She didn’t crook a finger for him, and after a few days Max was beginning to think she never would.
There was no invitation. Not even a come-hither glance. She was all politeness, to be sure. Pleasant even. But she wasn’t the Aurelia he knew. He thought after that morning together she would want him as much as he wanted her. Newly introduced to the delights of the flesh, she wouldn’t be able to stay away. No matter what she claimed.
She had proved him wrong.
He strolled about in a constant state of arousal, longing for his wife with a need that made his teeth ache. She avoided him as if a repeat performance were the last thing she desired. Perhaps she had decided that she didn’t want him. That he wasn’t enough . . . that what he was offering wasn’t enough.
A bolt of panic shot through him that he quickly tamped down. He wasn’t so desperate that her rejection mattered. He merely hoped to reach some level of contentment in this marriage. For their sake, for his friendship with Will. Yes, he told himself. That was the only reason for that brief stab of panic. He wasn’t worried. Truly. He wasn’t.
If Aurelia didn’t want him again, then he would go on. He would live. There would be other women.
A foul taste coated his mouth. His hand curled into a fist. The mere idea of other women held no appeal. Aurelia was all he could think about it. All he wanted.
There was no arguing between them. No saucy exchange. None of the interaction that got his blood pumping. He missed that. He knew he should be satisfied at such tranquility. She placed no demands. She certainly wasn’t a haranguing wife. No, she was faultless. Ever gracious over breakfast, treating him to easy and courteous conversation, inquiring after his day. And it infuriated him. It was as though he had never bedded her. She was withdrawn, holding herself back, and he wanted to grab her and shake her and kiss her until he had the Aurelia he craved and wanted and . . .
He shook his head, not finishing the thought.
He simply wanted her back.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “I’m meeting Violet in the park.”
He didn’t need to read her mind to know that this was in reaction to the limitations he had placed on their marriage. She’d understood his expectations. No love. No children.
He watched her intently as she rose from the table, staring at her over his cup. She smiled that smile that did not quite meet her eyes and departed the room. He sat tensely in his chair for some moments, his boot tapping anxiously beneath the table, feeling dismissed. Rebuffed. Even without word or deed, she had made it clear that she didn’t need him—crave him—the way he craved her.
“Bloody hell.” Max set his cup down and pushed up from the table.
He stomped upstairs, heading directly for her chamber. If this was a game, then she had won. He couldn’t stay away from her a moment longer. He couldn’t endure her indifference.
He strode into her chamber. She sat on the chaise lounge, her sketch pad in her lap. He had a flash of unreasonable jealousy. She preferred that to him.
Aurelia started at his sudden appearance. “My lord,” she murmured as he stopped before her and plucked the pad from her lap.
“Max,” he bit out, tossing aside the pad, seizing her by the elbows and dragging her up the length of his body.
His mouth took hers, and he groaned, missing this. Missing her. She tasted even sweeter than he remembered, and it had only been a few days since he last tasted her. It was like she was in his blood.
“I missed this . . . you,” he muttered, coming over her on the couch, grabbing fistfuls of her skirts and shoving them out of the way so that he could settle firmly between her thighs.
Her arms snaked around his neck. “Then why didn’t you do something about it?” she whispered against his mouth.
“Because I’m a fool.” He thought he could be strong and exhibit control. He thought she would need him first.
Her legs came around his hips, and he dove his hands under her, cupping the swells of her bottom. He growled into her mouth, “If you want me to leave, say it now because in another minute I’m not going to be able to stop.”
The sweet breath from her mouth fanned his lips and she shook her head with a muffled whimper.
It was all he needed to hear. The sound spurred him to action.
His hands dove between their bodies, finding the slit in her drawers and touching her sex, caressing her, shuddering at the sensation of her wet heat, ready and weeping for him. He thrust a finger deep inside her, reveling at the sweet clench of her around him.
She gasped and the sound struck him like lightening. He stroked deeper, curling his finger and finding the spot that made her arch and pant. She was so close, but he didn’t want to give it to her yet. He wanted to be inside her when she shattered all around him.
He pulled back and she whimpered at the loss of him, biting her lip, the sight of her the most seductive thing he had ever seen. Her hands grabbed onto his hips. “I need—”
“I know.” He nodded, dragging his hands up her thighs and hauling her into position beneath him. Leaning down, he lightly bit her throat, overcome with the need to mark her, possess her.
She cried out, arching against him, and he followed the nip with a stroke of his tongue. Her fingers speared through his hair. “Now! I need you in me now.”
His hand reached between their bodies again, finding her, gliding against her, teasing her for a moment before pushing a finger deep inside her once more, reveling in her soft, clinging heat. His breath grew hoarse. “You’re so wet . . . ready.”
She nodded drunkenly. “Please.”
Aching hard, he nodded. His body clenched with need. He freed himself and then he was there. Pushing inside her. His hands held tight to her hips, anchoring her as he drove in to the hilt. His body shuddered at the sensation. “God, you’re tight.”
She whimpered.
“Am I hurting—”
Her eyes blazed up at him. She shook her head furiously, and her inner muscles flexed, milking his cock. “No . . . please, just move.”
Thank God. He dropped his head into her neck with a groan, withdrew and pushed back in again, slamming deep and touching heaven.
Sensation rippled down his spine. He buried himself deep. Again and again. Deeper than he ever thought possible. She came, shuddering, with a shrill cry.
He continued to drive into her, increasing his pace, amazed that he had stayed away this long. Her nails dug into his hips as he worked over her, the sound of their bodies smacking together in sweet song.
Unintelligible sounds choked from her lips. She was close again.
He reached between their bodies and found her sweet bud, rolling it once before pinching it firmly. That’s all it took. She came apart in his arms, shuddering and gasping. His arms slipped around her, hugging her close as he followed, his climax rising up in him and tightening his skin. He slammed into her one more time before pulling out and spilling himself into his hand, a jagged cry ripping from his throat.
“Wow,” she panted, propping herself up on her elbows.
Max stood and moved to the washstand, feeling shaken and glad for something to do. It had never been like that. Even the last time with her. As sweet as that had been, this was even better. Hell, this girl was wrecking him.
Finished cleaning up, he returned to her and sank back down on the chaise lounge. She studied him warily, and he knew she expected him to take his leave. As though he wanted her only for one thing and now that he’d gotten what he was after he would depart. His stomach knotted. He had done that. He had given her that impression of him.
Settling beside her, he plucked up her sketch pad and said mildly, “What have you been working on?”
Aurelia stared at him in astonishment. “You want to see my sketches?”
He nodded. “They’re important to you . . . yes, I want to see them. And you know I’ve always thought you were brilliant.”
She stared at him like she didn’t know him at all. “It’s been a long time since you—” She cut herself off and shook her head, and he guessed she was forbidding herself from talking about the past.
Blinking, a slow smile curved her lips. “Thank you.” Her hand smoothed over the outside of the pad before opening it. “This is my newest sketch . . .”
The days passed in a pleasant blur. Max spent every night in her bed. He loved her with his mouth and hands and body so thoroughly she almost convinced herself that it did not matter that he did not love her with his heart.
She began to convince herself that this was enough. The nights were enough. The fact that he still held himself back, that he kept himself scarce and largely unavailable during the day, would be fine. He didn’t need to say the words. She didn’t need to hear him profess his eternal love to her. This would work. They could even have a good life together.
Until the third morning she woke up sick to her stomach and had to face the fact that a good life with Max might not be her fate.
It had been over two weeks since that morning with him, but a sinking realization rooted inside Aurelia.
It might be too soon to know with any certainty, but she was late. Late when she was never late. And she was not the only one who noticed.
Cecily knew Aurelia’s habits as well as Aurelia herself, and she had voiced the possibility a week ago, making it nearly impossible for Aurelia to stick her head in the sand and ignore the possibility.
Aurelia swung between elation and misery. She had never overly contemplated motherhood, and following Max’s revelation that he had no intention of being a father, she had accepted that motherhood would not be in her future. And now this.
With every day that passed and no arrival of her menses, her certainty grew, squashing the denial. Apparently, Max’s preventive measures did not work. She would have to tell him eventually, but dread held her back. She would say nothing for now. Cowardly, perhaps, but she was not eager to ruin the delicate harmony between them. It would shatter the instant he learned of her condition. Besides, she could be mistaken.
“You truly think this is wise?” Cecily asked, standing to the side as Aurelia searched among the gowns in her wardrobe. “Considering your condition . . .”
Aurelia whipped through dress after dress, scarcely seeing them.
“Wisdom has naught to do with it . . . nor does my possible condition prevent me from attending a dinner party. I’m not trekking across Great Britain on some great journey, Cecily. Max said he would not be home for dinner. Why should I stay home when I could spend an evening out?”
“Possible? You are clockwork with your cycles.”
“Possible,” Aurelia repeated, pulling a dress from the armoire and glaring at her friend.
“When will you tell him?” Cecily pressed.
Her stomach twisted sickly. Tell Max? She shook her head. Tell him that he was going to be a father when the very last thing he wanted in life was to have a child? Watch as their peaceful existence crumbled to ash? No. No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Not yet.
“When I know for certain,” she replied vaguely.
Cecily made a humming sound, refraining from insisting they already knew for certain. Instead, after a few moments watching Aurelia tap her lip and blindly study her assortment of slippers, she asked yet again, “You truly mean to go, then?”
“Yes. Why not? I’ve been stuck in this house long enough . . .”
“No one has forced you to stay here. And you haven’t. You’ve called on your family . . . your mother, Rosalie and Violet. Walked in the park yesterday.”
“You know what I mean. Society, Cecily.”
Out of the corner of her eye she caught Cecily shaking her head. “Even though your husband expressly told you not to go?”
“He is not the final authority on everything. Especially not on the matter of where I can and cannot go.”
If she remained in these walls, fretting about the future, about Max, the child—their child . . . she would go stark mad. She needed a diversion. And there was that part of her that chafed at Max forbidding her to go to Struan Mackenzie’s dinner party. He didn’t get to issue ultimatums and then ignore her day after day, coming to her bed only at night, effectively reminding her precisely how low her importance was in his life.
“I think it’s a mistake,” Cecily said. “You should just talk to him, Aurelia.”
He had said everything there was to say. Theirs would be a marriage without love. Without children. She shivered, thinking of his reaction when she revealed that one part of his grand plan was no longer even possible.
“Perhaps,” she allowed, looking her friend squarely in the eyes, and shrugged. “But then it wouldn’t be my first mistake.”
Max returned home early. He couldn’t help himself. Staying away from her a moment longer felt like punishment, and he wasn’t keen on punishing himself. He’d never been one to refrain from taking his pleasures where he saw fit, and it turned out that his wife was a great pleasure indeed.
He nodded to a footman positioned in the foyer near the base of the stairs as he headed up the steps to his chamber, his boots biting into the plush runner with dogged resolve. Silence hummed through the house. The dinner hour had passed. Aurelia would likely be in her chamber by now.
Entering his room, he tugged his cravat loose with an aggravated yank. Things could not continue as they were. Avoiding her during the day. It was ridiculous. He wanted her. She wanted him. They were married. There was no reason why they couldn’t be enjoying each other more frequently.
He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. God knew he didn’t want any other woman. He’d tried. He hadn’t returned to Sodom, but that didn’t mean opportunities hadn’t presented themselves in the course of his daily customs. Except there was only Aurelia. In his mind. Under his skin. In his blood. He wanted her in his bed. Even after these weeks, they’d barely scratched the surface of all the things he wanted to do to her.
He stopped and caught sight of himself in the cheval mirror. He looked like hell. Eyes red-rimmed. Face drawn, hair mussed from constantly running his hands through it. He couldn’t go on this way. He’d been with many women . . . but none had ever reached inside him. None had rooted so deeply.
The problem was that Aurelia wanted everything. She wanted the fairy tale. She was still the little girl with big dreams chasing puppies. He’d seen that dreamy look in her eyes these past weeks. Even though he had put their relationship into perspective at the beginning. No children. No love. She still hoped for it. He knew that. She wanted what he couldn’t give—the kind of marriage Dec and Will shared with their wives. He wouldn’t be like his father, quick to eat a bullet at the inevitable loss of love. He wouldn’t.
He stopped before their adjoining door. They could still have a good life without love. They could have a life in which they came together and enjoyed each other. Only, perspective must not be lost. It wouldn’t be right for either one of them to come to expect or rely on each other in any regard. Even shagging. It didn’t have to be messy or complicated.
He was certain if they just spent more time together—in bed—he could purge her from his blood. And that would be best. For both of them. He knocked once at the adjoining room door and entered.
“Oh,” Cecily softly exclaimed as he stopped in the threshold. She straightened from where she held a stack of linens, her big brown eyes blinking owlishly.
“Pardon me.” His gaze flicked around the chamber as though he would find Aurelia lurking in some corner. “I was searching for my wife.”
Cecily cast her eyes downward, her hand smoothing over the linens. “She is not here, my lord.”
He took one step deeper into the room. “Where is she?”
“She went out for the evening, my lord.”
“Out where?” he persisted, feeling unaccountably annoyed. This wasn’t what he had anticipated. She was supposed to be here.
She looked at him and away again. “Oh . . . I believe she mentioned a dinner party . . .”
“A dinner party?” His nape prickled, even though a dinner party sounded innocent enough. It was the woman’s manner. The hesitation in her voice.
He knew Aurelia had ventured out before. She had called on her family, as well as Rosalie and Violet, of course. She often took tea with her mother, who would be leaving for Scotland soon.
“What dinner party?” he demanded. “Whose?”
Sighing, Cecily lifted her gaze and faced him, grim acceptance in her eyes. He knew the answer then. She didn’t need to say it. He could read it all over her face.
He was beside himself with fury. He had expressly told her not to attend, and she had anyway. He would settle this once and for all. He wasn’t a caveman. He simply did not trust Mackenzie . . . nor did he like the man knowing any of their secrets. And Aurelia frequenting Sodom’s was very much a secret. One word would fan the rumor mills and she could be ruined. It pained him to think of Aurelia subjected to Society’s cruel judgments. He’d spare her that. Even if meant he had to suffer through a dinner party and endure the likes of Mackenzie eyeing his wife as though he would like to get a glimpse beneath her skirts.
An uncomfortable hardness rose in his trousers at the thought of Aurelia naked. She was magnificent. Her body was lush and sweet and as tempting as Botticelli’s Venus. That dark hair . . . those ripe breasts. Groaning, he shifting himself, trying to restrain his cock. How could he keep his hands off her now that he knew how truly brilliant it could be between them?
Without a word, he spun around and strode from the room, knowing exactly where he could find her.