He hid a grimace. The last person he wanted in his marital bed was his father.
Argyll rolled up onto his shoulder, and traced a fingertip along the little pout her lips formed. “They are of the wicked sort,” he spoke close enough so his breath brushed her air.
His blood stirred, thick and insistent. When had he ever wanted a woman as he did her?
“Your father did you no favors, Gregory.”
Truer words had never been spoken. Even in death, the late Argyll had contrived his most unforgivable interference.
It was official. He was never making love to his wife this day. Or, ever. He truly was losing his edge. Determined to divert his bride to the real business of the evening, he reached for her. “I’d rather we discuss my formative years at a later time,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck.
Daria sniffled.
Blanching, Argyll scrambled up to stop this before it started.
No. No. Do not do that.
Not on their wedding night.
Tears filled her eyes.
Too late.
Daria pushed herself onto her knees and tossed her arms tight around him.
Argyll grunted. His own limbs naturally came up, but otherwise hung there useless. He did not often speak of his childhood. When he did, the memories had a way of surfacing without warning—and never gently.
Argyll gave her several awkward pats. “It really is fine, love,” he said, the desperate edge in his voice not one he recognized.
“It truly is not, Gregory.” She shifted so she might face him fully. “Your father should never have exposed you to such things.”
He gave a slight shrug, the gesture practiced. “It was presented as ordinary. Expected. Fathers hastening what would come soon enough. Introductions. Books. Women.”
“Introductions?” Her voice faltered despite her effort to steady it. “How old were you?”
This time, Argyll dragged both hands through his hair. “Twelve? Thirteen?” Twelve. He’d been twelve.
She rose at once. “Twelve is not a man.” Fire lit her eyes as she spoke, bright and unyielding. “You were a boy. A child.”
“That distinction was not one he acknowledged,” Argyll said, attempting a tone of detachment that did not quite hold. “One most fathers do not.”
She began to pace, her steps sharp against the carpet, anger driving the movement. Her words emerged in low, furious fragments, cursed beneath her breath.
Argyll ran a hand over his face. He had stepped into this blindly.
She halted and turned back to him. “When I consider what was done to you,” she said quietly, every word measured andfierce, “I am filled with a fury I scarcely recognize. I would like to kill him.”
He stood and put himself between her and her next march back to the mirror. “Well fortunately for all of us, he died and did us that favor.”
“Your father was a monster,” she hissed.
“Oh, absolutely,” he said, drawing her near. “Like father like son. Now, if we—”
She pushed herself away. “You arenotlike him.”
Argyll sighed. “Isn’t that why you married me?”
That stopped her still. “There’s a difference between…between…”
