Husband, yes, there was that. He was married. The parson’s mousetrap had snapped upon him. The impending horror that ought to have accompanied these thoughts was strangely absent for now. And they did nothing to abate the irritatingly rigid state of his cock.
“Thank you,” she returned softly, giving him a smile that also did nothing to quell his rampant erection, for it called attention to the plush invitation of her lips.
He caught a whiff of orange blossom and jasmine as she resumed arranging her selections on her plate with dainty precision. Two things occurred to him then, in rapid succession. One, he was gawking at his wife. Mooning over her as if he had never seen a woman.Vomitus.Two, his servants were bearing witness. One of them—a footman named Dawkins—had been smirking until he caught Decker’s stare upon him and hastily banished all expression from his countenance.
Wise decision, you smug prick.
Decker turned his attention back to the impressive selection his chef had provided, presumably in an effort to please his new mistress. Without a care for what he was choosing or the quantities, he began to heap foodstuffs upon his plate. His mind was whirling, and his cock was aching, and neither of these two states were conducive to his having a productive day.
Before he knew it, his plate was towering with bacon and sausage and nothing else. There was no space for eggs or the luscious-looking hothouse pineapple and strawberries.
Damnation. He was going to have a gut full of meat.
But there was no help for it. Inwardly stewing at his ridiculous reaction to this morning, he stalked to his customary place. Jo was already there, awaiting him.Nothing has to change, he repeated to himself as he settled into his chair. His coffee was prepared just as he liked it, awaiting him. His newspaper was ironed and ready.
He flipped to the State of Trade section, as usual. The price of coal was down. The cotton market was lackluster. His eyes wandered over railroad shares. He felt Jo’s stare on him like a touch. He flicked his gaze to her, finding her watching him expectantly.
Well, bloody hell.Did she want to converse?
“I spend my mornings reviewingThe Times,” he explained. “It is imperative, as a businessman, that I keep apprised of all the comings and goings of the world.”
Her lush lips compressed. “Of course, Mr. Decker.”
Ah, she was nettled. Shedidwant to converse.
He lowered the paper to the table. “Nomister, my dear. Decker will continue to do.”
“Hmm,” she said, before beginning to methodically cut the wedges of pineapple on her plate into smaller, bite-sized portions.
Each delicate clink of the cutlery on her plate nettled him.
Her silence said more than her words could, and he did not like it. However, he had his morning routine for a reason. It settled him. This was the manner in which he began his day, every day. He would not alter it because he had a wife. Just as he would not alter any part of himself. He was the same man he had always been.
He picked upThe Timesand resumed reviewing the reports. The Exchange on Paris was on the rise. His attention wandered, and he was briefly distracted about an article concerning an explosion on Her Majesty’s shipInflexible. Someone was outraged about something Lord Randolph Churchill had said. A case of poisonous cream ices in Lambeth-walk…
He snapped the newspaper closed once more, irritated with himself for his distraction. His wife was calmly consuming her breakfast. She paused when he lowered the paper, her dark eyebrows lifting in question.
“Is something amiss, Mr. Decker?” she asked in her sweet, dulcet voice.
Yes, something is amiss, he wanted to holler.You are intruding upon my life.
But of course she was, wasn’t she? He had married her. She lived here now. She had every right to have expectations of him. Somehow, in all the fantasies he had entertained during the time he had waited to marry her, he had never envisioned anything other than fucking her until he had effectively excised her from his blood. He had not thought about sharing the breakfast table with her or—good God—hosting social events. Would she want to throw balls and dinner parties? Would she expect him to speak to her during breakfast?
“Of course not,” he said smoothly, breaking himself free of his thoughts. He cast a glance toward the servants dancing attendance upon them. “That will be all for now, if you please. I will ring when our meal is complete, thank you.”
He waited for the footmen to depart before turning his full attention to Jo.
“Why the devil do you keep referring to me as Mr. Decker?” he demanded. “Is this some sort of nonsense you insist upon doing before the servants? If so, I can assure you, my domestics are amply recompensed for their service. They do not give a damn if you call me Mr. Decker or Decker or Elijah or Eli or Adam for that matter.”
“Mr. Decker seems like the sort of man who would ignore his new wife in favor of burying his face inThe Times,” she returned.
Curse it, he had been correct. She hadexpectationsof him. He ought to have warned her not to waste her time.
Instead, he raised a brow. “Have I displeased you already? That was a remarkably short amount of time.”
In truth, he was unaccustomed to what followed his liaisons. In the past, he had always made it clear to his lovers what they could expect of him: one night of senseless shagging. That was all. Not since Nora had he been so available to a woman in the way he now was with Jo. He had never broken his fast with lovers.
But Jo was not just any lover, was she?
