The trouble was, once alone, his conscience had set in, the very conscience he’d no longer thought he possessed. He cursed and tossed back a bit more of his drink, disgusted with himself. Returning to the country had turned him maudlin. Somehow, over the course of the time he’d been at Carrington House, he’d grown to like his wife. He admired her for her skills at running his household and for her strong will. Back in London, he hadn’t considered the particular conundrum in which he now found himself so precariously mired.
He was poised on the precipice of success. In less than a sennight, he had wooed his wife into accepting him in her bed again. He should be thrilled. Christ, he should be stripping her out of her naughty French undergarments and sliding inside her sweet little cunny right now. He shouldn’t be hiding away in his study.
With his ultimate goal so close at hand, he wasn’t supposed to be feeling empathy toward his wife. She was a means to an end, a necessary duty. He definitely wasn’t supposed to be so achingly attracted to her. Bloody hell, feeling anything at all most certainly was not part of his plan.
Yet, he did.
Yes, he liked her. He liked her sharp mind and the way she pursed her lips when she was mulling over something and the way she held herself with quiet grace when she entered a room. He liked her snapping eyes and her long, luscious blonde hair, and good Lord he positively loved helping to unleash the wicked streak within her.
This was a strange development indeed. Of all the women he’d flirted with and bedded in his life, and it was an admittedly lengthy list, he could honestly say he hadn’t truly admired many of them. Perhaps he hadn’t even admiredanyof them, now that he thought on it.
A conundrum indeed, one of the worst sort. Victoria was waiting for him in her chamber, willing and ready. And yet here he lingered in his study with a tumbler of spirits, realizing he harbored an alarming depth of sentiment for his wife, the very woman who had been foisted upon him, the woman he’d spent months resenting, the woman he’d thought he could so easily forget. But he wouldn’t forget. Not now. Not her.
He tossed back the remainder of his brandy and soda water. It was foolish to linger any longer like a callow virgin on his wedding night. He was no callow virgin, and he’d already had his wedding night. Even so, he had a bothersome feeling that what awaited him would leave him forever changed.
Victoria had dismissed Keats. She wore only a silk wrapper and a few dabs of orris root at her throat and wrists. Will had told her he preferred the scent.
Will.
Her husband.
It seemed so odd, so improbable, that the man whose presence she eagerly awaited was the same man who had wed and abandoned her, the same man she’d sworn she’d never forgive. Her mind told her she was a candidate for the lunatic asylum. Had she learned nothing from the five months of loneliness and swirling scandal she’d had to face alone? Perhaps not, for all she could think of now was the devastating way he’d looked at her for the duration of dinner. Like he wanted to devour her.
He had kissed her as if he were a starving man and she the feast before him. He touched her and set her aflame. She wanted him very much, wanted more of what had happened in the music room. At that thought, a solid series of knocks sounded on the door joining their chambers together.
Despite knowing he would be coming to her, she started, a bout of nerves gripping her. She tightened the belt at her waist and consulted her reflection in the looking glass. Her hair was down, a curling sweep of locks to her waist. The lamp light was low, bathing the chamber in a warm glow.
Another knock interrupted her worried contemplation. Her mouth went dry.
She took a deep breath. “Enter.”
The door creaked open and she thought she must have one of the footmen oil it. Then her husband filled the doorway and she quite forgot everything. He wore a black dressing gown, his large feet and strong, masculine calves peeking beneath its hem. Her face went warm and she was sure she was flushed as a ripe apple. Her eyes traveled up from the tie drawn at his lean waist to the sliver of his bare chest visible. Their gazes clashed as a delicious tide of longing washed over her.
“Victoria,” he murmured. “I was afraid you’d have fallen asleep.”
She swallowed, opting for levity. “Of course I couldn’t sleep for fear of another midnight invasion that required the aid of Mr. Dickens.”
He winced. “My nose is still tender to the touch.”
“You didn’t even bear a mark,” she returned, not believing a bit of it.
“Spoken with nary a trace of regret.” He tapped the facial feature in question. “Truly, it will never again be the same.”
“A lifelong reminder never to sneak into my bedchamber uninvited.” She kept her tone tart. Oh, what was she doing, trading barbs with the man who had caused her such heartache these many months? She tried to cling to the endless list of ladies who’d been connected to his name in scandal, but they’d begun to fall away like the petals of a rose the first time he’d looked at her and truly seen her as a woman.
Perhaps she had revealed the wayward path of her thoughts, for his expression shifted, his jawline hardening. “Are you certain you’re ready for me tonight? I will wait, Victoria.”
No.
But she couldn’t tell him as much. Wouldn’t tell him as much, for she didn’t want to let him think he possessed that much power over her emotions. “I’m ready. Please, come in.” She could do her duty—for that was what this truly was, after all. She mustn’t allow herself to think otherwise. Tonight was duty and pleasure bound into one.
He’d been lingering at the threshold but at her urging, he finally crossed the invisible boundary between his chamber and hers. The adjoining door squeaked closed again at his back. He was unbearably handsome. His thick hair was ruffled, as if he’d been passing a hand through it. Had he been as nervous as she?
They both began moving toward each other, meeting in the center of the room. She gazed up at him, framing his beautiful face with her palms. His cheeks were slightly scratchy with the texture of the whiskers he’d shaved that morning. She rather enjoyed the prickle against her skin.
She searched his eyes but found them unreadable. “This isn’t a lark for you, is it?” Somehow, there was an important distinction.
His expression tightened, his smile fading. “It isn’t a lark. I want you.” He guided her hand down over the silky robe to the rigid outline of his manhood, pressing himself into her. “There’s no feigning my reaction to you.”
