“The limb is fine. I am well, and it is nothing.” She had lied many times about the state of her leg over the years, and often the falsehood was spoken to assuage the guilt and concern of those surrounding her. This time, she offered up the fib to slake her own pride.
“Come, my lady.” His countenance grew determined and hard, his jaw tense.
He took her hand in his and tugged her over the line separating them. She was now, undeniably, in his domain. Trespassing. Alone and in dishabille with the Marquess of Searle. The notion made her heart pound even if the rational part of her continued to resent him for his impromptu disappearance earlier that day.
It was almost impossible for her to realize, after a life spent according to the dictates of society and propriety, that she could be alone with this man, half-dressed, touching one another intimately, and no one would object. He was her husband, she reminded herself deliriously, even if he did not feel like he was.
Even if he did not behave as if he was.
Leonora told herself it was the distracted state in which she found herself, dogged by the leg cramp, disoriented by waking in a new chamber, left alone on her wedding day, her entire life as she knew it about to change forever…surely all these were reasons why she allowed the marquess to guide her to his bed.
Just her rump upon the edge, and even that felt like a betrayal of her own determination.
“Is it still paining you?” Searle asked, his beautiful face dipping low, so low their foreheads nearly brushed.
He took her breath. Made her forget all her reasons for not liking him and not trusting him. She had given herself a stern talking to whilst she had been left alone, in possession of ample time to sit with her thoughts and ruminate.
But this, Searle’s mouth close enough to touch with hers, his hot breath fanning over her lips, sent all her wits and determination scattering like seeds tossed into a heavy wind.
“Is what still paining me?” she asked, searching his gaze, breathless.
“Your leg,” he elaborated, his voice deep. Hard as his expression. Uncompromising and yet strangely tender as well. Seeking.
Once again, she could not shake the sensation this man was far more than he presented to the world around him.
She swallowed. The cramp, caused by overuse, had already subsided. But for some reason, Leonora wanted this man’s hands upon her far more than she wanted to make that revelation.
“Yes,” she lied.
He was in the bed within heartbeats. His hands settled upon her bare ankle, hard, large, firm, and hot. Claiming her, as if she were already his when she was in name but not in action. “With your permission, my lady, I will attempt to lessen your suffering as I did for you previously.”
She almost laughed aloud at his unexpected reference to the day he had ruined her. And she could not help but to wonder now whether or not he had lessened her suffering or increased it by leading her to the brink of scandal and then wedding her. Perhaps it was a question that would only be resolved with time.
How irregular it was for him to seem concerned by her welfare, attuned to her discomfort, when he could not seem to show her a modicum of affection. He had not even given her a true smile, for the smile he had graced her with before leaving earlier in the day had been a wolf’s smile.
“My lady?” he persisted. “May I?”
His hands had not moved.
“You may,” she allowed, sternly reminding herself she could not—nay,must not—allow him any liberty beyond this until he earned it.
Unerringly, his fingers moved, finding the painful knot of her tight muscle. His thumbs pressed. She could not contain her sigh of relief. Nor did she miss the satisfied smile curving his lips as he cast a glance toward her.
“Improved?” he asked gently.
“Better,” she allowed, frowning at her too-handsome husband and his too-pleased countenance. “You may stop, my lord.”
“What if I do not wish to stop?” As he posed the wicked question, his hands moved higher, touching her left leg only, working her sore muscle. And here, at last, was the inkling of something else. Something deeper and darker than that which he had already deigned to show her.
She had overdone it today, between the ceremony and her seemingly endless preparations, not to mention the introductions that came later when she had arrived at Linley House. She was paying for the grandiosity of her presumption she could carry on without repercussions for one day. Just as he had been for the aftermath of her injudicious lack of propriety at Freddy’s ball, the marquess was once again present to atone for her sins.
But then, thoughts of his absence returned once more, negating any gratitude blossoming within her toward him. She frowned. “If you do not wish to stop, you should not have abandoned your bride on the day you married her, Searle.”
The immediate anguish of her cramp ameliorated, she caught his wrists and tugged his hands away from her willing and needy flesh. How could one man so thoroughly consume and confuse her? He was at the center of all her thoughts, and yet, to look upon him for too long was surely to get burned. Much like the sun.
“And if I assured you I could more than expiate my sins in other fashions?” he queried with deceptive calm, for his voice had taken on an edge.
A promise of the wicked.
