotten an heir and perhaps another son to provide a spare, his duty would be done and there would be nothing further for which to live.
Surely he had not meant that.
She wished the duchess had not told her that he had once been suicidal. It had been many years ago, after all, and his injuries had probably been such that the pain had come near to driving him out of his mind. But three years to heal? And an empty soul afterward?
Head cases, that is.
She waited for him to say more or to decide after all to return to his own room. But she became aware after a while of the evenness of his breathing and realized that he had fallen asleep.
It is over. Perhaps all he had meant was that now he was married he would no longer have his relatives and his own sense of responsibility constantly pestering him to do his duty and choose a bride. No doubt that was all he had meant.
Or perhaps he had merely meant that today was over.
Had she just imagined that his voice as he spoke the words had been utterly bleak?
Chloe closed her eyes and concentrated upon the soreness—the lovely soreness—he had left behind inside her.
She was married. In every way.
She hugged happiness to herself as she fell asleep.
* * *
Ralph was staring up at the canopy over the bed. He guessed he had slept for an hour or two. He rarely slept longer at a stretch and often had a hard time going back to sleep after he woke. He was wide awake now and feeling a bit claustrophobic. Although this was not a small bedchamber, it was considerably smaller than his own. And the canopy seemed lower and the bedposts heftier.
It was not those facts that made him feel closed in, though, he knew. It was the fact that he was sharing the room, sharing the bed. He was not touching her, but he could feel her body heat along his right side, and he could hear her soft breathing.
He fought the desire to get up and return to his own room. He had decided that for a while, until she was pregnant, he would spend the nights in her bed so that he could have her more than once. His reason for marrying, after all, had been the need to produce heirs, and he meant to do the job diligently. He would not take her again tonight, however, not even once, not even in the morning before getting up. She must be sore, even though she had said it had not been painful. He could only imagine what losing one’s virginity must feel like for a woman.
He could have allowed himself one more night in his own bed and the privacy of his own room, then, but he had decided to stay here, to start his marriage as he meant to continue with it. He hoped she did not mind. He had not consulted her. But she had known and accepted his reason for marrying her—his only reason.
He had been a little disconcerted by her appearance when he came to her room. Not so much the nightgown. It was pretty even if rather excessively modest. But the cap . . . Again, it was pretty. But he had been imagining to himself what her hair was going to look like. He had wondered if it would be braided or left loose. He had certainly not expected that it would be all but invisible.
Perhaps it was just as well. He must, and did, feel some sort of sexual attraction to her, but he did not want there to be more than that. And he suspected very strongly that she did not either. She had lain passive and quiescent beneath him. It was a bit chilling to know that the pattern of his sex life had been set tonight.
She murmured something unintelligible and rolled onto her side, facing him. He turned his head to look at her, but she was not awake. Her forehead almost touched his shoulder. The frill of her cap, he could see in the near darkness, framed her cheek and forehead and gave her a look of innocence.
He was surprised by a stirring of desire. He would not act upon it, however. He had the feeling she would not resist him, but it would be callous . . .
He turned away from her, closed his eyes, and willed himself to go back to sleep. He almost succeeded. He was actually drifting off when a brisk knock on the bedchamber door brought him back to full consciousness with a start.
“My lord.” The door had opened a crack. It was his valet’s voice, low but urgent. “You are to come.”
Chloe sat bolt upright. Ralph swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his robe.
“His Grace?” he asked.
“He has taken a nasty turn, my lord,” his valet confirmed. “Her Grace says you are to come.”
Chloe was on her feet too. Ralph strode around the foot of the bed, belting his robe as he went.
“Stay here,” he told her. “You might as well go back to sleep.”
“What foolishness,” she said as he hurried from the room and along the corridor to his grandfather’s room, which was bright with candlelight.
He took in the scene at a glance. His grandfather was lying on the bed, his head and shoulders propped up by a bank of pillows. Even in the flickering light of the candles it was obvious that his complexion was a livid gray. His eyes were closed, his fingers clenched on the sheet that covered him. His valet was bent over him, one hand to his brow. The duchess, very upright beside the bed, clutched the edges of a heavy dressing gown to herself.
“Dr. Gregg has been sent for?” Ralph asked, striding into the room.
It spoke volumes that his grandfather did not even open his eyes to protest.
“He has, my lord,” the valet said. “Weller has gone to wake Robert. He is the swiftest and most reliable of the footmen.”