“Yes, I remember,” she said, before biting her lip. She hadn’t meant to be rude to the unfortunate servant. It wasn’t his fault his master was a horse’s arse.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he replied. If Hawthorne—the epitome of skill and polish—was turning red, she would never mention it. She regretted he was forced to be in the middle of this unfortunate little scene.

When they arrived at the bedchamber door, Hawthorne knocked, while Veronica experienced an unexpected moment of dread. Had she been wrong to come here? Had she been wrong to taunt Sebastian? Had she been wrong to insist he see her immediately? It was one thing to be perturbed in the drawing room, but it was quite another to be standing in front of the man’s bedchamber door—a bedchamber in which they’d had many nights of unforgettable lovemaking—about to see him tangled in the sheets with his light-o'-love. Terror clutched at her middle.

Veronica nearly turned and scurried back down to the drawing room. But that would give Sebastian the upper hand in the negotiations that were soon to follow, and she would die before she did that. No. Whatever she was about to witness behind that closed door was her own blasted fault. She swallowed and forced herself to lift her chin. Besides, he should be the one embarrassed by his behavior. She had done nothing wrong.

“Come in,” came a voice she would never forget. Deep and authoritative, with a hint of arrogance and a trace of humor. It still sent an unwanted tingle down her spine. She blew out a deep breath. She’d had hours in the coach today to prepare for this moment…but somehow, she still wasn’t prepared. She wiped her sweaty gloved palms on the violet pelisse she’d refused to remove downstairs. She hadn’t intended to stay long enough.

Hawthorne pushed open the door and stepped inside while Veronica waited behind the servant. She set her blurred focus on a painting of a hunting scene on the far side of the room while the butler said, “Her Grace, the Duchess of Edgefield, to see you, Your Grace.”

Then she took a step. First one, then another, until she was standing fully inside Sebastian’s bedchamber for the first time in over two years. The familiar scent of his soap, the same scent she’d licked off his sweaty neck on more than one occasion, nearly sent her to her knees. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to swing her gaze to the side…to look at him. Whatever there was to see, she might as well get it over with.

She frowned. He wasn’t in bed. Her eyes scanned the wide mattress with the familiar dark-blue coverlet. It was not only empty but entirely made as if it hadn’t been used at all in the last, say, hour. Her gaze continued around the room until it alighted on him.

And that’s when her jaw dropped. She couldn’t help it this time.

Standing near the wardrobe, a fire crackling in the large hearth behind him, was her estranged husband. And the man was wearing nothing more than a white towel slung low around his hips. She allowed her gaze to travel from his bare feet, up his strong calves, to his thighs outlined by the towel, then along his muscled abdomen, to his chiseled chest and wide shoulders. She swallowed. Hard. Oh, this had been a bad idea. She shouldn’t have come up here. Still, she couldn’t force her gaze away.