By the time they reached his chamber, Helena was breathless from a combination of exertion and Huntingdon himself.Drat him, drat him, drat him.
She managed to close the door at their backs. The warm glow of the lamps bathed his apartments, illuminating the strange new territory. For a moment, the realization hit her. She had never been in a man’s private room, aside from Lord Algernon Forsyte, and then he had not been present. Only Huntingdon had.
But that had been different. She had been a bundle of anxiety, needles, and pins. Nervous about what she had been about to do. And then, it had all been for naught. The sole man in attendance had been Huntingdon himself.
Being in his chamber now was different. Far more intimate. Because he was her husband, and he was at her side, still kissing her throat. Dear sweet Lord and all the angels above, was that histongue?
Yes, yes it was. And it was marvelous, curse him.
“You taste better than the finest dessert.” He kissed her ear again. “Everywhere.”
Everywhere?
She thought of the moment he had slid his knowing fingers inside the slit of her drawers. When he had touched her in the lady’s withdrawing room.There.
“I tasted my fingers that night,” he said, seeming to read her thoughts.
Helena’s cheeks were ablaze. “My lord, you must not speak such improper thoughts.”
He licked the sensitive hollow behind her ear, nibbled at a particularly responsive cord on her neck. “Do you know what is improper, hellion?Trulyimproper? Every lastfuckingthing I want to do to you.”
His sensual growl curled deep inside her, reaching a place she had not previously realized existed. And she knew his vulgarity and coarseness should have repulsed her. At least, that was what she had been taught. But when had she ever liked doing what she was supposed to do? When had she followed rules or cared for propriety?
She forced herself to tamp down the longing rising within her. To tamp it so far down. To ignore it. At least for tonight. At least until she knew where she stood in this new marriage of hers. With the man currently wreaking such havoc upon her senses and her ability to resist him.
“You need to go to bed, my lord,” she told him.
“Yes,” he agreed, swaying into her once more. “That is preshishly what I need. Ahem. Precisely. What. I. Need. You. But not you. No, indeed. I do not need you. I cannot trust you, hellion. You lied to me and forced me into this godforshaken…godforsaken union.”
She had forced him, yes. And it was for the best that he had seized that moment to recall it, for the both of them. Because he was desperately drunk. And she was just…desperately, pathetically in love.
She disengaged herself from him, knowing that no good could come of this evening. Not when he resented her and was so thoroughly inebriated. Not when he intended to leave her so soon. Not after everything that had come to pass between them.
He swayed, then sank into a wingback chair with a lusty sigh.
Even his sigh affected her.
Helena debated ringing for his valet. This was decidedly not the manner in which she had imagined she would spend her wedding night, and she knew next to nothing about properly preparing a gentleman for bed. But then…how difficult could it be?
“Hellion.” Her husband’s eyes fluttered closed. “I cannot stop seeing those perfect, pink lipsh…lips. Do you know how many times I have imagined them wrapped around my cock?”
Oh dear.
He was speaking inappropriately once more.
It seemed that whilst sober Huntingdon was a rather staid affair, intoxicated Huntingdon was a wanton rakehell who uttered all manner of wickedness with nary a hint of a flush. Helena wished she could find his decidedly inappropriate speech detestable. Instead, all it did was fuel her hunger, her ardor.
Images settled into her own mind, mingled with the images already present after having read those bawdy books she had filched from Shelbourne. Images of her lips on her husband’s magnificent manhood. What would he look like, freed from the fall of his trousers? What would he feel like, taste like? Her mind whirled with everything she should not wonder.
He looked raffishly handsome in repose, his long legs spread wide as he sprawled in the chair. Difficult—nay, almost impossible—to believe this man was her husband now. But not hers yet. Not truly. Mayhap not ever. As irritated as she wanted to be with him, she could not deny the sudden rush of tenderness that swept over her as she began to undress him.
First, his coat, which he aided her by shrugging out of. Then, his waistcoat. She found the buttons of his shirt, plucking the line from their moorings. As she worked, she bit her lip, trying to keep unwanted feelings from overwhelming her. Her fingertips grazed his heated bare skin, and she was suddenly flushed all over from the mere touch.
No matter how much she wanted to remain impervious to him, she could not.
She became aware of his regard, scorching her, searing her from the outside in.
She paused in the act of unbuttoning his shirt. “I ought to call for your valet.”
