Because he was acutely aware of the fact that only a dressing room and a door separated him from her. That was all. And he was itching to remove the barrier. To end the distance. To take what was his.
But no, he could not.
He had told himself he would not consummate their marriage until some time had lapsed. There was always the possibility for an annulment. If he bedded her as he longed, he would not be able to procure one. He had to cling to that grim realization. To remind himself of it with almost every breath.
Need for her battled with reason. Each step he took was a taunt.
Take her.
Do not dare.
Take her.
You must not.
Damnation.He paced the length of his chamber thrice more. But his body had a mind of its own. One moment, he was in the haven of his chamber where she dared not intrude, and the next, he was in the dressing room, hovering at the door to her apartments. Would it be open for him? What was she doing now? The light beneath her door suggested she was not asleep.
Turn around, you fool.
Go to sleep.
He knocked.
Softly at first, and then with greater insistence. He knew he should simply return to where he belonged, that there could be no temptation in separation and solitude. Bennet had procured new train tickets to Shropshire for tomorrow morning. One more night to resist her. That was all.
The chamber door opened.
It was as if an invisible fist slammed into his gut.
He forgot to breathe.
Helena’s golden curls were unbound, trailing over her shoulders and down her back. She wore a cream nightdress that clung to her curves with sinful adoration. The garment itself was modest, with long sleeves that covered her arms and lace trim kissing her wrists. A small, wispy affair covered her breasts, held in place by a pink ribbon. He had never wanted to undo a knot more. Her nipples poked through the fabric, tempting him. Tormenting him.
She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld.
“Is something amiss?” she asked, a confused frown creasing the pale smoothness of her forehead.
Yes, everything was amiss. The roaring in his head could not be drowned out. Nor could the fire in his blood be cooled.
“Helena,” he said her name, hoarsely. It was all he could manage.
Her nose wrinkled. “Are you soused again?”
He deserved that query. And he wished he could blame the unwanted feelings roiling through him upon wine. But they had nothing to do with claret and everything to do withher.
Gabe swallowed. “I am not.”
“Was there something you wished to ask me, then?” Her gaze searched his, so green and vibrant, like the promise of first grass in spring. “You have been behaving oddly all day. I know you are vexed with me for the circumstances of our marriage and for telling Bennet to allow you to sleep this morning so you missed your train to Shropshire. But I cannot bear much more of your—”
“Nor can I,” he bit out, interrupting her swift rush of words.
He had a suspicion he knew what she was going to say, and he had no wish to hear it. He had been cool and aloof, bogged down by the weight of guilt and need and reckless want.
“Then what have you come to say this evening, my lord?” she pressed, her countenance solemn. “You have not come here to consummate our marriage.”
He ought to agree with her. Ought to say something, anything worthwhile.
Instead, he reached out and caught one of the ends of the maddening pink satin ribbon and tugged. The bow fell apart, and the twain ends of the lacy scraps covering her breasts went slack. He hooked his finger in the left half, moving it to the side first. Then the right. He did not think he imagined that he could see the tantalizing hint of her pink nipples through the almost sheer fabric beneath.
