Chapter 6
Willow sank down on her bed and then immediately jumped back up. Nerves ate away at her belly as she waited for her husband to make his entrance. There were a few things they needed to discuss. Such as expectations. Holly. The reason he wished to wed in haste.
Her gaze wandered over to the sheets of paper neatly arranged on her desk.
Boundaries for the Duchess of St. Ives.
Willow huffed.
The title had a well-defined ring to it, but the document itself represented everything she stood against. Of course, she had been raised without many restrictions, skirting around the edges of what was proper and what was not. She had grown up with freedom few women possessed, a way of life she had perhaps taken for granted.
Willow had always assumed her husband would possess the same values as her father. It never occurred to her he may not. Then again, it never occurred to her that she would come to be married in the way she did. There had not been much time dedicated to considering the character of her husband. Well, not much beyond the idea that she would be able to manage the duke.
Boundaries.
Hah! What did that even mean? A clear line drawn across the floor of their home? That might not be such a terrible idea. Certainly not after that kiss which had, in the blink of a second, tested the purely beastly view Willow had constructed of the duke. The kiss alone suggested there was something underneath the beast, a man that could feel.
His rigid need for control certainly did not paint a man who possessed such a passionate side. It had thrown her off balance. In fact, Willow had to remind herself over and over that her husband was reputed to be a stuffy duke. It was dangerous to imagine him as anything romantic. He wasn’t. He had tricked Holly and drawn up these rules.
Willow must remember that.
And just what did he mean to gain from setting up such absurd rules as eating one meager piece of toast in the morning? Was it perhaps a miracle slice of bread? That had been the worst rule for Holly.
She glared at the offending sheets of paper.
She ought to read them. But she wouldn’t. The mere thought of it stuck in her craw.
Her fingers skimmed over the title.
As long as she remained unaware of the contents, there was a chance for her to form her own opinions about her husband. If she read the rules and became infuriated, they would not get off to any sort of start and for better or worse, they were married. Besides, she had no intention of following his ridiculous rules. She fully planned to ignore the “boundaries” he had drawn up for her. If they were so important to him, the man could very well explain why himself!
She cast an irritable glance at the door.
She wondered what kind of entrance he would make. Would he burst into the chamber tall, handsome and naked? Or would he expect her to undress him? Perhaps he was a robe man.
Willow sighed at herself. One minute she was fuming over his boundary book and the next she was imagining him naked. It was more than confusing.
She had attempted all day–ever since his kiss—not to imagine her husband naked. Which was proving quite impossible. Whenever he moved, the roped muscles of his body rippled in such a delicious way, tremors tormented her spine.
She didn’t think she’d mind consummating the marriage one bit. At least in this, she didn’t feel torn.
She quelled the tiny pinch of guilt that surfaced at the thought of why she married him. She ought not feel guilty. Her actions weren’t any different from men acquiring wives to beget them an heir, was it?
The sudden thud of polished Hessians in the hallway caused her pulse to leap. Alert, she listened as her husband entered his chambers, the door groaning on its hinges as it shut. The soft rustle of fabric that soon followed.
Her eyes shot to the door adjoining their rooms.
She tried to remember why she was annoyed, what she planned on demanding explanations for, when all of a sudden, she couldn’t even catch her breath, let alone think.
Butterflies fluttered wildly in her belly. Think, Willow. Think! But the doorknob turned and her wits scattered. Her blood throbbed in her veins. She waited in suspended time for the door to push open.
But . . . nothing.
Her brows puckered.
The doorknob wiggled again.
“Open the door, Willow.”
The door was locked?
Then, a moment later, realization sunk in. Had he just called her—
“Willow.”
There it was again, the soft purr of her name. Which rolling off his tongue sounded like sweet honey dripping from his lips when he pronounced it.
She shuddered.
And just like that, panic set in. What had she been thinking! She married her sister’s jilted betrothed to get with child! She’d lost her mind. Her reasoning was flawed. And how did she think that she would enjoy the consummation? She didn’t even know what it entailed! She belonged in Bedlam!
On instinct, she dashed to the bedroom door and yanked it open, resolved to hide away in the servant quarters or behind a curtain somewhere, just for the night, and bolted straight into a broad chest.
Strong arms circled her waist and crushed her against a hard frame while walking her back into the room. Her head tilted back to meet the dark, smoldering eyes of her husband, wicked amusement flashing in their surface.
“Going somewhere?”
She bit her bottom lip. “I, er, no, I . . .” Willow trailed off, breathless.
“Not running away from your husband, then?” he mocked. “It must be a family trait.”
“Of course not,” Willow scoffed, feeling more herself when her temper sparked.
He chuckled, setting her back on her feet, kicking the door shut. “Little liar.”
“I see you recalled my name?” Willow remarked, choosing to ignore his devilish expression.
“Indeed.” He smiled then, a look so dazzling she hastily backed away, nearly stumbling over a footstool. He reached out to steady her.
She blinked a few times to ensure she was not dreaming. Her husband stood in the centre of her chamber in nothing but a robe. He was a robe man. And she was acting like a nitwit at the sight of it. Which was why, of course, she said the first thing that popped into her brain, anything to keep her mind from the flush spreading up her neck and the quickening beat of her heart.
“Well, Ambrose, you ought to know, I will have at least three pieces of toast in the morning.”
For a moment, confusion shone in his features and then his eyes narrowed. “If you read the—”
“I did not read that pile of rubbish,” Willow motioned at the papers on her desk, “I heard this particular rule from my sister and I’m making it clear that I will not be following it.”
She stepped right up to him, daring him to contradict her. She could feel the heat coming off his body and struggled to ignore its beckoning. What sort of wanton creature was she? And the feelings he aroused in her just served to set fire to the glowing embers of her annoyance. She was feeling all sorts of things she ought not to feel. And yet for all her annoyance, she felt awakened.
His jaw tightened, but his mask of amusement did not slip.
“Willow, the rules are—”
“Preposterous, I imagine.”
“Stop interrupting me when I’m trying—”
“To say you agree with me?”
Finally, anger flashed across his features, cracking through his good-humor. She felt satisfaction trill through her.
“Deuce take it! I am trying to protect you,” he ground out.
She smiled up at him sweetly. “From toast?”
A low growl rumbled deep in his throat. It was her only warning. Hunger, starkly raw, flashed in his eyes before he brought his mouth down on hers. There was nothing gentle about the kiss, though nothing bruising. But it didn’t matter. Because the moment he touched her lips, flames lapped up her skin.
Everything she’d been holding back, everything she’d been fighting to ignore overwhelmed her. Fear, annoyance, guilt, and desire all poured out in the kiss. Their locked horns became something else as their tongues dueled. And she recalled that his purpose for being here, in her chamber, in this moment, was another one altogether different from negotiations over toast.
Suddenly, he pulled away, and Willow found herself stunned and bereft. Her eyes opened to find him shrugging off his robe in one smooth motion, allowing it to fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.
Willow nearly choked on air.
“You’re . . . you’re . . .”
He was completely, splendidly and breathtakingly naked.
Willow backed away from him, her lips parting as her gaze wandered over every sinew that rippled across his torso. His thick muscles thrummed with strength.
He stalked her with a slow gait, the motion drawing her gaze lower.
Her eyes snapped back up again. “You cannot possibly waltz into my bedchamber naked and all . . . all . . . . naked!”
But he could.
And he did.
He arched a bemused brow. “No?”
“You cannot possibly mean to . . .” her words tapered off on a breathless note.
But he could.
And he meant to.
She saw it in the gleam of his eyes and realized she wanted to do . . . whatever he wanted.
“A good wife would have been naked by now, not arguing with me about breakfast.”
Willow flushed scarlet. She wouldn’t admit that breakfast was presently the furthest thing from her mind. She could easily win that argument in the morning. There were more pressing matters at the moment, matters she was rather entranced by. Naked matters. Husband matters. Consummation matters.
“Are you under the impression that wives lounged nude in wait for their husbands all day?” She sniffed in mock disdain. “They do not.”
His lips pulled back in a smile. “If they did, no man would ever leave their bed.”
“Men tire easily enough.”
“Not all men.”
The words, the rough baritone of his voice, brought a shiver to her spine.
Did he mean himself? That the thought thrilled her made it clear: her sanity was, indeed, lost. Because the thought of lounging around naked waiting on the duke sounded ridiculously delightful.
“So what is it to be, wife?”
“I beg your pardon?” Her eyes, which were busy examining his torso, jerked up to his face.
“I’m all for hiking your skirts up and consummating this marriage without delay, though I’d rather it be your choice.” His eyes raked her up and down, gaze blazing. “And I’d rather you be naked.”
“You are allowing me the chance to decline?”
He shrugged. “But be warned, little wife, this marriage will not be annulled. I will have your word.”
Dear lord, he was giving her a way out of their wedding night. And he truly thought she would seize the chance. Willow glimpsed it there, in the amusement of his features, his flashing eyes.
“So?” he pressed.
Wicked scoundrel! Challenge wove through the threads of his words. He must want this marriage badly. She made a mental note to demand answers later.
At present, however, it seemed she loved battling with him as much as she loved looking at him. Indeed, she found herself wanting to explore their wedding night more than anything in that moment. Thus, Willow gave him something better than her word.
She turned and gave him her back. “Unlace me.”
Her boldness amazed her. Empowered her. Then she felt the caress of his hand brushing her neck followed by the soft graze of his lips against her skin. Her lashes drifted shut.
“Are you certain?” His velvety voice whispered in her ear.
Heat pooled in her belly. Breathless, she answered, “Yes.”
Three heartbeats later, her dress pooled around her feet. Seconds later, her petticoat, chemise and stays followed.
She heard him suck in his breath.
Emboldened by his response, and seeing no point in holding onto modesty, Willow turned and brazenly met her husband’s gaze. The impact was so strong the air rushed from her lungs. His eyes were intense. More intense than usual. And the way he was staring at her singed skin.
Her tongue darted over her lower lip. He reached for her, drawing her against the hard ridges of his body and then he was kissing her again. All at once, she was lifted up into his arms.
Willow barely had time to soak up the delightful heat of his skin. Dropping her on the bed, his eyes were warm as they searched hers.
She liked his eyes this way—warm, expressive—and wondered what it would take to keep them so.
“Earlier, when you were running for the door . . . you wanted to escape me.” His voice was low. Seductive. He stretched over her, covering her with his entire masculine length. “Did you not?”
“I’ll admit to no such thing,” Willow muttered, her wits scrambled. It was hard to draw a thought with him this close.
His chest rumbled with laughter and he pinned her with ruthless, glowing eyes. His face could have been etched in stone at that moment. The breath in her lungs burned. But the answer he sought was there in her eyes—she never once thought she could escape him.
The look of sheer male satisfaction that crossed his features ought to have raised the hairs on her neck but his lips lowered to slide over her collarbone, skimming breasts, her belly, burning through her annoyance. Nowhere was off limits. Fire spread through her.
The hard contrast of his muscles against her softness made Willow’s head spin. Without warning, his hand settled at the junction of her legs and she yelped, not expecting his dexterous fingers to make such a play.
“Relax,” he murmured before his fingers continued their exploration. His eyes locked on hers as sensations rocked through her, radiating out from her core. “Did you not think about this when you chose to walk down the church?”
No, absolutely not had she thought about what his hands might do.
“Or this?” His finger disappeared, only to be replaced by his mouth.
Lud no, she had not imagined that either.
When his tongue flicked over the folds of her core, Willow whimpered. It was just so wicked. She may die from delight. Or embarrassment. Or something. Yet he seemed not at all ashamed by what he was doing.
He continued until she thought she might explode. She writhed beneath him wildly, impatient. With a quiet laugh, he lifted himself up and surrounded her with his body, his hands and mouth on her breasts, her neck, his throbbing member pushing at her entrance.
“This may hurt,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Hurt?
Nothing could ever hurt again. It seemed most ridiculous for him to say that. She was riding in a haze of pleasure.
He surged forward, driving past her innocence.
“Dear lord,” she cried out, nearly bulking from the bed at the unexpected pain. “You could have warned me.”
“I did,” he bit out but sounded amused.
She writhed beneath him and he groaned, noting his clenched jaw. “Is it painful for you, too?”
He shook his head.
“Then why have you stopped?”
His eyes bore into hers. “To give you time to adjust to me.”
Oh!
She tested another wiggle. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
His lips descended on hers and he began to thrust into her, low, firm movements that set fire to her insides. This time, Willow did not hold back. She stroked her tongue alongside his, tasting, feasting. She felt wild inside, and gave herself over to her husband’s attention, his thrusts, to the flames licking up her spine. This was so much more than she had ever expected.
If this was part of what it meant to be a wife, Willow thought, she’d happily do this as often as possible.
Lifting her hips to meet each of his thrusts, his name slipped from her lips. There was something precious happening between them, something magical.
His movements gained more purpose, and she arched her back, pleasure exploding inside her like a thousand stars bursting into stardust. Moments later, he shuddered his own release, his body a delightful weight pressing into her.
“That was marvelous,” Willow said once she caught her breath.
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Indeed,” he agreed, rolling onto his back.
“I had no idea that it could be so . . .” her voice trailed off at a loss for words. Her imagination had not prepared her for the emotions his touch provoked. The ethereal feeling that her body no longer belonged to her.
He turned his head to her. “How did it feel?”
“Earth-shattering,” she said, meeting his gaze.
“That’s good,” he said. “Perhaps tomorrow you can read through the rules I have—”
“I’m not reading your rules,” Willow cut him off, bolting upright to glare at him.
His eyes hardened. “Wives do as they are told.”
“Not this wife,” she declared, indignant.
“Then you will not feel that earth-shattering pleasure again.”
Willow gasped. Ice water could not have been more effective. She scrambled away from him, grabbing the sheets to cover herself. Furious and pained all at once.
“Was this all a trap? Seduce me so I’ll be more biddable?”
“No,” he said, sitting up. “I gave you a choice to consummate this marriage or give me your word it will not be annulled.”
Dear lord, he was right. She had wanted this, all of it. But she hadn’t expected he’d introduce her to such exquisite passion and then threaten to take it away.
“That’s . . . that’s . . . deplorable!” Willow exploded. “How can you threaten me like this after what we shared?”
His eyes were once again frosty. “Oh, I can, my sweet wife. You should understand I am not a man to attach any romantic ideals to.”
He’d ruined this marvelous night over toast? Well, not actual toast, but rather a metaphor for his obnoxious rules and her refusal to follow them.
“And what if I seek pleasure elsewhere?” Willow challenged, her temper rising at the utter audacity of the man. She wouldn’t, but she was furious that he’d crushed a spectacular moment, that he’d reverted them back to their battle of wills. Of course, she’d planned to do the same thing in the morning, but not now.
“I would not test me that way if I were you.” Black eyes darkened to resemble a thunderstorm. “Not if you do not wish to be locked away in a remote castle on abandoned moors for the rest of your life.”
“You wouldn’t!”
He only smiled.
Willow watched, crippled with astonishment, as he rose from the bed and padded over to his room with no modesty whatsoever, turning the key in the lock to unlock the door. He did not so much as spare her a second glance!
Glaring at his back, she tossed a pillow at him, but it connected with the wall. The devil with him and his threats so nonchalantly declared! The man was a beast. An appealing beast, but a beast all the same.
And she was just the woman to tame him.
Ambrose cursed a string of foul oaths as he slammed the adjoining door shut. He was supposed to remain detached and stoic. He was supposed to be a master at it. What the hell, then, had happened? Where had all the years of control gone?
In the short time he’d spent with his wife, he’d felt desire, fury, possession, protectiveness, jealously, pleasure, and even—he couldn’t comprehend it—affection. He hadn’t actually thought she’d go through with the wedding night. He had gone to her chamber fully intending to disrobe and fully expecting her swift word that the marriage would not be annulled.
He wasn’t even sure why he had given her the choice, only that it seemed right. And yes, while he had meant for the marriage to be one of convenience, there had been nothing convenient about what had just happened. His world had been pushed over a ravine and was now careening down into some unknown abyss.
Never had he known such raw hunger for a woman. The anger that had burned inside him all day had transformed into wild lust the moment his wife faced him, eyes flashing with defiance, and declared she refused to follow his rules. And then she turned and asked him to unlace her.
The memory still burned against his skull.
With a groan, he fell back on the mattress, staring at the canopy of his bed. He had planned on treating his wife with detachment and distance. But tonight his control had snapped. Just snapped. As if it was nothing more than a thin piece of centuries old rope.
The thought rightly terrified him.
Ambrose needed the ever-present constant of what control provided in his life. Predictability. Routine. Not bloody surprises lurking around each corner. Or underneath petticoats.
He rose to his feet and sauntered over to the window, pulling another robe over his shoulders. The moon had slid behind a cloud, casting gloomy darkness over Mayfair. He lifted a trembling hand—trembling, for Christ’s sake—watching the moonlight play over his fingers with a scowl. If he had been in a mood to summon up any form of humor, he’d have laughed for being so unsettled over a woman.
Denial, however, was a waste of his time. Tonight had disturbed him. His wife disturbed him.
But he could not help his mind returning to the memory of how she’d come undone in his arms.
Confusion swamped him.
Why hadn’t that been enough? Didn’t that make a point about who was in charge?
It should’ve, but it hadn’t.
He hadn’t felt in control in the slightest. It was as if, on hearing her pleasure, on seeing her satisfaction, he panicked. And in his panic, he slammed his mask on and tossed out a challenge—said anything to prevent her from looking at him with affection, with hope.
And it had worked. Fury and shock had overtaken her softer emotions instantly.
But bloody hell. What was he getting himself into? He’d incited a war. War was not detached.
A movement drew his attention to the shadows where a slight contour flitted over the garden. His eyes narrowed on the silhouette, certain he was hallucinating. But sure enough, a slender figure dashed over the lawn and down the street.
Everything inside him ceased to function.
His gaze ripped away from the window to his wife’s chamber and before he could even blink, he threw open the adjoining door. Rage exploded in him, throbbed at his temples. The bed was empty, as was the chamber.
His gaze swept to the open window. Anger choked him. Had the bloody woman been idiotic enough to climb down the window?
It was two stories up!
This, this, right here was why he required control in his life. Because once control slipped and the woman in your life ran rampant, nightmarish things happened. God only knows what she was up to—though he suspected it had to do with Holly Middleton. God knew whether she would be safe. He didn’t even know where she might have gone. He was powerless to protect her should trouble happen upon her.
How the hell was he supposed to manage an unmanageable wife?
Reason? Threaten? Command? Beg?
He stomped back into his room and sank down onto the bed to wait. His mind raced, considering what to do about his wife. Kissing her had been a huge mistake, and he could not repeat it. He had to keep his distance, remain detached. Detachment allowed him the best control.
So Ambrose waited and waited until he heard the tell-tale sound of the floorboards creaking, signaling her return. Only then did he let loose a breath and climb into bed, still no wiser as to how to handle the new Duchess of St. Ives.