“Yes,” DuMond said dryly, returning to his desk. “Do help yourself.”
The quick rush of spirits did nothing to help. Riotous tension snapped through his nerve endings.
Argyll took another deep drink. This was the difficulty with a dissolute existence—spirits had long ago ceased to offer comfort. At least not in circumstances such as these.
He brought the bottle down on the table with enough force to shatter the glass.
“No worries,” DuMond drawled. “You’d nearly finished the bottle anyway.”
What, precisely, was happening to him?
Argyll was calm. Rational. Bloody affable. Emotionally detached in all things. Even in sex, he maintained absolute mastery of himself.
His brow dipped. Marriage, it seemed, had not been his most inspired decision.
A restless energy took hold. Desperate to rid himself of the unsettling sensation, Argyll began to pace, carving a steady path across the room. His gaze flicked from the wide windowoverlooking the gaming hell below to the crown of DuMond’s head.
She had climaxed—and still she had walked away from him.
He had required servants to escort desperate, pleading wantons from his chambers before. Never once had he been denied.
Lady Faith had been well within her rights to laugh outright at his earlier answer regarding his new wife.
Daria had hungered for his touch. She had trembled beneath his hand. She had been slick and wanton where he’d stroked her twice, once to completion—and still she had rejected him.
Argyll stopped short.
No woman had ever rejected him. Not even the games he had played with his stepmother—scandalous though they were—had ended without her satisfaction.
Lady.
That, right there, was the distinction.
Argyll knew nothing of polite, respectable ladies whose virtue remained intact.
And now he had married one.
After a blundered wedding night, he was left with a wife who was still—damn her—a virgin.
Argyll’s gaze landed on DuMond, perched at the edge of his desk, arms folded across his chest.
“I take it this concerns your new wife.”
It was not a question.
Someone understood. Argyll had come to the right place.
“Your marriage…” He grimaced. Good God. Was he truly standing here, speaking to DuMond—friend, business partner—to discuss not commerce, nor entertainment, nor the current war between gaming hells, butmarriage?
The world had not lied when it claimed matrimony ruined a man. It most certainly did.
“My marriage…?” DuMond prompted when Argyll failed to continue.
Brimming with tension, Argyll turned fully toward him. “Yourmarriage. To Lady Faith—the marchioness.”
“Yes. Lady Faith. My marchioness,” DuMond said mildly. “I am familiar with her.”
Argyll ignored the sardonic grin tugging at the other man’s mouth.
