“Nonsense. I live here.”
“Indeed.” She crossed her arms and glared at him, summoning the hurt and anger he’d dealt her. In the moonlight, she could discern only his broad silhouette, and how she wished she could see more. “Is it possible you’ve been hiding about in the kitchens with Mrs. Rufton for the last few months?”
“When did you acquire such a sharp tongue, my dear?”
He sounded surprised by her ire, the rogue. She hoped she had broken his nose. It would be a suitable punishment, a well-deserved imperfection to disrupt the masculine beauty of his face.
“One can take up any number of pursuits whilst abandoned in the country.” She sighed. “Can you not at least light one of the lamps? I dislike being at a disadvantage to my enemy.”
“Harsh words for your husband. Not even a kind remark or a kiss from your lovely lips?” There was a scuffling sound as she presumed he attempted to light the gas lamps.
That he would jest in such a moment of tumult infuriated her. Had he no feeling? No compunction? No inkling of how he’d torn her down as if she were no better than a crumbling garden wall, leaving her to grow lichens and moss on his vast estate? Being ignored was the gravest form of insult, for it showed an incredible dearth of compassion and feeling both. She must have meant less than nothing to him.
“You’re more likely to receive a kiss from Mrs. Morton,” she snapped.
“Who the devil is Mrs. Morton?” Light flared to life, making her absentee husband visible.
He was handsome as ever, the rotten cad, with thick mahogany hair worn a bit too long, blue eyes, a hint of whiskers shading his strong jaw, and high cheek bones. Some of the ice inside her melted, despite her firm determination to remain impervious. He’d had the same effect upon her from the moment she’d first seen him, and it was equal parts dizzying and infuriating. It wasn’t merely that he was fine-looking and charming. There was some indefinable quality that drew women to him, some rare magnetism that made everyone in a room aware of him the instant he’d entered it, and it vexed her to admit she had fallen prey to his charisma herself.
But not any longer. He still stole her breath, much as he’d stolen her foolish heart. And she still resented him for both. It would seem that little had changed save the level of her exasperation.
“Mrs. Morton is the housekeeper,” she explained to him through gritted teeth. She took great care to draw the counterpane up to her chin, all the better to defend herself.
“What became of Mrs. Grimshaw?” He looked truly perplexed. “Am I not to be made aware of changes in my own household? Why the devil didn’t the steward tell me?”
“There is no steward at Carrington House. As you should know, there hasn’t been one for some time. I wrote you a letter explaining Mrs. Grimshaw had unexpectedly passed on to her rewards and that we were in need of a replacement.” She couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice. She had been installed in his home for mere months and she already knew more of it than he, who had roamed its echoing halls and sprawling fields his entire life. But that was what Pembroke did, she’d discovered. He slipped through life, charming women, using his devastating good looks to his advantage, and happily ignoring all responsibilities. “Very likely you never deigned to read it.”
“No steward? Bloody hell.” He had the decency to look rather shamefaced at the revelation. “I’m afraid my secretary handles the bulk of my correspondence. I shall take him to task for not keeping me aware of the comings and goings of the estate.”
“Yes,” she agreed with feigned sweetness, “you certainly should. I’m quite sure it isn’t as if you merely toss my epistles into the dustbin the instant you recognize my penmanship.”
“I’ve never thrown away a single one of your letters.” Pembroke frowned at her, revealing small furrows next to his eyes. Surely their original source was laughter, she thought, rather than displeasure. A man of his nature spent his days in nothing but self-indulgence and sin.
“Nor have you answered any of them.” Not a single, blessed one. And she had sent many, varying in tone from polite to thoroughly aggrieved. Finally, she had simply stopped writing altogether, recognizing an exercise in futility when she saw one. “Indeed, I daresay you’ve never read them either.”
If bitterness laced her words, there was ample reason for it. She’d been taught well by her mother how to treat her husband. He was to be honored and respected above all. Her proud parents,nouveau richeand not old blood enough for Knickerbocker elite in New York, had gone to great pains to secure an English title for her with their wealth. And secure one they had, such a feather in her cap. The heir to the Duke of Cranley, the very picture of fine, English masculinity. Her mother had returned to New York victorious, determined to follow the same course with her younger daughters.
Victoria had been left alone, mired in the misery of the unwanted. She was no longer an innocent miss who believed her husband cared whether or not she even breathed. He’d dazzled her in the ballroom and then promptly forgotten her on the first day of their honeymoon as he rode back to London and a score of scandalous women.
He sat on the edge of the bed and her gaze slipped to his hands. She recalled too well how they had felt on her body. But those hands had betrayed her, bringing the same forbidden pleasure to countless others in her stead. He caressed the line of her leg beneath the counterpane and she scooted away from his touch.
“I’ve missed you.”
The pronouncement startled a laugh from her. She didn’t trust him. Not one jot. “You’ve arrived in the midst of the night to tell me you missed me? Surely you can think of something more worthy of your silver tongue than that, Pembroke.”
He shrugged as if he hadn’t a care. Perhaps he didn’t. After all, his life was nothing but one long string of balls, opera singers, and whisky-soaked nights. If only she’d realized the sort of man he truly was before becoming his wife, she would have spared herself a great deal of heartache and loneliness. She’d been left an ocean away from her parents and younger sisters, saddled with the duty of a grand and neglected manor and the knowledge that her husband was off reveling in his degenerate life of London decadence.
“I wasn’t aware there were rules for arriving at my own residence.” His hand found her leg again and slid higher, only the barriers of bedclothes and fabric between them. That voice of his was smooth and sinful and deep, putting her in mind of Odysseus and his Sirens. “I know I’ve been remiss.”
His touch wasn’t lost on her. He reached her inner thigh. It would be so easy to give in, allow him to nudge her legs apart, strip away the bedclothes… She had been able to accomplish a great many things during her time at Carrington House, yet she had not been able to become entirely resistant to her husband’s lure. Even now, after months of silence as he betrayed her with half the ladies of London, his caress forced an unwanted trickle of need through her.
Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t fight him.
She slapped at his hand as though he were an offending insect. “You may continue being remiss. I have no wish for your company now or ever.”
He gave her a lazy smile, dimples bracketing his sculpted mouth. “I’m afraid you’re about to suffer a great deal of my company.”
Pembroke was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen on either side of the Atlantic, and the very worst part of this plain truth was that he knew it. He had a knack for flirting, for giving stolen kisses in the shadows of a ball. He had a gift for making women love him. He’d madeherlove him, once, though she’d done her best to bury all traces of that unwelcome emotion in the wake of his desertion. It was still difficult to resist his charm when he deigned to ply it, even if he collected hearts the way some men amassed tomes in a library.
