“You must persuademefirst,” Victoria said, her voice tight. “I am the one caring for a child who is not mine. I barely sleep. And I do not even know whether she is yours.”
The accusation struck home, sharp and precise. Heat flared through him—anger first, then something far more dangerous beneath it.
“There is nothing I can do to persuade you,” he said quietly. “You have already judged me. Branded me. You did not even grant me the courtesy of doubt.” His voice hardened. “Have you ever asked yourself what sort of man I am, Victoria? Have you ever asked anyone at all?”
She went still. He saw it—the pause, the realization. Of course, she had not. She had never tried to know him. And if he dared claim knowledge of her, she would accuse him of calculation.
Their argument drove them closer without either of them willing it. The space between them vanished. He was acutely aware of her now—her warmth, the faint scent of lavender and milk clinging to her skin. Silk whispered as she shifted, and his attention followed the line of her throat before he could stop himself.
“You had been with other women,” she said at last.
“Not while I was married to you,” Richard replied at once. “I kept my honor intact—only to see it questioned because another man’s child was laid at my door.”
“And I kept this household alone,” she said. “You chose to leave. You did not even—” She broke off, eyes widening.
“I did not even what?” he demanded.
They both knew.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Soft. Trembling. Parted with more than anger. The question that rose in him was dangerous, but he needed the truth.
“Or is it,” he said, his voice low and rough, “that you doubt me now because you wish I had claimed you on our wedding night?”
Victoria blushed furiously. She was also speechless, and that, coupled with her burning face, spoke volumes. Her reaction was unexpected, and it broke something within him.
His self-control was gone.
The duke reached for his wife and pressed her against him. His hands cupped her face, and he kissed her. It wasn’t the gentle, chaste kiss he gave her at their wedding. This one was fueled by desire, its violence proof of the year of denial and the chaos that had settled over Hawksford House.
He could feel her soft body through her thin gown. Warm. Yielding. Her soft pressed against his hard. And she didn’t push him. Instead, her arms went around his neck. It was a base instinct, he knew, but he reveled in it. He liked how her fingers tangled with his hair, pulling at strands roughly; it almost hurt.
Throughout his life, Richard had tried to avoid a connection like this. This was a consuming fire. People didn’t think as clearly when they were consumed by desire.
Yet, he let himself be lost. They were there in the drawing room, out in the open for any servant to see, but at that moment, he didn’t care. The duke let his hands roam his wife’s body.
She was his own. Yet, he never claimed her; he didn’t think there was a need. Until now. He pulled her closer as if that were possible at all. Their tongues lashed. He sucked hers, eliciting a moan from her. He was now hard, everywhere, and he ground himself against her.
Then, a sound not too far away had them jumping apart just as quickly as they combusted. It was Mrs. Davies’s voice.
“Your Graces?” she called out from the hallway, almost as if she knew the married couple needed a few moments to settle down. “Will the two of you eat dinner together? Would you like the meal served soon?”
“Y-yes, Mrs. Davies,” Victoria managed to reply.
Their eyes were both wide, their breathing still ragged. The shared guilt seemed ridiculous given that they were married. But they were not this kind of married. Not really.
Victoria smoothed her gown, while Richard cleared his throat. He fought for air.
When he gave his wife a curt nod, he noticed her still-swollen lips. He could not trust himself to say anything more. So, he turned on his heel and left her in the drawing room. It might look cold, but deep inside him, he knew he would struggle to rid himself of the memory of her taste and yielding body.
Chapter Seven
“Iwish you could see yourself right now,” Jonathan drawled, as he adjusted his cravat with a mere flick of a wrist. “You look like a man who had heard news that his hounds had annihilated his prize rose garden. A mirror would do you good right now.”
Richard tried not to engage. His eyes were still on London’s annotated map, seemingly studying the parishes, but his mind was always flitting off somewhere. He could not help the grunt of frustration that escaped his lips.
“You don’t have to say anything. I already know that the cause of the crisis at the moment is not a failed investment and has nothing to do with your map of London!” his friend continued. “Your problem begins with a ‘v’ and ends in ‘a.’ You are fully aware, I know, that she has left you undone.”
“You don’t understand, not really. My focus is on finding an infant’s parentage. It is a matter of urgency. I don’t intend to waste time.”
