The question startled her. She wasn’t certain how to answer it. Didn’t know if shewantedto answer it.
“I could ask the same of you,” she said instead.
He reached for her, the touch simple, just the graze of his finger along her jawline, and yet she felt it to her core. “You already know the answer. I require an heir. As you can see by my mother’s eagerness to plan a ball, patience is not one of her virtues.”
“Obligation, then,” she said, trying to stifle the foolish rise of hurt and disappointment within her.
Failing.
Her husband still had the power to wound her deeply. To make her bleed. She wished mightily that he did not. Alas, her heart and her mind were not one on the matter.
“Is that not the reason for most marriages?” he asked, caressing her throat above the high collar of her dressing gown.
She tamped down a shiver of desire at his touch. How she wished she could summon up more of a resistance. The effect he had on her was stronger than ever, now that she had known him intimately, his flesh on hers, his body within hers, the pleasure he had shown her.
“I suppose it is,” she allowed, holding still as he explored her. “Along with love.”
“Love.” His voice was cold as he almost spat the word as if it were an epithet, withdrawing his hand at once. “Ah, but love does not provide one with a house or the funds to upkeep it, does it?”
She frowned, wondering at the sudden shift in his demeanor, for he seemed almost angry. “You speak as if the very notion repels you.”
“Love is a futile emotion.”
“Perhaps it is for a man like you.” She began working at the buttons on her dressing gown herself, having had quite enough of their conversation.
It was only serving to heighten the sadness that had held her in its relentless grip since his icy disinterest at dinner.
“A man like me,” he repeated, his tone silken. “What does that mean, pray tell?”
She removed the final button from its mooring and took off the robe, draping it over her vacated chair. “A heartless rake who seeks nothing more than his own pleasure.”
He chuckled, the sound bitter and without mirth. “You are one to judge, madam.”
“Yes, I am, having been abandoned by the man I married.”
“I didn’t abandon you. I left you at my estate.”
“The day of our wedding.”
His lip curled. “Spare me your theatrics. Don’t pretend as if you missed me.”
But shehadmissed him. Or rather, she had missed the man she’d believed him to be. The charming duke who had escorted her back to Eastlake Hall. The man who had courted her with ready smiles and a sharp wit.
She still missed that man.
Perhaps he had been nothing more than a chimera. Something she had wanted him to be.
Instead of responding, she moved away from him, toward the bed.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” She spun about, startled to discover him looming over her, having apparently followed on her heels. “I’m preparing myself for my evening’s duties.”
She reached for the fastening on her night rail, plucking at the stubborn small buttons that seemed even more difficult in her agitated state.
“Not like this, damn you,” he bit out, taking her hands in his and keeping her from finishing her effort.
She hated the awareness that swept over her at his touch, his proximity. At the scent of him, amber and pine, so thoroughly intoxicating. She hated how cruelly beautiful he was. How cold.
