“Yes, sir?” asked his stalwartaide-de-camp.
“Shut up,” he said succinctly, for he had heard quite enough. He hardly needed an accounting of all the manners in which he had proven himself hopelessly enamored of his new wife.
Was it her cunny?
Yes, surely that was it.
She possessed a magical cunny. It had cast a spell upon him.
“Mrs. Decker is a lovely woman,” Macfie ventured. “I cannae blame ye, sir.”
Having his most-trusted man describe Jo as lovely yet again did nothing to improve Decker’s mood.
He glared at the man. “Macfie, you do recall the conversation we had concerning your eyebrows, do you not?”
Macfie’s expression went grim. “Ye promised ye wouldnae threaten them again.”
“Let that be fair warning to you, Macfie. I cannot be trusted to uphold my promises. Not when they concern my wife and your eyebrows.” Decker was silent for a moment as he realized how that had sounded. Then, he cleared his throat. “Not that I mean to say my wife has anything to do with your eyebrows, or that she has designs upon your eyebrows…”
He trailed off, realizing he was only digging his own verbal grave deeper by the moment.
“Mr. Decker?” Macfie raised both bushy red brows in question.
“Yes?” it was his turn to snap, his ears going hot.
“I think it is a verra wonderful thing, tae be smitten with yer lady,” the brawny Scotsman told him.
Bloody hell.Now, his cheeks were hot, too. “I am not smitten with Mrs. Decker.”
Right.Who was he trying to fool? He wascompletelysmitten with his wife.
And her magical cunny.
And her ravishing lips.
And her beautiful bubbies, so pale and smooth.
Not to mention her laughter, her smile, her clever sense of humor, those exquisitely responsive nipples of hers…
Glaring at Macfie, he stalked from his office.
“I will not be returning today, Macfie,” he called over his shoulder. “Do not expect me.”
Hisaide-de-camp’s laughter followed him as he made a hasty exit from his offices.
In the carriage, he found the cream ice as promised—strawberry—and the ice packed tightly around it in reasonably good shape despite the warmth in the carriage. As his driver delivered him back to his townhome on Grosvenor Square—an address so chosen to disturb the peers who looked down their noses at him—Decker told himself he had not spent each of the days since marrying Jo caught up in her.
And then he depleted another few minutes arguing with himself that he needed to find other means of distraction. His club, for instance, which he had abandoned following his nuptials. Yes, he ought to go there. Some time away from Jo would be revitalizing. Restorative. The means by which he could end this unfortunate hold she had upon him.
But by the time his carriage arrived at his home, he found himself clutching the pail of cream ice like a loyal servant about to make a delivery to his mistress. And he found himself imagining where he would find her. The music room? The library? The salon she favored as her sitting room?
He leapt to the pavements before the carriage had reached a complete stop, so eager was he to meet her. Decker did his best not to jog up the walk. He was greeted at the door by his redoubtable butler.
“Where is Mrs. Decker?” he asked without preamble.
Yes, he had lost all his pride. Swallowed it down. He told himself it was his cock doing the talking, this incessant need for her that was driving him to distraction.
“She is not at home, sir,” Rhees told him, utterly devoid of expression.
