“I told you, my darling. You cannot have it all. I will not just take the parts of you that you choose to give.” His eyes still on hers, he tucked a curl more neatly to frame her face, then dropped his hand and retreated to his seat by the fireplace. “I must return to my book. Do you need anything else?”
Her mouth was dry as she stared at him. He turned his attention to the book in his hands as though she’d never been there. Unable to articulate why the sight of that sent a pang through her, she picked up her skirts and moved towards the door. Just before he reached it, he said, the words so light they sounded like an afterthought, “You never did tell me where you were going out to.”
Cecily didn’t turn, though she was tempted to. Tempted to see if, when she glanced around, she would find him watching her. But that would imply that she wanted him to, and she wanted nothing less in the entire world.
Her voice was just as airy as she replied. “The Pantheon. I do love a masquerade, don’t you?”
She didn’t wait to hear his response.
White’s was busy, and after drinking with a few of his old friends—all less invested in their wives; all happier in their marriages—Percy eventually made his way back home. Long after he was certain she was asleep, but earlier than he’d intended.
That was the problem—of many—with being in love with one’s wife.
As he ascended the stairs, slowly to compensate for the spinning world, he came to their dressing room. Unlike before, the room was dark and cool, with only the faintest scent of her perfume hanging in the air.
Although he asked the servants to ensure she had already retired, some part of him was disappointed to see the lack of her. Proof that she had been; proof that she had gone.
He inhaled hungrily, and before his mind caught up with his body, he had padded to her bedchamber. The door was unlocked, and he opened it to darkness. She was asleep, buried under the covers, a shaft of moonlight piercing through the gap between curtains. He paused, aware even in his drunken state that he shouldn’t be here. This was an invasion of her privacy. They might be married, but he had never forced himself on her.
But her scent was stronger here, along with all the signs of the life she led without him. Her robe tossed over the back of a chair, the book she was reading placed neatly beside her bed. Half-finished embroidery stood on a stand before the window, and sheets of paper lay on a letter-writing desk. For years, he had sought an entry into her world, and now he stood on the very brink, looking in.
Even so, the contents of her bedroom could not capture his attention for long. Not when Cecily herself lay in the bed, slumbering softly, her breathing regular. It made him ache to think how infrequently he had awoken to that sound.
This, here, was everything he had yearned for all these years. And it was just as distant as the stars.
He hadn’t intended to, but he moved, striding closer, stepping around an armchair until he reached the edge of her bed. Maybe it was his presence, or maybe she heard his unsteady footsteps, because her breath halted. She stirred, raising her head. Even through the darkness, he could make out the fiery flow of her hair, loosened and softly curling around her face.
Seeing her like this was a blow to the chest. He wasn’t entirely sure how he would survive it.
“Percy?” Her voice was heavy, drugged with sleep, but there was a note of alarm there, too. “Is that you?”
He should leave. Or at the very least reassure her. That was what a gentleman would do. Instead, he stayed where he was, drinking her in, wishing he had a light so he could see her all the more clearly.
“Itisyou.” She made an inarticulate sound. “What are you doing there?”
Finally, he could move, but instead of leaving—as he knew he should—he approached. Closer, closer, until he could make out the darkness of her eyes, set in a pale face. By day, they were gems, but by night they were nothing but shadow. Drink madehim fanciful, and he thought she resembled a faery, something otherworldly, exquisite in her beauty.
“Percy.” She sounded more awake now, sitting up fully. The covers fell from her, and he could make out the swell of her breasts. She was wearing another of those dratted nightgowns that only packaged her up like the most succulent gift.
He longed to taste her.
“Cecily,” he murmured.
“Are you drunk?”
“Mm.” The temptation to laugh overwhelmed him. Sober, he most certainly would not have been here. And yet here he was. “Do you object, wife of mine?”
“You haven’t visited my bedchamber in—” She broke off, as though recalling precisely how long it had been.
He could have counted the minutes.
“An excruciatingly long time,” he said.
Her eyes met his, almost fearless. Perhaps even curious. Intrigued. There was no fear there, though he thought he caught the hint of uncertainty. This was not how they usually were.
Then again, how they usually were had broken his heart more times than he could ever have said.
She stared up at him as though she expected him to take her any second, pressing her into the mattress with the weight of his body, opening her legs with his hips so he could settle between them. Where he belonged.
