“There was the whole Chubb lock-picking business.” The source of the marquess and marchioness’s marriage. The insolent chit stole into DuMond’s office, picked an unpickable lock, and obtained information about their club’s membership. “With that level of skill, a weak man would get all romantic.”
DuMond emitted a strange noise, and Argyll couldn’t sort out whether the fellow was choking or laughing, but he let him to it.
“My apologies,” DuMond said, after he’d composed himself. “As future talks about marriage go, I will refrain from offering unsolicited advice. You certainly have it all under control.”
Argyll’s fingers twitched into fists at his side. He scoured for a hint of mockery. He craved it. Nothing would gratify him more than a bloody fight. Alas, his friend denied him the outlet.
DuMond headed for the exit. At bloodylast.
“May I give you one last piece advice, Argyll?” DuMond said.
“That proved short lived.”
“Before you do visit Her Grace?” DuMond, the obstinate ox, scraped a critical gaze over him. “Get yourself a bath. A cleanshave. You look like hell.” He tipped his nose Argyll’s way. “And you smell like it too.”
Argyll lifted his chin…just to be free of the man.
After he’d gone, Argyll started back towards his desk when his gaze caught his reflection in the gilded Provencal mirror across the way. He took in the day’s growth on his cheeks. The crumpled lawn shirt he wore, with its light golden-brown wet patches. His hair, an unkempt mess from all the times he’d pulled his fingers through it.
But it was the slightly crazed, fully-sober eyes reflected back that held him in his place.
The last thing a fellow with Argyll’s history, experience, and line of work wanted was advice on handling the fairer sex.
In the privacy of his own self-ruminations, he’d admit, his irksome friend was correct. What was he doing here with a cockstand that wouldn’t quit? Had she been a blushing, predictable lady with adoring eyes, he’d have some bloody clue how to charm her.
But Daria, his mystifying bride? She went all soft over things a lady oughtn’t—or hadn’t, with Argyll. Such as when he’d been on a knee conversing with Daria’s sister, and looked up to find his wife dewy-eyed.
His frown deepened. No. None ofthismade sense.
Hot looks. Calculated touches. Those were the tools that softened resistance, that coaxed a lady into yielding.
His mouth tightened. Not that his wife had required coaxing in the carriage ride over.
Her untried body so desperate for release, it’d taken her just a few rubs against his shaft—at that, through his and Daria’s garments—before she’d come, bucking and thrashing and screaming his name.
And that is what you’ve been hiding from this whole damned day?
“Goddamn it, DuMond. If you think I need another bloody lecture on how to treat my bride, then—” The rest of his snarled warning withered. “Christ.”
His breath snagged strangely in his chest.
“No,” she spoke in that haunting way of hers. “It is I. Daria.”
That a rare flash of wry humor? An announcement. He barely heard her.
It was the first time he’d ever seen her this way—in a shade other than the macabre palette she favored. Her empire-waist white muslin wrapper should have repelled him for its modesty. Instead, heat rushed hard and fast to his cock.
Argyll drank her in, each breath he dragged into his lungs a labor. The stark white fabric revealed a sleek frame, the gentle flare of hips she so carefully concealed. The chandelier’s glow and the steady fire in the hearth bathed her in light, and where it filtered through the thin material, it illuminated a tight, midnight-black triangle betwixt her supple legs.
I want her. More than any woman I have ever wanted.That was the truth he had fought all day and night.
It was an irrational, all-consuming hunger. Argyll ached to ease her modest shift and wrapper from her shoulders, to linger over the satin softness of her skin. To guide the lace-trimmed fabric down to her trim waist, baring her breasts in their full glory—his alone to worship. To kiss each newly bared sweep of pale skin, to bury his mouth between her taut curls, and finally to sink himself into her heat, slick and waiting.
“You are looking at me strangely, Gregory?” She tipped her swan-like neck, inviting his hungry gaze. “Were you expecting the Savior?”
His all-consuming lust for his virtuous bride without question merited a prayer to the fellow above.
“I hope you are finding everything meets your expectations.” Argyll ran a hand along his tense nape, rubbing at the knotted muscles. “Is there a reason you sought me out?”
