She did not want to ask him to elaborate upon his question. Yet, she could think of nothing but his answer. “What fashions?”
His lips quirked higher, the smile delivering not just smug satisfaction now but sizzling with possibilities. She could not shake the restless feeling that had dogged her from the moment she had first seen the Marquess of Searle. That he was dangerous. More dangerous than she could comprehend.
And she had married him.
“With my lips,” he drawled. Because she had yet to release his wrists—ever the fool, she—he turned his hands so the palms faced the ceiling and his fingers entwined with hers. “And tongue.”
Leonora had never been kissed. Not even by Lord Robert. Her mouth tingled at the marquess’s words. Anticipation licked through her, flaring down her spine and settling between her thighs. A strange, keening ache had begun to blossom there. She felt heavy and needy, and though she was an innocent, she knew what that pooling warmth meant.
Some years ago, she had discovered, whilst lying alone in bed one night, the sensation could be brought to a raging, pleasurable crescendo, and the heaviness and ache would only be satisfied by doing so. She knew she had been sinful, committing such an act of depravity, touching herself there, where her flesh was forbidden, but she had been unable to help herself.
And she had not stopped. She knew how she liked to be touched, what would make the pinnacle break over her like a wave hitting a shore and splitting into a thousand tiny, beautiful directions.
Even now, lying before her husband of one day, she could not suppress the thought of guiding his knowing hands to her, bringing him between her thighs. He could alleviate the pressure and the need. After all, he was the source of it. She felt quite sure.
“You must not,” she found the strength to protest at last, shocked by her own vulgar urges.
His eyes glittered with an indefinable emotion, boring into hers with expert precision. He must have read something of her thoughts in her countenance, for his own expression changed, his lips parting, nostrils flaring. “Are you curious now?”
Curious, yes.But she must not allow her inner yearning to trump her determination to keep him firmly at bay. “I would have been curious if you had not fled the moment the introductions to your servants were completed. Now, I am afraid, I merely wish to find my bed and get some rest.”
Her voice was a traitor, breathless and low, giving her away.
And Searle did not miss it, for his grin only deepened. “Liar,” he charged softly. “Admit it. You are curious, regardless of my actions earlier today.”
She shook her head, loathing herself for being so easily read, resenting him for being correct. Irritated with herself for the lack of resistance to this man. He was not the first handsome lord she had seen in all her years on the marriage mart. “No.”
He raised her hands to his lips for a kiss, first one, then the other. “The truth, my lady. I begin to think there is far more to you than you have previously allowed me to see.”
If that was the case, surely it was because he had not bothered to spend time with her over the handful of weeks following their ignominious display at Freddy’s ball. They had waited for the banns to be read, and then they had wed. In the interim, he had taken her for a drive in his curricle once. He had paid a call lasting no longer than five minutes one afternoon, and he had danced with her at one more ball.
If he did not know her, the fault was his alone. She summoned all her courage to tell him so. “Perhaps you have not attempted to seek it.”
“And perhaps I wish to do penance for the sin of failing to court you properly.” His jaw was clenched.
“Do not forget the sin of failing to acquaint me with my new home.” She could not resist reminding him tartly.
His eyebrows rose, dark arches inching up his otherwise flawless, high forehead. Every part of him was perfect, from his handsome face to his elegant air. She, on the other hand, was a limping spinster, surely a burden to him. The woman he had no doubt reluctantly taken as his wife.
But although she knew she ought to be grateful, he had made her his marchioness, and given her hope she may one day bear the children she so desperately longed to have, she could not seem to stop baiting him. Something had happened to her. She was changing. Altering. She was a new Leonora. The bravery slipping from her lips was perhaps foolhardy, but necessary.
For most of her life, she had been pitied and ostracized, and she had allowed it. She had sat on the periphery with Mama and her atrocious turbans, knowing no one would ever ask her to dance or seek her hand. But now, someone had.
Still, she was no longer the Leonora who waited on the edge of life, too tentative to live it. Even if having a husband was nothing like what she had imagined it would be for all those years of yearning and hoping. Rather, it was like living with a wild creature. She knew not what to expect. Knew not whether he would run at the slightest provocation, if he would allow her to pet him, if he would bite.
The notion tickled her sense of humor, and she could not quite squelch the sudden, inappropriate burst of laughter rising in her throat at the thought of the Marquess of Searle facing her like some feral wolf. It suited him so.
“You do indeed possess untold depths, my lady.” His tone, like his gaze as it traveled over her from the roots of her hair to her toes in one scorching pass, was wry.
She tugged her hands free of his grasp and slid from his bed, her feet touching the luxurious softness of carpet. “Unfortunately, I also possess a strong need to get my rest. I am heartily glad you have returned this evening, my lord. Perhaps tomorrow we may begin again?”
He stared at her, a muscle in his jaw flexing.
Good heavens, he was so powerful and predatory. Leonine, really. Far more regal than a wolf. Yes, the exotic, hazardous beast seemed the perfect likeness.
Her lion, she thought foolishly. If only she might tame him.
“I bid you good evening, my lord,” she said boldly into the silence he had yet to answer.
