CHAPTER 117: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN

The sun was setting, painting the sky in deep shades of orange as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Eric’s private residence. The long, emotionally draining day at the Carson estate was finally over. Delia, weary to her bones, was about to open the carriage door and retreat into the quiet of the house.

But before she could move, Eric’s hand gently closed around her wrist. She turned and saw that his face was full of a sad, quiet regret.

"Are you angry at me?" he asked, his voice low.

Delia looked at him, confused. "Why would I be? Did you do something wrong?"

"I’m sorry I got into a fight with Philip," he said, his gaze fixed on their joined hands. "I shouldn’t have lost my temper in front of everyone. In front of you."

Delia’s expression softened. She slowly and gently removed his hand from her wrist, but instead of pulling away, she cupped his face in her own hands, her touch surprisingly tender. "I am not the one you should be apologizing to," she said softly. "It is your grandmother you should be apologizing to. You two hurt her deeply today with your fighting."

Eric leaned closer into her touch, his eyes closing for a moment as he savored the feel of her skin against his. "I will go back there tomorrow," he said, his voice a low murmur. "I will go and offer her a proper apology."

Delia smiled, a genuine, warm expression. She patted his head, a gesture an owner might give to a well-behaved puppy. "That’s much better," she said.

Before she could comprehend what happened next, her world tilted. Eric had pulled her from her seat and onto his lap, so that she was straddling him. Her eyes widened in shock, her hands flying to his shoulders to steady herself. "Eric," she said, her voice a breathless whisper.

He didn’t answer. He reached up and began to gently remove the pins that were holding her elegant bun in place. One by one, he pulled them free, and her long, dark curls fell down, framing her face and tumbling over her shoulders. He took a few of the soft strands in his fingers and played with them, a look of pure adoration on his face.

"Then why were you so silent throughout the entire journey back home?" he asked, his voice now a low, intimate rumble.

"I was just thinking," Delia replied, her own voice a little unsteady. "About what Anne is up to now. About what Philip might do next."

Eric took the strands of her hair he was holding and brought them to his face, sniffing them deeply. "I am so intoxicated by how everything about you smells like lavender," he said, his voice hoarse with a desire he was no longer trying to hide. He took her hands and placed one on his neck, the other flat against his chest, right over his heart. She could feel its strong, steady beat beneath her palm.

"Why don’t you think about me for a change?" he whispered, his eyes dark with passion. His fingers went to the back of her bodice, finding the delicate laces that held it together. He began to untie them, slowly and deliberately. "For example," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, "you could be thinking about what I might do to you, right here, in this carriage."

Each lace he untied made Delia flinch, a shiver of pure, absolute pleasure running down her spine. Her own hand, the one on his neck, moved instinctively, her fingers stroking the sensitive skin there. His breath hitched, and he let out a soft, low sound of pleasure.

Delia, enjoying the new, intoxicating power she seemed to have over him, grew bolder. She started to untie his cravat, her fingers brushing against his throat. Her other hand moved from his chest, her fingers starting to unbutton the top of his white shirt.

Unable to control himself any longer from her soft, teasing touches, he pulled her head down and crashed his lips against hers in a loving, possessive kiss. Delia forgot all about his shirt, her fingers tangling in his dark, soft hair, pulling him closer. His own hands moved from the laces of her dress to her now bare back, his palms warm and firm against her skin.

Oblivious to the passionate scene unfolding inside the carriage, Mr. Rye’s voice suddenly sounded from right outside the door. "I am so sorry for the delay in not opening the door, Your Grace," he called out. "I had to calm one of the horses that was spooked by a passing cat."

He opened the door.

He immediately saw the Duke and the Duchess in a very intimate position, their clothes in disarray, their lips still swollen from their kiss. Mr. Rye’s face turned a brilliant shade of red, and he quickly lowered his head, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

"A thousand apologies for my rudeness, Your Grace!" he stammered, his voice full of a horrified embarrassment. "Please, forgive my interruption!"

Delia, feeling mortified, rushed to speak, her own voice a flustered mess. "No, no, it’s not... I mean, we were not..."

But Eric, not feeling any atom of shame, simply swooped her up into his arms and got down from the carriage. He turned to Mr. Rye, who was still bowing, his head so low his chin was practically touching his chest.

"Apology accepted, Mr. Rye," Eric said, his voice calm and amused. "Have a good night."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Mr. Rye replied, still not daring to look up.

Eric, still carrying Delia, walked into the house and locked the door behind them. He carried her all the way up the stairs and into her room.

"You must be hungry," he said, gently setting her down. He pushed a some strand of her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. "I will go and prepare something for us to eat. So, you have your bath and come down when you are ready."

Delia could only nod, her mind still reeling from the passionate encounter in the carriage and the mortifying interruption that had followed.

A short while later, she came downstairs, now dressed in her own simple nightgown and robe. She saw that Eric was already in the kitchen, setting two plates at the small dining table. She was surprised to see him in fresh, comfortable clothes as well.

"When did you take your bath?" she asked. "And have time to prepare all of this?"

He smiled. "Well, I am quite used to doing things quickly. After years of travel, it has become a routine." He guided her towards a chair. "Here, come and let’s eat."

She nodded as she sat down, and he took the seat opposite her. They ate in a comfortable silence, but Delia found she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. She secretly stole glances at the loose top button of his simple night shirt, which showed a small, tantalizing expanse of his skin. Her mind, betraying her, started to fill with images from their night on the island, the memory of his hands on her, of her body writhing underneath his.

Why am I thinking of such improper things? she thought to herself, a fresh wave of heat rising in her cheeks. What is wrong with me?