ill woke to the strange presence of his wife in his bed. He blinked his eyes open as a thin sliver of sunlight cut through the drapery of the windows. She was curled against his side as if she were a little cat. A handful of long blonde curls tickled his nose as he assessed the tableau before him.
Devil take it. He was actually in his wife’s chamber. He hadn’t returned to his. He had never, not once in his life, slept for the entire night with a woman. What the hell was the matter with him? One week in the country and he was noticing things like dust, housekeepers and footmen, and allowing the wife he hadn’t wanted to drape herself all over him and choke him with her wild hair. His right arm was even wrapped around her, anchoring her to his side as if it were where she belonged.
Christ.
Careful not to wake Victoria, he rescued his arm and raised a hand to pluck her curls from his face. They smelled like her sweet perfume. Damn if his cock didn’t harden at the scent. He wanted her again. With a muttered curse, he dropped her curls as though they were made of asps.
He had to escape her clutches, perhaps go for a head-clearing ride. He gently laid back his portion of the bedclothes and sat up. Then he made the mistake of glancing in his wife’s direction. She was still gloriously nude, lying on her side with her back to him. The position and the peeled-back coverlets provided him with a fair view of her pale, perfectly rounded backside. Even her back, small and curved into a dip at her narrow waist, appealed to him. Her hair was a riot of golden tresses tangled across both his pillow and hers.
His pillow?
True, he supposed everything in the house was his, whether or not it had received an improvement from the marriage settlement. But he certainly didn’t want to get in the habit of thinking he belonged in her bedchamber unless it was for the sort of passion they’d shared the previous evening. After which he would bloody well leave.
A slow, steady ache took up fastidious residence in his skull. What had he been thinking to allow her to cozen him into making promises to her? By God, he had never made a promise to any woman.
An odd feeling lodged in his chest. Guilt. His wife was turning him into a saint. He wouldn’t have this. Not a bit of it. But her sweet bottom was certainly a tempting sight. His cock pointedly reminded him of that fact yet again. What was the harm in indulging in another bout of lovemaking? He longed to lose himself inside her wetness, fill her with his seed. Get her heavy with his child.
Sweet Jesus, his depravity truly knew no bounds, for the thought of her carrying his child made him even harder. This was not the proper order of things. Something was decidedly wrong with him. Making love to her wasn’t just a task he had taken on in the name of restoring his funds any longer. He’d lost sight of duty and necessity. It wasn’t even a game, a sharp blade to slice the ennui. It was sheer madness.
He leaned down, unable to stop himself from the folly, and kissed the arch of her bare shoulder. He flicked his tongue against her skin, tantalized by the smooth creaminess of her, the taste of sweetness mingled with a hint of salt. She made a breathy sound and rolled over onto her back. Not enough of the coverlet traveled with her, leaving one of her generous breasts peeking out at him. Her pink nipple pointed up, hard and ready for his mouth. He wanted to suck it until she bucked wildly against him as she had last night.
He gave in to temptation and cupped her breast in his palm, loving the way her nipple puckered and tightened against him. She truly was a gem. Perhaps there was something to be said after all for American ladies who wore seductive silks and walloped their husbands in the nose with fine English literature.
Will kissed her then before he lost complete control of his upper works. She was slow to wake, but after a bit of coaxing, she parted her lips and sighed into his mouth. Kissing her was a prelude to something he wanted much more than mere kissing. Unable to help himself, he pushed the obstruction of her coverlet away so that he could straddle her naked body. He needed to be inside her. His hands were on both her breasts, her fingers tangled in his hair, her petite limbs wrapped round his waist.
Ah, hell. If this was what living with his wife was like, he’d never leave. It seemed there were benefits to waking up in her bed. He skimmed his fingers down between their bodies to the juncture of her thighs and the prize he sought. Her cunny was already slick and ready for him. He flicked his thumb over the sensitive nub just the way he’d discovered she liked. Her body was incredibly responsive, jerking against him.
If he didn’t take her soon, he’d explode. He positioned himself at her entrance, raining kisses down over her throat, and thrust. All lucid thought fled his mind. His entire world became focused on losing himself in his wife’s luscious body. In and out he stroked, loving the throaty moans he produced from her lovely lips. He pumped at a fast pace, knowing from the heaviness of her breathing that she preferred her lovemaking to be deep and intense just the way he did.
Caught in the throes of heady desire, he almost didn’t hear her half sigh, half-whispered words.
“I love you.”
She loved him? Had he heard her aright? He couldn’t have, and she was still dazed with sleep. Surely she didn’t love him. Still, somehow her declaration had the opposite effect on him than it should have, because he was suddenly about to climax. Instantly. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. Throwing his head back like a conquering warrior, he spilled his seed inside her.
When he was finally spent, he rolled to the side and forced himself to get out of her bed before he decided to live there forever. Empathy was one thing, guilt another. But this inexplicable, unavoidable attraction he felt for her was becoming altogether unacceptable. He couldn’t allow it to rule his life. He had to remember that his primary focus was saving himself from financial ruin and not playing lovelorn suitor to his wife. The very wife the duke had chosen for him
“Will?”
Her sleepy voice called after him, her tone questioning. He hadn’t even looked at her in the aftermath of their lovemaking. He was afraid to, by God. He stalked across the chamber and recovered his discarded dressing gown. Perhaps he owed her an explanation for his boorish behavior this morning, but he had none. He was more bollixed up than he’d ever been in his admittedly bollixed life.
“Will?”
Christ. Her voice sounded unsteady. He turned to look at her as he stuffed his arms into his sleeves and knotted the belt at his waist. She had covered her beautiful body and appeared incredibly small in the large high tester. Her hair was still a halo of riotous curls around her face. She had told him she loved him, and he had embarrassed himself in response by coming as quickly as a lad having his first maid.
He wasn’t meant to love her, nor she him.
Love didn’t exist for anyone other than silly chits and proud mamas.
Victoria was waiting for him to respond. He cleared his throat. “Good morning, my dear.” And with nothing more, he turned on his heel and took his leave from her chamber before he did something even more imprudent like run back to join his delightfully rumpled wife in bed.
Had she told him she loved him? After the door joining her husband’s chamber to hers snapped closed, Victoria sank back into her pillows, mortified. She’d been convinced she was in the midst of a wonderful dream, overtaken by the sensations he evoked in her. It had been a sinfully lovely way to wake up, to her husband’s impassioned kisses and caresses. She hadn’t meant to say those three words aloud.
She could pretend she’d never spoken them, carry on as Will had, as if he’d never heard her. But she wasn’t naïve, and she knew he’d heard her all too well. It was why he’d run off at the first opportunity.
His reaction to her blunder was crushing. She’d told him she loved him, and he’d offered her nothing more than a cool “good morning” before disappearing. Perhaps she had made a grave mistake in allowing him into her bed, for in so doing she had also allowed him back into her heart. If indeed he’d ever left it.
Her bed still smelled like him. Reluctantly, she rose and sought out her wrapper, still pooled on the thick carpet. Odd, but she felt more alone now than she had in all the months he’d been gone.
With a sigh, she headed to the bell pull and rang for Keats. Although she’d like nothing better than to hide from Will for the remainder of the day, she knew doing so would merely be a childish postponement of the inevitable reckoning. She crossed the room as she waited, pulling the drapes aside to stare down into the slightly gloomy sunshine of the day.
If only he’d said something more than “good morning”.
Will was still cursing himself for being an ass by the time his wife glided into the morning room for their customary shared breakfast. He could have managed a bit more than a polite greeting earlier, and he knew it. He paused at her entrance, in the act of helping himself to the kippers, bacon, eggs, and toast on the sideboard.
She wore a vibrant morning gown of deep indigo with French lace peeking from a high décolletage and an embroidered skirt that was cut away to reveal more lace beneath. Although her attire was quite modest, he could envision the delectable curves and breasts beneath her fashionable wasp waist and billowing silk. When last he’d seen her, she’d been nude and he’d just been inside her.
He swallowed hard, willing his instant arousal to subside.
“Good morning,” he offered through suddenly stiff lips. Christ, she was turning him into a halfwit. Here he was, tossing her the same meaningless pleasantries that had already put an invisible rift between them. He could sense her withdrawal from him just as surely as he could smell the crisp aroma of the bacon before him.
As if to prove his point, she cast him a look that was positively frigid. Her diminutive features were immobile in her ordinarily expressive face. Rather than meeting his gaze, her eyes were trained upon something on the far wall of the breakfast room. An old family portrait, perhaps, the one of the fourth duke posed with a favorite hunting dog. Anything but him.
He’d hurt her, he realized, and just when he’d promised not to. He winced, watching as she allowed the butler to seat her in an equally icy silence. Though she did thank poor Wilton with a forced smile.
Time for him to pay the forfeit, he decided. He finished adding a heap of eggs to his plate. “May I put together a plate for you, my dear?”
She still refused to look directly at him, but she did deign to give him a regal nod. “You may.”
The ever-efficient Wilton appeared at his elbow, kind enough to take Will’s plate back to the table for him so that he could dedicate his attention to his wife’s. He selected an array of meats, toast and jam. He’d noticed that she never touched her eggs, but she had a fondness for marmalade.
He placed her plate before her with a flourish. “Your breakfast, my lady.”
He was near enough to her to catch a whiff of her sweet perfume. Her golden locks had been twisted into an artful coiffure by her lady’s maid, the tresses so shiny they glinted. She refused to turn toward him, leaving him only with her profile. A lone sapphire earring dangled against her creamy neck. Damn if he wasn’t jealous of the bauble for its proximity to her soft skin.
“Thank you, Pembroke.” Her voice possessed an underlying note of emotion. “Please do enjoy yours.”
He’d been dismissed.
It occurred to him that he was lingering like a lovesick swain at her side. What the hell was he doing, staring at the pretty shell of his wife’s ear, thinking about kissing her neck before the butler? He was a candidate for the lunatic asylum. His fall from grace was complete.
Feeling even more like an imbecile, he seated himself. How could she rattle him so, this tiny scrap of a woman he’d never even given half a thought to until last week? It was ridiculous. Embarrassing. Absurd.
“Did you say something, my lord?”
He paused, forkful of eggs poised in medias res to his mouth. Dear God. Had he been muttering aloud to himself? He tamped down his self-loathing, flashing her a patient smile. “Nothing at all.”
They were quiet for a time then, but for the tinny sound of cutlery on fine china. He was grateful for the respite. Old Mrs. Rufton still excelled at cooking, and he savored every bite of her moist, fresh-herb-laden eggs. Not to mention the divine taste of the bacon on his tongue. Perhaps he would do best to keep his mouth full at all times, he reckoned.
“You haven’t given me any eggs,” she murmured into the silence that had descended.
He glanced up at her to find her stare upon him, direct and assessing. She was testing him. “The omission was intentional, my dear. I’ve taken note that you never touch the stuff.”
Her expression softened. “How thoughtful of you.”
Well, he wasn’t an ogre for Christ’s sake. He may have been an inattentive scoundrel for the first few months of their union, but he did have eyes in his bloody head. He was beginning to get aggravated by her aloof air, and the feeling was a welcome one.
He deliberately ignored her, turning his attention to the butler who stood at proud attention. “Wilton, I should like to read my correspondence while I break my fast this morning. I find I’ve a rather busy day ahead of me.”
He stole a sidelong glance at his wife to gauge her reaction. Her plump lips had compressed into one of her pinched frowns. Her brows were drawn together as well. Perhaps she was wondering what would occupy him for the duration of the day and take him away from her company. Not a blessed thing, but she needn’t know it.
Pleased, he resumed eating his breakfast. He hoped she found him as vexing as he found her. She was warm, then cold. Told him she loved him, then wouldn’t look at him. By God, he was confused enough on his own without her to further muddle things.
“Is something amiss, Pembroke?”
Yes, damn it. Everything was amiss. He was mooning over his wife and lying to her at the same time. He raised a brow and fixed what he hoped was a suitably wilting stare upon her. “Of course not, my dear.”
He knew he shouldn’t dwell on his subterfuge. Unfortunately, what had begun as a necessity now held much more dire repercussions. He had no doubt if she discovered his motivation for becoming a husband in truth, she’d wallop him in the noggin with A Tale of Two Cities. And once again take up her addle-pated notion of divorce. He didn’t want a divorce. He rather enjoyed having a wife, especially one as delectable as Victoria.
The return of Wilton bearing a salver of various-sized envelopes saved him from further unwanted conversation. He dug into them with the same gusto he applied to his meal.
The sudden pallor of her husband’s skin did not escape Victoria as he scanned one of his letters. She’d been watching him, consternated by his abrupt lack of interest in her. Odd that she’d become so attuned to his moods in such a short time. Perhaps odder still that she’d become so accustomed to expecting his attention.
She yearned to ask him who had written and why it had disturbed him. But their olive branch was still lying on the table between them, neither quite trusting enough to pick it up. Given his reticence in her chamber, she wasn’t certain how far she could push him.
He glanced up at her, catching her gaze upon him. Her heart jumped into a faster pace at those blue eyes fastened on hers, bright and seeking. He cleared his throat, a habit she’d begun to take note of that happened whenever he was at a loss for words.
“It seems the duke has deigned to write me a letter,” he said, his tone harsh.
There must have been something in the contents of his father’s letter that had upset him greatly. She proceeded with care. “What does His Grace say?”
Will pinned a forced-looking smile to his lips. “He sends us his regards.”
“That is all?” It wasn’t precisely that she didn’t believe him, but she was suspicious. Guilt nipped at her. “The letter appears to be rather voluminous.”
She could see the letter was of lengthy proportions, the duke’s dark scrawl visible as Will held the letter in question up to the light. She found it curious too that the duke was aware of her husband’s presence in the country. She frowned as her doubts heightened. Unless of course it had been sent up from the Belgravia House. Perhaps she was overthinking it.
He folded the epistle with care and slid it inside the pocket of his jacket. “He also prattles on about his falcons or some such.”
Falcons. Did he think her obtuse? No man wrote an entire page filled with nonsense about falcons. She pressed on, more convinced than before that he was hiding something from her. “What has upset you then? Perhaps you harbor a strong dislike for falconry?”
“Upset?” He raised an imperious brow. “On the contrary, my dear, I’ve never been happier.”
She considered him for a moment. “You don’t appear happy to me.”
“But I am. The miserable old codger also writes that he plans to grace us with his presence.” Bitterness laced his voice.
The duke had spoken to her on exactly two occasions thus far, once at a ball given in honor of her betrothal, and once on her wedding day. All other communication had been strictly conducted with her father. Victoria had been a bartered commodity, a necessary addition for the sake of the hallowed family coffers. Perhaps the notion of the duke’s visit had distressed Will. Lord knew it didn’t sit well with her. He was stuffy and had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if she’d dropped a glob of aspic on her silk dress.
Despite her reservations, it was her duty to play hostess to the man. The duke’s arrival would likely send the household into an uproar. “When does he plan to arrive? I’ll need time to prepare.”
“A fortnight hence.” Will couldn’t have worn a more disgusted expression had he just bitten into a plate of rotten eggs instead of Cook’s heavenly creations.
A fortnight didn’t leave them with much time.
Victoria nearly dropped her fork. She stilled, plastering a pleasant expression to her face. “How delightful.”
“How dreadful would actually be more like it.” He muttered what sounded like a rather rude round of curses beneath his breath.
“He can’t be all bad.” Could he? She had to admit that as unflappable as Will seemed in all other matters, when it came to the duke, he was very much affected. Surely there was a good reason for it.
“You shall see.”
She wondered again at what could have rendered her husband so cold, so hateful toward his father. Perhaps he would never confide in her. Lord knew he was adept at avoiding serious subjects in favor of other, far naughtier pursuits.
He abruptly dropped his fork to his plate. “I find I’ve quite lost my appetite. Would you care for a ride, my lady?”
Victoria wasn’t precisely at home on a horse. Equestrienne had never been one of her talents. She hesitated. “I’m not certain I’m in the mood to be jostled about.”
Of course, the opportunity to spend more time with Will was appealing indeed. She very much wanted to continue in their tentative pax. Perhaps the awkwardness of the morning could be mollified, at least in part.
“Pray take pity on me, my dear. I’ve had a rough morning.” He gave her a grin that sent heat straight to her core.
The man knew how to make her bend to his whims. He was dangerous.
“Very well,” she agreed after a bit of introspection. “I’ll accompany you.”