“What of it?” Bainbridge muttered, his mouth so close to her ear that she could feel lips grazing her eager skin.
Had she said that aloud? Devil take it all, she had not meant to. “Your hand,” she murmured instead of explaining.
“Mmm, yes, it is where it belongs.” His tone was easy, low, meant for her ears only. Intimate. He paused before leaning even nearer, his moist breath making her shiver. “Almost.”
The breath fled her lungs. A fresh, familiar ache pulsed at the juncture of her thighs. She wanted his bare touch on her. In her. His fingers, his cock, his mouth, his tongue. Her cheeks burned at the wanton thought, the triggered memory of how he had pleasured her. Of how his tongue had worked over her, how it had felt. How he had felt.
Was it his voice or his wicked words or his nonchalant claiming of her that made her pulse with want and greedy desire? Naturally, he did not remove his hand, and she felt the weight of it, the heat of it, of him, through her elaborate tiers of skirts and petticoats. Felt it to the heart of her. She wanted more than ever to leave the interminable wedding breakfast they were being subjected to, to lead him away so that she could have him all to herself with no audience to interfere.
Chatter surrounded her, her siblings and their spouses making polite conversation. Her parents exchanging pleasantries with Lord Harry, the dowager, and the Duke and Duchess of Cartwright. Servants appeared with a new course, and a steaming dish—les poulardes à la jardinière—was laid before her. Chicken. Heavenly.
She tucked in, the world around her becoming less misty about the edges with each bite she consumed. Her ravenous stomach thanked her new husband for his perspicacity. And there—her ability to choose the correct, multi-syllabic word was surely an indication that she was venturing down the right path. And furthermore that Bainbridge—though she must begin thinking of him always as Spencer now—had been correct in his assessment. She had needed sustenance.
He had been observing, watching her, seeing what she required before she knew it herself. Casting a furtive glance about to be sure no one noticed, she reached beneath the table and closed her hand over his. He turned his palm up, lacing their fingers together, squeezing gently. Up until that moment, he had been cool, detached, aloof and reserved. Even their chaste kiss upon exchanging vows had left her chilled, despite the sparks that tingled through her whenever his mouth met hers.
Here, at last, in their silent bonding over his mother’s despicable behavior, she felt as though they had made progress. She had hope that their marriage could be more than a forced, awkward joining that neither of them had wanted. For if Spencer did not care, he would never have noticed the plates she had left untouched or requested a substitute dish. Nor would he be holding her hand beneath the table as though that raw connection between them was as imperative as a lone rope suspending him over a cliff. But then, she had to admit, she held his hand in the same manner.
The remainders of the courses passed with ease, and at long last the breakfast was at an end. Bo, still somewhat giddy from her overconsumption of wine, hugged her sisters with a most unladylike show of enthusiasm.
She embraced Tia first. “My darling sister, I love you so.”
“As I love you,” Tia murmured into her ear, returning her hug wholeheartedly. “Dearest, that man is halfway in love with you, as he should be. Use it to your advantage. Make him beg. And above all, never forget how beautiful and wonderful you are. Oh yes, and if he dares to so much as make you cry, I will bludgeon him to death with the nearest bluntobjet d’art.”
Bo chuckled, knowing her sister and understanding that it was no idle threat she issued, respectable duchess or no. As for the other portion of her soliloquy—that she could not believe. The Duke of Bainbridge was many things, but halfway in love with Boadicea Harrington was not one of them.
She was grim. “Thank you, Tia. I fervently hope I shall never require your sisterly services.”
Tia raised a brow. “As do I. But never forget the offer. Devonshire would beat him to a pulp without hesitation, you know.”
Spencer was tall and strong and well-muscled—Bo knew this from experience—so she doubted that Tia’s husband could beat him to a pulp, but she appreciated the sentiment. Odd though it was. Bo’s family was nothing if not unconventional. “Thank you, sister.”
Cleo was next, sniffling into Bo’s elaborate updo of braids, coils, and orange blossoms. “You deserve every happiness, Bo. Are you happy?”
She didn’t know the answer to that question, not yet. “I love you,” she said instead, embracing her eldest sister with a heartfelt squeeze. “Thank you for managing my nonsense with grace.”
It was true. She had rather placed a great strain upon Cleo and Thornton with her carelessness, and she knew it. They had borne it all, and here they were. She knew Cleo felt responsible for her having to marry Bainbridge, but she was also more than aware of the role she’d played herself. If she had not wound up in his private library, if she had not been reading a naughty book, if she had never kissed him, she would not be standing here now, dressed in ivory satin trimmed with silk roses and a train as long as the hall, the new Duchess of Bainbridge.
“I will poison his tea if he so much as makes a tear fall from your eye,” Cleo whispered.
“Thank you, but I do not think resorting to murder will be necessary,” she reassured her sister, wondering when her siblings had become so bloodthirsty.
Next, she exchanged stilted embraces with her parents. “I am relieved to see you wed, and a duchess no less,” was all her mother said with a semi-affectionate pat to her back. Bo gratefully accepted genuine embraces from her brothers-in-law, whom she adored for their unparalleled devotion to her sisters. And then, Lord Harry stood before her.
She swallowed, the smile on her lips fading as she took in his grim countenance. “Lord Harry,” she greeted in the same manner she had her other family. “I am honored to consider you another brother.” Particularly since her wayward male siblings had elected not to attend.
It was not what he wanted to hear, and she knew it before his mouth twisted into a self-deprecating half smile. “Indeed. I am honored as well,sister.”
Bo stared at him, stricken. She had suspected he harbored tender feelings for her, but she had not comprehended. He stood before her now with the expression of a man who had been sent to the gallows: accepting of his fate, utterly grim. Indeed, in the intervening time since she had last seen him, he seemed to have aged. He was no longer the man she had initially met, so free to trust and listen, eager to hear her voice. It hurt her heart to think that she was the cause of his pain.
“I am sorry,” she managed.
“No more so than I.” Lord Harry gazed at her, his scrutiny intense. “If he hurts you, he will answer to me. I cannot bear to see history repeat itself.”
Bo’s frown deepened at the statement, as much for the mentioning of her predecessor as for the alarming trend she was beginning to notice. Everyone who cared for her believed that Bainbridge would hurt her. They all supposed she needed their defense, their stalwart protection, and that she ought to heed their dire words of warning. But she was more than capable of looking after herself, just as she had always done. Just as she always would. Becoming the Duchess of Bainbridge did not render her any less capable of being her indefatigable self.
“He will not hurt me,” she assured Lord Harry, careful to keep her voice as quiet as possible.
“Your concern for my wife is most appreciated, brother,” Spencer said then, appearing from behind her to slide a possessive arm about her waist and haul her into his side. His tone suggested that Lord Harry’s words were the antitheses of being appreciated. Indeed, his hard, cold voice suggested that he was furious once more.
