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here? Surely, he could have dumped him elsewhere: far away from him.
    The duke circled the bed and sat on the side Henry faced. He didn’t say anything else, only held out a mug of ale for him to drink. Henry swallowed a few large mouthfuls, but His Grace took it out of reach fairly soon. Next came a hunk of bread and Henry gobbled it up, eager for more. The duke left the bed, but returned with a bowl of stew.
    Henry had to meet the duke’s gaze. His Grace wouldn’t give him the spoon. Dark eyes should have poured scorn on his head, yet they held an odd gleam. His whole face reflected an emotional state with which Henry was unfamiliar.
    Henry glanced about him nervously. “Where are we?”
    “We are at the cottage.”
     

 
    Chapter Seven
     
    Their location surprised Henry. The duchess claimed the cottage a hovel, yet the room was clean and smelled only of the sea. He pulled a deep breath into his lungs, listening for the pounding waves beyond the walls. There. He hadn’t noticed it before, but the house seemed to vibrate with the soothing sound. He let his breath escape. With the drapes drawn against the night, he couldn’t see outside. Part of him longed to get out of bed and hurry outside to see the ocean he’d only heard about. The sensible part suggested that the excursion could wait.
    The duke cleared his throat. “We’ll talk later: eat now.”
    Henry obediently ate what the other man offered, barely more than the duke’s youngest child would manage, yet his stomach felt as if it would burst. When Henry couldn’t eat another mouthful, His Grace crossed the room, picked up a book and ignored him.
    Uncertain of what his behavior signified, Henry sank into the bedding once more and studied him warily. The Duke of Byworth was a conservative man. If he had one glimmer of understanding of what Henry truly was then he’d be hauled before the magistrate and then the hangman’s stage.
    The duke stirred in his chair like a restless cat. Usually, his placid countenance soothed but tonight Henry churned in the grip of lust. Despite the ache of his flesh, Henry’s prick hardened, lengthening under the sheet beyond his power to control. He rolled over, away from the arousing sight of His Grace stretching. The fantasy he’d dreamed about many a night was a dangerous one to cultivate. He couldn’t keep thinking of kissing a duke. Henry pulled the blankets tight around him, suddenly chilled through.
    The duke’s chair creaked again and the room grew dark. Fabric rustled and then the bed dipped behind Henry as His Grace lay down. Henry couldn’t breathe and he certainly wasn’t going to turn over and ask his master what he was about. He had the most painful erection of his life and all he wanted to do was rub his prick against his master’s body.
    The duke sighed. “Stackpool?”
    “Yes, Your Grace.”
    “Are you feeling any better?”
    Was he feeling better? He had no idea. He couldn’t feel anything beyond lust. “I don’t know.”
    A warm hand brushed his shoulder and then swept over his face. “You’re chilled. You should have said something.”
    The duke fussed with the blankets, but then settled his hand between Henry’s shoulder blades. That hot spot of warmth kept him aroused until fever swept over him again and he struggled out of the sheets. It was a good thing that the hot flushes cooled his ardor because the duke hovered over him all through the long night. Cooling him by flicking off the sheets, heating him with his simple touch; he’d never felt so cosseted in his life.
    When morning broke, he was tired, but the fever and chills had passed. As he blinked sleep from his eyes, a large, warm hand slid off his belly as the duke turned onto his back. Henry gulped. Could his master tell he’d woken aroused? He hoped not.
    Discovery of his lust would only speed Henry’s journey to the hangman.
    The duke rolled out of bed and fumbled around in the half-light. Thin lines of sunlight filtered