“Prove it,” she repeated, attempting to appear as aloof and unaffected as possible. No easy feat when he was looking at her as he was now, lids half-lowered, the undeniable magnetism he exuded stronger than ever.
Was this the way he had looked at his other conquests? If so, she could well understand their capitulation. She was melting on the inside, all the icy walls she had built turning into nothing more than puddles.
“Yes,” he said calmly, toying with her earring as he said the words. “You want a honeymoon. Prove that you do. Treat me with something more than cool indifference. I am your husband now, Izzy.”
He had not touched her; his fingertips did not even graze her skin, and yet, she was on edge as if he had. The desire in the air was suddenly thick and heavy. Every part of her was clamoring for that connection. For the silken rasp of his caress over her throat. And then lower.
She wanted him to slide his hands inside her bodice, cup her breasts. The longing she felt for him both astounded and confounded her. They had not even been married for a day, and she was already succumbing.
She plucked at the gray wool gathering on the skirt of her travel suit, which was a far more subdued gown than she was accustomed to wearing, its only nod to her fashion sense in the brilliant-red bodice hiding beneath the smart jacket. At least her wound was healed enough to dress properly. “I am aware that you are my husband, my lord. The wedding ceremony this morning was rather difficult to miss.”
He untied the ribbon of her bonnet keeping it in place and then took the hat from her head, before gently settling it on the bench opposite them. “There. Now, at least, I can see your face unencumbered by all those silly dried flowers and ribbons and feathers.”
Her bonnet was perhaps a trifle busy, but he was certainly making himself familiar with her person. She supposed that was now his right. Her vexation was heightened, and it dismayed her to realize it was not his removal of her headwear she protested to, or his denouncement of the trimmings, so much as his continued denial of touch. She craved him.
The sennight ahead was going to be dreadful. How would she resist him?
“You already know what I look like, Anglesey.” She frowned at him, feeling more unsettled than ever.
At last, he gave her what she wanted, a simple brush of his fingers over her cheek. The touch sent an electric rush through her.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I do.”
His regard was alarmingly tender. She did not know what to do with her hands, so she remained stiff and still, gripping her skirts, her wounded arm still sensitive.
“If I am to be without my hat, then it is only fair that you remove yours,” she said, partially because she wanted to continue to distract him from his request that she show him she wanted their honeymoon. And partially because all that golden hair hidden beneath the elegant black hat was truly a shame.
He caught the brim of his own headwear in his long fingers and removed it, tossing it without the care he had shown her chapeau. It landed on its top beside hers.
She stared at the hats, thinking them rather symbolic.
“Happy now?” he asked, drawing her attention back to him.
The smile on his lips made the barest hint of his dimple appear. He was freshly shaven, his hair curling over his forehead in rakish symmetry.
I love him, she thought suddenly.
I love this man, despite all the reasons why I should not.
What if there were reasons she should? He had given her some already, had he not?
Her heart was thudding faster than the fall of the horse’s hooves as the team carried them over the cold Staffordshire ground. “I could be happier.”
“Tell me how. What can I do to please you?”
Although he was not plying her with seduction, the reference to pleasing her in his deep baritone sent a flood of yearning through her. He had pleased her quite well on previous occasions. Her body thrummed with remembrance.
“My head is aching,” she lied. “Perhaps some silence will aid it.”
Yes, if only he would stop talking, stop staring at her so, stop smoldering in that fashion only he possessed, as if she would catch flame if she but touched him, then she would be happy. Then she could resist him for another minute, another hour, and if she were lucky, another day. This man was going to break her heart again.
And again.
And again.
“Forgive me,cariad,” he said, contrition in his voice. “The doctor said your wound has healed nicely, but we must not take your recovery for granted. Do you wish for a nap? Lean against my shoulder and close your eyes.”
Lean against him? That would require her to slide nearer. And getting any closer to him would spell absolute, utter ruin. It would also necessitate touching him, which was dangerous indeed to her ability to resist him.
