“Verdad,” he said at last. “That is all truth. There is nothing more foolish than fancying I will ever feel anything for you beyond obligation and lust.”
His words found their way beneath her armor, as sharp as spikes, digging into her tender flesh where she was most vulnerable.Obligation and lust, he said so dismissively, but she reminded herself of the way he had touched her this morning, what seemed a lifetime ago.
She recalled the kisses he had placed over her body even though he had denied her lips. She remembered every moment of his tongue on her flesh. Of his fingers working their magic, his mouth on her breasts. Of him, deep inside her. The pleasure he had introduced her to had been the likes of which she had never imagined existed. No man who had merely been slaking his needs, bedding her to get an heir on her, would have gone to such lengths.
He was struggling, fighting to keep his ties to the past and the encumbrance of all his guilt. But she had always been strong. She had needed to be, for her mother, for Monty, for herself. She could be strong for Alessandro. She could fight him back.
What remained to be seen was whether or not she could win him.
She leaned toward him, across the scarred table, as if she were about to impart a great secret. “Was I just an obligation this morning?”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Catriona.”
She was pushing him again, and she knew it. “It is a fair question, is it not?”
Mouth tightening, he signaled for the wench who had been eying him in much the same manner a stray dog watches scraps of meat thrown into an alleyway. The woman returned, casting a dismissive gaze over Catriona before turning all her attention to Alessandro.
“How may I help you, milord?” she asked.
The suggestive tone in her voice was not unnoticed by Catriona.
You may help me by finding the nearest chamber pot and emptying it over your head, she thought disagreeably.
It was small of her, she knew. But it could not be helped.
Her husband brought out the worst in her. Also, she hoped, the best.
“Ale for my companion, if you please,” he said, his gaze still hot and hard upon Catriona.
“Yes, milord.” The serving girl dipped into a curtsy that allowed a view straight down the front of her bodice.
Catriona barely suppressed the fiery need to trip her.
Fortunately, her husband’s eyes remained trained to her. Unfortunately, the warm, brown depths simmered with anger.
She decided to prod him more. “You never did answer my question.”
He took his time responding, lifting his glass to his lips for a lengthy draught. “Your question was impertinent.”
“Or necessary,” she said.
“Impudent,” he returned.
“What manner of woman did you imagine you had wedded?” she asked. “I am the scapegrace sister of a scapegrace.”
He drank more of his ale, his eyes never leaving hers. The way his tongue flicked over his upper lip when he had finished—a slow, torturous half-revolution—was not lost upon her. “I imagined I married the sort of lady who would not shamelessly sit in my lap. The sort of lady who was intelligent enough to understand the manner of union I offered her. A lady who would go to sleep rather than wandering through a public house. The sort of lady who would not wish to place her already tenuous reputation in jeopardy by once more acting in a manner most scandalous.”
“And I imagined I married the sort of gentleman who was not afraid of kissing me on the mouth,” she retorted.
Then instantly wished she could recall her hasty words when she saw the way his mien changed, growing grave and harsh where before he had been coolly engaging.
“Oh,querida. I am not afraid of kissing you,” he said with deceptive softness. “It is merely a distinction I reserve for another.”
His first wife.
How crushing.
Unsurprising, for he had never intimated he had tender feelings for her. Their every interaction thus far had centered on how very unfeeling he was. Which, as it happened, was a blatant lie, and she knew it.
