“I had my brother,” he said then, his fingers gliding over the necklace before he settled his entire hand there, cupping her throat gently. “We provided each other with comfort, of sorts.”
She knew from Mama—who possessed an almost uncanny ability to recite Debrett’s—Searle’s elder brother had died shortly after their father’s death. But this was Searle’s first reference to his brother. Progress, perhaps.
“You and your brother enjoyed a friendship, then?” she asked, prodding him because she knew she must. He would give her crumbs when she longed for a laden table.
“We did. George was a good man. A gentleman.” Searle paused, his jaw clenching. “He made an excellent marquess. I was not raised to the task, though Father loved to remind me of my duties to the line, often in the form of a switch. The old marquess was adept at caning. Perhaps it was one of the reasons my mother hated him so. I expect he may have exercised his anger upon her as well. I do recall seeing bruises upon her that her lady’s maid attempted to cover with powder. As a lad, I thought her clumsy. As a man, I have wondered.”
A chill swept through her at the thought of not just what Searle had endured but what his mother had possibly, also. And here, at last, was a revelation from him, but a horrifying, heartbreaking one all the same. “I am sorry, my lord. Sorry for the loss of your brother and the suffering of your past.”
His smile was grim, his hand tightening slightly on her throat. Just a subtle flex, enough to remind her how very much she was at his mercy. “As we have already established, I do not want your sympathy.”
She knew precisely what he wanted from her, and the flesh between her thighs was slick and aching with the same want. But she longed for more from her husband than just passion. She also wanted to know him. To dismantle his defenses.
“Whether or not you want it matters naught,” she told him, resolute. “You have it. I am your wife, my lord. It is my duty to concern myself with you.”
“No,” he said, dipping his head to press a kiss to the left side of her neck. His hand remained on the opposite side, his warmth seeping into her flesh. “It is not your duty to concern yourself with me. Your duties are to bear my children and refrain from cuckolding or embarrassing me publicly. But that is not enough for you, is it? Caring for others is merely in your nature, is it not, my sweet Leonie?” He kissed his way to her ear, sending a trill straight through her. “You are an angel. So perfect, so sweet, caring when you should not, giving when you ought to keep for yourself. You are so good, wife. Too good.Fartoo good.”
His words seemed somehow couched in warning. But she could not question them now, not when his mouth was moving over her bare skin, and his left hand had found her thigh, caressing her there. She struggled to maintain control of her faculties as he wreaked havoc upon her ability to both think and resist him.
Because why would she resist this gorgeous, breathtaking man? Why would she want anything other than his complete domination of her body, his annihilation of her defenses in every way?
The Marquess of Searle was her weakness. He was cold and dark and bitter, scarred and mysterious and remote, and yet, he called to her more than any man ever had. It was not merely that he was her husband. Another could have sufficed for the role. She had wanted children of her own, and that was all. But this man was different. He crawled beneath her skin and made his home somewhere within the fragile boundaries of her heart.
“I am not an angel,” she told him, “and you do not expect enough of your wife if your only requirements consist of no embarrassment and no cuckolding. While it may be useful to convey, I have no wish of committing either of those sins against you, I do feel compelled to suggest my position in your life is far more useful than the duties you have mentioned.”
His hand found the knot at the belt on her dressing gown, plucking it open. The twain ends of her wrapper fell apart, revealing her transparent nightgown. In the looking glass, she saw herself as she supposed Searle may, unbound, white-blonde hair, full lips, wide eyes, breasts too heavy and round, nipples poking through the fabric, a soft belly, and the shadow of the apex of her thighs. Where she hungered for him most.
“I would agree on the last, darling.” His breath was hot in her ear as he spoke. “I do have far more useful tasks for you in mind.”
His gaze was unyielding in the glass, holding her captive, sending a fresh blossom of want straight to her core. She knew what he wanted. Desire altered his expression. Never had she been looked upon with such aggressive possession. The man staring back at her did not just want her. He wanted to devour her.
And she wanted nothing more. Her breath hitched in her throat, her pulse pounding. “What tasks, my lord?”
He pressed a hot kiss to her ear then, enough for her to sense the need building within him, a fire to match the one already burning inside her.
“Is your leg paining you, Leonie?” he asked, taking her by surprise with his thought for her comfort.
The diminutive still felt strange, almost as if it belonged to someone else, yet somehowright. Once again, he was an enigma to her, this man who was cold and aloof yet oddly concerned for her wellbeing. Telling her he did not want her sympathy yet caressing her, holding her throat and yet kissing her ear. He was the juxtaposition of hard and soft.
But she did not require his comfort. Not now, for she bore most of her weight on her uninjured, right limb, helping to alleviate the stiffness and aches. It was a crutch, of sorts, and she used it often. Over the years, she had even discovered how best to stand so the skirts of her gown shielded her weakness. It was only too much walking, standing, and dancing that made the old injury flare.
“My leg does not pain me,” she said finally, forcing herself to speak. Her eyes remained trained to his, lost in those dark, emerald depths. But something else pained her. Rather, it was an ache. An emptiness. A longing. “But I do thank you for your concern for my wellbeing, my lord.”
Suddenly, she could no longer bear the detachment of staring into their reflections. While its novelty inspired a certain hunger within her, she was also tormented by a persistent longing for something more, for something deeper. Perhaps, she thought, this was his way of once more putting a distance between them. After all, it was emotion he did not want—her caring for him, any tender feelings she may possess, were shunned with equal vigor.
“If your leg does not pain you, then why…”
His query trailed off when she abruptly spun in his arms.
“Why what, my lord?” she asked.
“Why did your breath catch?” His question was issued in a deliciously deep timbre that sluiced down her spine, spreading tingles in its wake.
She swallowed. Excellent question, and how to answer without betraying herself? Without making her susceptibility to him apparent?
“My breath did nothing of the sort,” she lied, gazing into the glorious vibrancy of his eyes. How unusual it was for a man to have been blessed with such loveliness. She was sure she had never seen another gentleman with eyes that could compare. Or perhaps it was merely that she had not cared to look closely enough before now.
Which was rather an arresting—and astounding—realization.
