His butler, Huell, appeared, unsmiling as ever. “My lord, Lady Searle has returned from her social calls.”
At. Bloody. Last.
Clenching his jaw, he stood. “Thank you, Huell.”
He had inquired after whether or not his wife had returned from her visit to Mrs. Duncan Kirkwood on no less than five separate occasions already. Finally, no doubt growing impatient with Morgan’s repeated interruptions, Huell had taken it upon himself to keep Morgan apprised of his wife’s whereabouts.
His butler bowed and retreated.
Morgan stalked into the main hall, irritated to discover it was already empty. All that remained was the sweet floral trail of her scent, the sole sign she had ever traversed the polished boards so recently. It lingered like a ghost.
But this time, he would not allow her to escape. This time, he would seek her out. Before his mind had even processed coherent thought, Morgan’s feet were already eating up the space separating him from his wife. He took the last stairs two at a time, took the second-floor hall at a canter, and slipped into his apartments.
She was likely in her chamber, changing or perhaps preparing to attend to her correspondence. He had made a great effort not to force his presence upon her thus far in their fledgling marriage. But the time of exerting his patience and waiting had rapidly drawn to an end. He had no more freedom to be gracious. Leonora needed to face him, to understand she was his wife now, inextricably so.
He had been hoping she would soften. Perhaps even meet him halfway.
But he could not wait any longer. He had to act.
Morgan opened the door and crossed the threshold, stepping over the invisible line which had separated him from his wife for the last seven days. She was within, for he smelled the sweetness of her scent before he saw her, in the midst of changing her gown with the aid of her lady’s maid.
Leonora froze when her gaze settled upon him, and so did the domestic assisting her.
“My lord,” said his wife, her frosty tone proof he had yet to redeem himself in her eyes.
When she discovered the truth, he would be incapable of redeeming himself, so it was a moot point if she already found him hopeless.
“My lady.” He bowed, sending a meaningful glance toward the woman tending her.
The lady’s maid instantly curtsied and excused herself with such haste he was surprised she did not stumble over the hem of her gown.
He waited for the door to close completely before further advancing upon his wife. Upon hisscantilyclad wife. His gaze trailed over her form, savoring her, for she wore nothing more than a chemise and stockings. And as his gaze lingered over the delectable swell of her bosom, her nipples hardened into tight little buds that taunted him through her creamy linen. The pink tips were a tormenting silhouette beneath the gossamer fabric. His hands itched to grip the neckline and tear, exposing her to him. His mouth longed to suck.
Holy God, he could barely withstand the crushing weight of desire slamming into him. The mound between her legs was almost completely visible, another, equally alluring shadow his mouth and hands wanted to explore.
Leonora laced her fingers together, clasping them at her waist in a gesture he had already come to realize signified she was about to wage war. “What do you require of me, my lord?”
So many things.
So many deliciously wicked, filthy things.
Beginning with that sweet mouth of hers open to receive his…
Damnation.He forced his lust aside, willing his rampant erection to abate. Instead, he sought his voice. “The time has come, my lady.”
Was it his imagination, or did her lips pinch? Did a small groove appear between her brows where none had previously existed?
She swallowed, and there was no mistaking the action. “For what has the time come, my lord?”
“Morgan,” he corrected her. Initially, he had been concerned that urging her to refer to him by his Christian name would lull them both into a false sense of familiarity.
Now, he no longer cared. He was desperate to make her his. And not just because of his quest to gain revenge upon her half-brother, if he were brutally honest with himself. Rayne did not matter here.
Rather, the ferocity of his need for her was a force all its own. It was beating inside him like the pulse of a heart, and he could not deny it any longer. He wanted her. The woman he had married was beautiful and imperfect and caring and good. She was not afraid to defy him. She did not falter when it came to maintaining her pride, and neither did she falter when it came to living her life. She suffered from pain—he knew she must—and yet, she never complained. Nor did he note the slightest inclination of her feeling sorry for herself.
He wanted her body. He wanted her heart. He wanted her soul. Every part of her, all she had to give, but he somehow knew instinctively not even that would be enough. He was ravenous, starving, and only she could fill the void. He had to have her.
Now. Right bloody now.
