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 inmedias resto 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.”
