“Sebastian,” he corrected Miss Vanreid gently.
Not Miss Vanreid, he reminded himself. For she was his wife now, even if their union wasn’t real or meant to last. He couldn’t very well think of her as his duchess, could he? Daisy, he decided. A flower that symbolized innocence. How ironic.
“Sebastian,” she echoed, her color deepening. Her clasped fingers tightened until her knuckles protruded in stark relief. “Should I ring for the lady’s maid to aid in my… preparation?”
Either she could rival the greatest actress to ever tread the boards, or she was every bit as innocent as her namesake. In matters of the flesh, if nothing else. “There’s no need to ring for her now. I have no intention of consummating the marriage.”
Her wide, sensual lips fell open in surprise, her golden brows snapping together. “You don’t?”
“No.” Every base, uncouth instinct in his body thundered for him to go against his better judgment. To take her in his arms and taste that pliable mouth once more. To find the hidden buttons on her bodice and slide them from their moorings. To strip away all her layers until every inch of her soft, sweet flesh was revealed to him. To finish the plundering he’d begun in the moonlight.
His cock went completely rigid at the images such unworthy thoughts produced. Good Christ. This was not part of the bloody plan. Why did she have to be so damnably tempting?
Her expressive face betrayed her confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“We need time to get to know each other,” he elaborated. “The unusual haste with which our nuptials took place has robbed from us the chance to court.”
“You wish to court me?” She stared at him. Her gown heightened the emerald hue of her eyes. The fingers that had been laced so tightly together now plucked at her skirts, adjusting the fall of silk over her crinoline dress shaper. Some of her signature bravado returned. Here was the woman who had dared him to take his turn. “Have you taken a woman to bed before, Your Grace?”
He nearly swallowed his tongue. Jesus. She thought him a virgin? He didn’t bloody well kiss like a virgin. And just what sort of woman asked such an insulting, prying sort of question? His skin felt unaccountably hot. Dear Lord, he couldn’t possibly be flushing, could he? A gentleman didn’t blush.Hedidn’t blush, goddamn it.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, though I daresay this isn’t proper discourse for… husband and wife. In a marriage, it’s best to leave the past where it belongs.”
Referring to them as such, a married pair, made his entire body tighten. It sounded so intimate. In truth, itwasintimate. A man couldn’t be closer to any other woman. And yet, their marriage was a lie. Everything about it was false. He had to remind himself. She stood before him, his for the taking. And yet he could not have her.
Ought not to want her.
Wanted her with a fiery desperation anyway.
“Forgive me if I’ve insulted you,” she said then. “Gentlemen do not frequently act with honor toward me. I’ve cultivated a reputation, you understand.”
Her admission had him clenching his jaw so tightly that his teeth hurt. What man had dishonored her? He wanted to feed any bastard who had touched her his teeth. But of course, he hadn’t the right. And it was ludicrous to entertain such a feeling of primeval possession. She wasn’t his. Not truly. Nor would she ever be.
He tamped down the primitive emotions surging through him. “Daisy.”
“I don’t mean to suggest that my reputation is anything but a reputation,” she prattled on. “I… I have kissed a few suitors, and I don’t deny it. I do realize what you must think of me, but I was desperate to escape the marriage my father wanted for me. I would have done anything, even marrying a man I scarcely know.”
Brilliant. She thought him a virgin, and she’d only agreed to marry him to escape being shackled to Breckly, her father’s choice. How grim. His mind and body were at odds, scrambling for control. The thought of another man kissing her, the recollections of the times he’d spied her in the arms of her suitors, made him want to thrash them all. No one should kiss her but him, damn it.
Ridiculous thought. Foolish to even entertain such idiocy. He couldn’t shake it. The notion clung to the deepest part of him, a part he’d buried beneath years of exhaustive work for the League. Years of never allowing anyone close. It wasn’t just that she was his wife. It was that she washis. He knew it in his bones.
He took a step closer to her. Then another. Her warm scent enveloped him fully: bergamot, vanilla, ambergris, andDaisy. His fingers itched to take the pins from her hair, relieve it from its careful braids, to see it cascade in silky waves down her back. His mouth longed to feel the soft heat of hers beneath it.
This was dangerous territory indeed. He wasn’t supposed to want her. Wasn’t supposed to touch her or take her. But he was only a man, after all. And she had pushed him. Very far. Perhaps over the brink.
He caught her waist and hauled her against him. Her hands settled on his shoulders, her eyes even wider. So green. The green of moss in early spring. So beautiful.
“Are you suggesting you only agreed to this marriage to escape a match with Viscount Breckly?” he demanded.
“N-not entirely.”
“Why did you marry me, Daisy?” He hungered for an answer. A truthful answer. Maybe he could rattle her. Rattle the both of them. He didn’t like the idea of harboring an enemy of England beneath his roof.
Or of wanting said enemy beneath him.
She blinked. “You asked.”
He couldn’t control his body. Couldn’t stop himself from cupping her lovely face, swiping his thumb over her lower lip. “The truth, Daisy.”
