“I think you hoped I was asleep so you would not have to see me again,” she told him frankly, abandoning the care she had used when she had spoken to him earlier in the day.
“On the contrary.” He reached between them, his fingers grazing her jaw. Just a glancing, gentle touch, but it made her heart leap, nonetheless. “You are all I wish to see.”
“Pray, do not lie to me.” She could not bear it.
No more false charm. No more flattery. The weakest part of her had wanted to believe him at Freddy’s ball. The part of her that had hungered for a husband and a family of her own, for someone who would look upon her and not see a weakness but instead a great strength, had fooled her into believing the Marquess of Searle could be that man.
He had told her, over the course of the last few weeks, with each interaction, every word and deed, he was not the man she sought. He was, however, the man she had married, and the both of them needed to make their peace with their new situation.
“I am sorry to burden you with an infirm wife, my lord.” She swallowed, summoning her arguments and her strength. Leonora had lived most of her life with the consequences of her limitations, but though she had long grown accustomed to them, she still remained resentful of their existence.
“You are not,” he countered firmly, “my burden, but my prize.”
When an odd assertion for him to make. She had never felt less like a prize than she did now, standing awkwardly before the man who had married her, more uncertain of herself than when she was seated at the periphery of the ballroom. At least when she could watch others enjoying themselves, she had ample distraction. So, too, the comfort of the familiar. But this was different, for she was the object of this enigmatic man’s blistering attentions, and she had nowhere else to look. No other cause for diversion.
Nor had she ever been a wife before. Nothing about this day, this moment, this man, was comforting or familiar. He set her on edge. Made her feel as if she could not trust herself. Made her feel small.
“Surely not a prize.” The smile on her lips was bitter, and she knew it. “I am certain you did not envision a wife who cannot walk unimpeded.”
“You are the only wife I want,” he said intently.
So intently, she believed him. But she could not shake the impression he was leaving something out, withholding something from her. If he wanted her for his wife, why did he remain so aloof? Was it the horrors he had faced as a soldier, which he had alluded to earlier in the day?
She inhaled slowly, trying to find her place. “I find that declaration difficult to believe indeed. But nevertheless, we are bound inextricably now. We must make the best of our circumstances.”
“Not completely bound,” he reminded her. His green eyes darkened. “Not yet.”
Oh, he was a beautiful sight to behold, it was sure. The Marquess of Searle was a towering wall of a man, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, dark hair styled in loose waves, face more handsome than any man deserved, mouth fashioned to make all women swoon.
But she would not be one of them. After all, he had married her and then disappeared. “Not ever if today is to be any indication of the future.”
Dear heavens, was that her own voice?
She could scarcely credit it.
But she most certainly would not rescind it.
A slow and steady smile curved that sensual mouth. His eyes glittered in the low light. “Is that a challenge, Lady Searle?”
What was it about the manner in which his deep, seductive baritone called herLady Searlethat made her body hum with awareness?
She tipped up her chin, a newfound defiance surging through her. She would not grow weak for him. Not now. Not ever. Though their union had been founded in an avoidance of scandal rather than because of tender feelings, she would not be mistreated. She had wanted a husband and family of her own, yes, but not at the expense of her dignity.
“That is apromise, Lord Searle.”
His expression shifted then, softening somehow. “I had previous engagements this evening, my lady.”
“Engagements which could not have been moved to a day other than your wedding day?” she asked.
She knew theirs was an odd and hastened arrangement, but every bride deserved her husband’s attention on the day she married. Most could expect a honeymoon. At the very least, a trip to a country estate. Instead, she had been rebuffed, foisted upon the kindly Mrs. Arbuthnot, whose pity had been apparent in every pinched line of her round visage.
A muscle in Leonora’s calf chose that moment to tighten and spasm, causing pain to slice through her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but it was too late to recall her sudden inhalation.
“Your injury,” he diagnosed grimly.
She flexed her foot, attempting to subdue her natural inclination to wince. “It is nothing.”
“It is something,” he countered, “else you would not have reacted in the manner you did.”
