“You’re most welcome.” He reached for the characters then, catching the sheaf of papers in his long fingers. His other hand circled her wrist in a firm but demanding clasp. “Let’s leave off the characters for today, though, shall we?”
“But my lord, you haven’t a housekeeper.” She felt obliged—as a woman of reason and the new lady of the household both—to point out the failings of his staff. “I’ve had it from the Cook that his kitchen is woefully inadequate. You’re in need of at least half a dozen maids and just as many footmen.”
He shrugged with studied indifference. “I don’t give a damn about the servants at the moment.”
Some stubborn part of her refused to relinquish the characters to him. Her fingers clenched on them with determination. “But you ought to, Julian. Your household is in dire need of proper, well-trained servants. You must realize your sisters should not be subjected to the presence of servants who are so depraved that they engage in relations in your library.”
His smile deepened. “And you must realize my sisters are not like most well-bred young ladies? You’ve spoken with them, yes? Their parents were sinners. Their brother is the worst sinner of them all.”
Yes, Lady Josephine and Lady Alexandra were undeniably different from every other aristocratic young lady she’d ever met, with the possible exception of her best friend Bo. But the reminder of Ravenscroft’s past sins didn’t sit well with her. It made all the muscles in her body tighten, as if in anticipation of a blow. What was that other, foreign sensation swirling within her? Certainly not jealousy? Definitely not possessiveness.
For he was not truly hers.
Nor was she his.
They were two people bound by an odd concoction of duplicity and necessity, of needs and wants, danger and longing. There was no love between them. Nothing but desire.
But she didn’t like the derision that always colored his tone when he spoke of his past. He was so much more than the sum total of the things he’d done. “You mustn’t speak ill of yourself. I won’t allow it.”
His thumb rubbed a slow, delicious circle on her inner wrist. Sparks of heat shot up her arm and radiated throughout her body. “Whatwillyou allow, little dove?”
Everything, some wanton part of her wanted to say. Her breath froze for a beat, a scorching wash of heat flooding her. The sensitive flesh between her thighs where he’d once stroked her ached. And she knew instantly what he was about. He finally meant to claim her.
Belatedly, she realized she’d released the characters to him. That was how much power he could wield over her. He made her give in, and she didn’t even notice until he was carefully placing his spoils upon a nearby table. “Why did you call for me, Julian?”
The flippancy leached from his expression, replaced by concentrated solemnity. “You don’t think I called you here to read over the references for chamber maids, do you, love?”
No. Of course she didn’t. But that didn’t mean she was prepared for the consummation of their marriage. When she’d told him she would be his wife in truth, she’d been weak, her heart and mind a confused jumble. He’d been wounded. He hadn’t been strong and leonine and half-dressed, gazing at her as if he could already see her naked before him.
She needed time. She needed space. She needed to leave the chamber and put the safety of a locked door between them. Her heart pounded against her breast. He hadn’t even touched her beyond the maddening circling of his thumb, and already she was about to fly out of her skin.
“It’s too soon,” she protested.
His lips quirked. His other hand came to rest on her waist. “You needn’t be nervous with me, little dove.”
Was he mad? Of course she needed to be nervous. No man in her acquaintance had ever been able to wear down her defenses—to storm her battlements and overtake her castle—the way he did. And with an effortless ennui that suggested everything was a game to him.
She had to dissuade him. Surely this sort of thing was commonly done in the dark. “It’s the morning.”
He hauled her up against him in one quick tug, crushing her breasts to his hard chest. “So it is.”
Her hands flitted to his shoulders, disarmingly broad and strong. “Your sisters.”
His lips were so near that they almost brushed hers. “The bloody minxes are amply entertained for the day. I’ve arranged for them to go shopping with my elderly dragon of a great aunt. She disapproves of me most wholeheartedly but she approves of your fortune a great deal, as it turns out.”
His dry pronouncement wrung a reluctant laugh from her. She didn’t want to find humor in anything he said. Didn’t want to soften toward him. Didn’t want to allow him to make her any weaker than he already had. But wasn’t that the way things had been between them from the start? He’d been able to undo her from the moment she’d stepped foot in his study. Nothing had changed except that she was now his wife. Not just in name only, for she’d agreed to more. She’d agreed to everything.
And she wanted everything. But she was also terrified of it.
“It’s not my fortune any longer,” she forced herself to say. There was comfort and familiarity in dialogue. Perhaps she could distract him. Perhaps she could distract herself. “It’s yours now.”
“It’s ours.” His tone was as gentle as his touch as he swept a stray wisp of hair from her cheek. “We’ll build a life together, Clara. Starting today.”
A life together.
How odd to hear those words coming from a hardened rake such as he. At times tender, at times scorching in his sensuality, he never failed to surprise her. But while his pronouncement may have otherwise met with cautious pleasure, they also served as a reminder that his life had recently nearly been taken. The thought chilled her as nothing else could.
She searched his fathomless gaze. “Have you forgotten that someone tried to kill you, my lord?”
