Married By Midnight by Julianne MacLean Page B

hold of his father’s hand. “Do not fret about the curse,” he said. “Anne and I will marry on Christmas Eve and everything will be fine.”
    His father inched down and rested his head on the pillow. His eyes were wracked with fear. Still mystified by this radical change in him—for the duke was not same man—Garrett stroked his forehead and hair.
    “ Where’s Adelaide?” he asked. “My sweet wife?”
    “ She’s sleeping,” Garrett replied.
    “ Will you stay until I fall asleep?” his father pleaded.
    “ Of course,” Garrett replied, while meeting Anne’s concerned gaze on the opposite side of the bed.
    She moved forward to hold the duke’s other hand. He fell back to sleep within minutes, and Garrett’s heart felt heavy like stone.
     
    * * *
     
    “He never looked at me that way before,” Garrett whispered as he quietly closed his father’s door. “He seemed so desperate and helpless.”
    “ You were very kind to him,” she replied. “He’s a lucky man to have such good children.”
    They started down the corridor together to return to their own separate bedchambers.
    “ It feels odd,” Garrett said. “I’ve been gone for many years and I’ve hated him for as long as I can remember. I didn’t want to come home. I didn’t care about the Pembroke fortune being lost to the London Horticultural Society. This estate meant nothing to me. But now that I am here, it’s like I am seeing everything for the first time, and I have a different father. He is not the same man he once was. To be honest, I like this one better.”
    Anne took hold of his hand. “Then it is good that you have come home. Perhaps it will help you to resolve whatever stood between you in the past.”
    He was overcome suddenly by a profound compulsion to explain to her exactly what had been standing between them. Did she even know?
    “ How much did Devon tell you about my relationship with my father?” he asked.
    “ Nothing, really,” she replied. “I was told only that you had no wish to live at Pembroke—or anywhere in England for that matter. That you wanted to live a separate life, unconnected to your family.”
    He held the candle over their heads as they rounded the corner and reached her door. He was vastly disappointed to end their conversation. They both paused.
    “ Will you come inside for a while?” she asked. “I don’t think I will be able to sleep now, and I want to know more about you and your father. If you wish to tell me, that is.”
    Surprised by her invitation—for she had clearly voiced her displeasure when he pushed the limits of propriety the night before—he nodded and followed her into the room.
    The bed was in shambles. Clearly she had been tossing and turning as well, and he was unsettled by the extent of pleasure he derived from that observation.
    His eyes turned to the fire. It seemed quite dead, but upon closer scrutiny he discovered a few glowing embers of warmth still thriving in the ash.
    Anne set her candle down on the bedside table, and Garrett set his own down on the chest of drawers near the hearth.
    “ Are you still cold?” he asked. “If you like, I can freshen this fire for you.”
    “ That would be wonderful, thank you.”
    He knelt down and threw a few kindling sticks onto the grate. Within minutes new flames caught and burned. He loaded larger sticks of wood and another log, leaned the iron poker against the marble casing, brushed the dust off his hands, and turned to face Anne.
    Her complexion glowed like smooth ivory in the dim firelight, and the beauty of her face stole his breath.
    He wondered why he had come in here. More self-inflicted punishment? Or perhaps he craved pleasure, at any cost.
    Or something more than physical pleasure.
    It had been so long since he’d felt that side of his emotions.
    “ You’re still cold,” he said, watching her rub at her upper arms and feeling a strong stirring of arousal. “You should go back to bed.”
    And he should do