She wanted anything. Everything. Him, his touch, his mouth, his lips, his cock…good heavens, she was awash in sensation, lost. Helpless, her desire overcoming everything.
She stared at their reflections in the glass, a fresh wave of heat overtaking her. The flesh between her thighs was already wet without him even needing to touch her there. “You need not give me a gift because I gave you Caesar. My intention was to please you, not to cozen you into gifting me something in return.”
“This gift has nothing to do with the hound,” he said coolly, but she did not think she mistook the hint of fondness in his voice when he referred to Caesar. “Indeed, I am remiss in not offering it sooner, as it is something which should have been done on our wedding night, in accordance with familial tradition.”
She thought she knew why he had not offered it on their wedding night—first, he had been absent, and then she had been reluctant to allow a wedding night at all to a new husband who had disappeared on the day of their nuptials. But she felt no guilt as she continued to meet his assessing gaze in the glass. Only curiosity. What sort of gift could it be? He had nothing in his hands save her body.
He withdrew his touch, and she almost protested aloud at the loss of him. But she held her tongue, wishing to cling to whatever shred of dignity yet remaining her own, and watched his hands disappear from sight. The rustling of his dressing gown broke the silence that had fallen between them as she presumed, he delved into a pocket secreted in the robe.
His countenance was grave when he extracted something glittering and shining with red and gold. A necklace, she realized, as he settled it upon her neck and fastened the clasp at her nape.
But not just any necklace. This piece was heavy, cold where it settled upon her skin. Fashioned of thick golden flowers with ruby cabochons at their centers, its grand statement was a massive golden bloom bearing an equally large, faceted ruby nestled amongst its petals. She stared in awe at the magnificent piece, stunned by the extravagance of his gift.
“It is the Searle rubies,” he said softly. “A fitting gift now that you are the Marchioness.”
She swallowed, a tremor passing through her at not just the opulence of the gift but the meaning behind it. How incredible a gesture it seemed, coming from this austere man who kept himself so closely guarded. “I cannot possibly accept such an extravagance,” she said, raising a hand to gently stroke the intricately fashioned golden flowers and the immense ruby at the centerpiece in spite of herself.
It was the most stunning necklace she had ever seen, and it seemed to fit upon her neck as if fashioned for that very purpose.Good heavens, she did not even particularly care for jewelry, but this piece was so lovely, she could not help but to admire it.
“You can accept it, and you will,” Searle countered, his tone brooking no opposition. “These belonged to my mother before you, though my father had them reset into this necklace after her death. I confess I cannot fault him for his choice even if I do not like his reasons. She never did care to wear them anyhow. Do they please you?”
Of course they pleased her. How could they not? But there was a story there, hovering in the air, going untold, and she wanted answers. Why had his father reset the necklace after his mother’s death? Had the former marquess been too morose, so swept up in his grief he had lashed out against a family heirloom?
It seemed unlikely.
Through his reflection in the glass, she noted the frown gathering at her husband’s brows and compressing his sensual lips. This necklace troubled him, she thought. Or perhaps not the necklace itself, but the details behind it.
“It is lovely, my lord,” she said softly, realizing belatedly her fingers were still stroking the painstaking craftsmanship evident in the golden flowers.
Now that he had told her they were the Searle family rubies, she knew they were traditionally kept by the marchioness. She could not deny the gift, and neither was it a true gift either, but in contrast, more of an expectation. A burden, perhaps. She wondered again at the story he had not offered to share, the reason why his father had seen the rubies placed in an entirely new setting following the death of his mother. Therein, perhaps, lay the true burden.
“You do not like it,” he said flatly.
“I love the necklace.” Her disavowal came instantly, without thought. But neither could her curiosity be squelched. “Why did your father have it reset?”
“He despised my mother as one would a mortal enemy. She had chosen the setting for the stones herself, having them reworked into something more suited to her taste from the original piece, and he did not wish to be reminded of her in any fashion.”
Her eyes sought his in the glass. This admission seemed torn from him, but she was grateful he had given it to her. “Why did he despise her?”
His lips took on a sardonic twist. “Theirs was an arranged marriage. My mother loved another. My father loved only himself. They wedded to suit their families. He needed her dowry, and her family wished to secure a tract of largely untillable marshland.”
“It seems an untenable trade,” she offered lamely. From his tone and the precious, little information he had shared regarding either of his parents, she could only assume he had not been privileged enough to possess a happy childhood.
Though her mother had been her father’s fifth wife, Papa had been kind and loving toward Leonora. Her parents’ marriage had not possessed any rancor, though Mama had been a good two decades Papa’s junior.
“Far more untenable than one would suppose, given the exchange.” Her husband’s deep voice interrupted her ruminations once more. So, too, his touch, for his fingers were upon the central ruby in the necklace now, stroking as he spoke. “She hated him as well, so do not think her an innocent. The fire and anger between them burned brightly on both their parts.”
“Your mother and father lived in enmity for the entirety of their union?” she asked, though she knew he likely did not wish to speak of his distant past any more than he wished to discuss his far more recent one.
“They lived in bitter hatred,” he said calmly. “Enmity seems far too polite a descriptor.”
She wondered now if part of the reason for his detached manner lay in his childhood, as well. Surely a home in which two people hated each other with such ferocity could not be a happy home for that couple’s children.
“It must have been difficult for you,” she said softly, treading with care. Her eyes met his in the glass, and she held her breath, awaiting his reaction.
“Do not fret for me, madam.” His tone was cool. “There is no difficulty I cannot face.”
She believed his assertion. The Marquess of Searle was a strong man, a living, breathing fortress. But she wanted inside his walls. “Still, a child ought not to bear the weight of his parents’ quarrels.”
