Morgan woke witha thudding head and a stinging sense of guilt in his gut, just as if he had spent the previous day drinking and wenching himself to oblivion. Only, he had not done anything of the sort. Or, rather, he had done no drinking but he had done more than his fair share of wenching. Oddly, the wenching had been of the proper sort. With his wife.
Early morning light pierced his chamber as remembrance washed over him.
He had not just consummated his marriage the previous afternoon after his wife had returned from making her calls—and like an utter savage, he could admit to himself if no one else—but he had then fallen asleep with her in his bed. And he had been plagued by the same nightmares that had been terrorizing him since his return with unpredictable efficacy.
Sometimes, he would go weeks without suffering a bout. Other times, he would become helplessly caught in the throes of them, unable to sleep for days on end for fear of reliving what had happened to him in Spain. Last night, after he had bedded his wife for the first time and fallen into a sated stupor, he had found slumber only for the dreams to return with an aggression that had provoked him beyond reason.
Trapped in the darkness of his demons, he had not realized who the presence alongside him was until he was already straddling Leonora beneath him, pinning her wrists over her head. It had been a shameful moment of weakness. An embarrassing display of his inability to control not just the memories of what had happened to him but his mind since he had returned to England as a free man.
More signs he would never break free of the chains binding him.
Exhaling on a sigh of disgust aimed at himself alone, he rolled to his side to find she was still here. Still in his bed, her white-blonde curls fanned over a pillow, her face in sweet, angelic repose. The bedclothes had sagged to reveal one ripe, luscious breast.
All he wanted to do was suck that nipple deep into his mouth, roll her onto her back, and take her again, just as he had once more in the night.
But he was more lucid now than he had been in the blackest hours of the early morning, neither light nor rational thinking between them, and he knew she could not sustain another round. Not when she had just been bedded for the first time the day before. And she deserved more, this luscious, giving beauty he had made his. He was using her for revenge, using her body for his own gratification, and she was asking for nothing in return.
Part of him wanted to wake her with a kiss, the sort of sweet peck lovers might share, laden with promise but free of pressure. But such a kiss would be indicative of a weak man. Of a man who did not intend to use her as his means for vengeance. And so, he rolled away from her, left the bed, and quietly stalked across the chamber to complete his morning ablutions and dress himself.
He left her without a backward glance.
*
“My lady.”
Leonora jolted awake, blinking at the hazy, sideways apparition hovering over her. It took a moment for her sleepy eyes to settle, for her mind to regain an awareness of her own body. She was lying on her stomach, face buried in a soft pillow that smelled like the marquess. She was even sorer now than she had been the previous night, the place between her legs tingling with a newfound awareness. Her mouth was open, and she was horrified to discover she had been drooling into her husband’s pillow.
On a moan partially wrought from embarrassment and partially from all the sore muscles in her body crying out in protest when she moved, she swiped at the wetness on the corner of her lips. Moving was painful. She was tired, and she felt so lovely precisely where she was, buried within the luxurious bed linens.
“My lady?” Hill, her lady’s maid, prodded again in a tentative voice.
Leonora turned her head slightly, so Hill’s face was visible. She did not think herself capable of speech at the moment. “Mmm?”
It occurred to her then, to wonder why her lady’s maid was here in Searle’s chamber, and furthermore, to wonder where her husband was. Leonora was alone in his massive bed. Stifling a yawn, she stretched like a lazy cat sunning itself on a summer day.
And promptly realized she was nude.
Her cheeks heated.
“My lady, his lordship directed me to come here to you,” Hill said calmly, as though Leonora was not lying about in her husband’s bed, the rumpled bedclothes and her dishabille shameful evidence of what she had spent yesterday afternoon and evening doing.
Dear heavens, they had not even taken dinner. What must the servants think of her? What must Hill think of her?
“His lordship also indicated you would wish a bath, which I have drawn for you and perfumed with your favorite scent.”
A warm bath did sound divine, but there remained a great deal of questions which had gone unanswered.
Namely, where was his lordship? How long had she slept? When could she kiss him again?
With great effort, she forced her seemingly boneless body into a sitting position, holding the covers to her breasts as if they were a shield. Of course, she had been unclothed before her lady’s maid on innumerable occasions, but somehow this time seemed different.
It seemed wicked, even if it was not. Well, perhaps some of it had been wicked…
Her cheeks flamed all over again. “Where is his lordship, Hill?”
“I cannot say, my lady.” Hill’s countenance was expressionless as ever. “He sent for a carriage some time ago.”
The news pierced the delirious fog of lovemaking that had infected in her mind. Here she was, mooning over him, lolling about in his bed, and he had gone without so much as a word. Somehow, she had imagined today would be different than all the others that had come before it as the Marchioness of Searle.
