“In our case, yes.”
“Perhaps I want to change that situation.”
Meredith blinked, taken aback by his answer. “Do you?”
His jaw clenched. “Why else would I be here? Waiting for you?”
Meredith shrugged her shoulders expressively. Was that what he had been doing? Waiting for her? It seemed impossible. Or did it? Meredith shook her head. She had long since given up any hope of understanding the complex, moody man she had married.
Looking about, she took in the decor of his bedchamber. Her eyes came to rest upon a wooden table set next to the wing chair. It held an open decanter of spirits and a nearly empty crystal goblet.
He did not seem to be in his cups, but obviously Trevor had been drinking. This might not be the most appropriate moment to have an important discussion, Meredith concluded.
Leave,her mind screamed.Leave before he makes a complete fool of you. It was the cautious, wise choice, yet her wayward heart would not obey. Each day since her wedding, Meredith had hungered for a glimpse of him, a chance to have a conversation—any sort of conversation—with him.
If he was sincere about effecting a change in their relationship, she was more than anxious to listen. Yet hope was a frightening commodity and something she could ill afford. Her heart was already bruised, her self-confidence on the brink of falling apart.
“Will you take a seat?” He indicated the chair opposite his.
“No, thank you. I prefer to stand.”
“I would think your feet are tired from all the dancing you did tonight.”
There was a long pause. The marquess settled himself in his chair and stared at her expectantly. He wore a starched white shirt, a perfectly tied silk cravat, black knee breeches, white silk stockings, and black shoes polished to an impeccable gleam, but no waistcoat or evening coat. She was unsure if he had recently returned from an evening on the town or was preparing to go out.
Meredith came closer to him. Her senses were assaulted by the distinctive scent of soap and mild cologne that was unique to him. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It was erotic and mildly disturbing. Her poise began eroding rapidly.
“I danced but three times tonight,” she whispered.
“All with the duke?”
Her lips twitched in amusement. “So you have heard about that?”
“Ad nauseam.” He lifted the glass off the small table beside him, drained it, then held it in her direction. “Would you be so kind as to pour me another?”
A scowl settled over her features. Was that why she was here? To act as his servant? Or to listen to him complain about her social activities with his father? Meredith was of a mind to empty the contents of the decanter directly into his lap, but at the last moment refrained from giving in to her temper.
It gave her the oddest feeling to lean toward him and pour a thin, steady stream of liquid into the glass. He watched her intently as she performed this simple task, and she, in turn, felt unable to drag her eyes from his.
“Thank you.”
Shivers trickled down her spine. The mood had changed noticeably—tense and charged. More than anything she wanted to lean even closer, to press herself against his solid warmth. Yet she did not dare.
Keeping his gaze firmly locked with hers, the marquess put his glass back on the table without taking a sip. Then he reached forward and took the decanter out of her hands, setting that beside the glass. Her entire body felt singed by the look he gave her.
His hand thrust out suddenly and grabbed her wrist. She realized she was still bent over him and tried to straighten herself. He tugged harder and she lost her balance, falling forward to land in his lap. She tried to push herself away, but he held her wrist.
Mere inches separated their lips. A tide of sexual awareness swept over her. Something hard and masculine pressed insistently against her soft lower belly.
He smiled at her. Wickedly, sensually, irresistibly. The impact felt like a blow. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest. Though they supported only a small part of her weight, Meredith’s legs began to tremble.
She felt the warmth of his breath skimming her face. It filled her with a mixture of elation and excitement, yet also dread. For if he did not kiss her now, she would surely wither and die.
As if reading her desperate thoughts, he closed the slight gap between them. His lips brushed lightly against hers. She whimpered softly as the sensations strummed through her body. He released her wrist, but she did not move away. Instead she moved her mouth against his, her tongue stroking his lower lip.
The marquess reached out and cupped her face. He tilted her head, positioning her to accept his kisses, which grew progressively deeper, more intimate. His tongue parted her lips. He tasted of wine and sin. The fingers of one hand threaded through her tightly coiffed hair, while his other hand rested against her bottom.
Trevor then began to stroke her with that hand—pet her, really, like a purring kitten. Across her shoulders, down her back, a tight squeeze on her bottom. Then back again. She felt her body begin to heat, to ready itself for him.
