Of late, James didn’t know what to expect from his wife. Her shifting moods had kept him on his toes, and he was now more certain than ever that she was hiding something. He meant what he’d said: if there was a problem, she had only to tell him. Instead, she was kissing him, and he was staggered by her. By the lush hunger of her kiss. By the yielding softness of her curves pressed against his rigid edges. She tasted like she had that night at Bottoms House—wild and sweet and alive with desire. She was a different woman and yet the same. A bud bursting into full, honeyed bloom.
When she parted her lips…well, he was only human, after all, and randy as hell. The days of tension morphed into sudden, unstoppable lust. Palming the back of her head, he took her mouth the way he wanted to. Fully, deeply, completely. She whimpered, melting against him. His kiss turned into one of possession, and when she not only welcomed his driving tongue but suckled it, a bolt of heat shot straight to his groin.
Despite her outward shyness, Evie was not reserved in bed, praise God. Before the recent cold spell, when she’d seemed to lose all interest in him, the heat between them had been heady and undeniable. He had enjoyed peeling away the prim layers of his lady scientist to discover the sensual vixen beneath. Her complexity had aroused and challenged him, and although she’d been a virgin on their wedding night, she’d proved a quick study. With her, there were endless avenues of desire to explore.
While he enjoyed her mouth, she was doing some exploring of her own. Her touch, reverent and eager, never failed to stir him. Beneath his shirt, his muscles flexed as she slid her palms over his chest. She made a sound in her throat, one unique to her: half-purr, half-moan…all sweet. She reached lower, tracing the jutting ridge of his erection. Pleasure seized him as she caressed his bulging tip through his trousers, circling her thumb until his arousal seeped through the wool. When she cradled his stones, giving them a light squeeze, he took control before it was too late.
“Tell me, Evie.” He captured her jaw in one hand, holding her gaze. “Tell me what is troubling you. Whatever is wrong, upon my honor, I will remedy it.”
She stared at him, then averted her eyes.
“Nothing is troubling me,” she said.
Fury surged with a force that he’d never experienced before. He grabbed her hand, which still gripped his cock, and removed it from his person.
“Do not touch me,” he bit out.
Red splotches stood out on her pale cheeks. “I…I thought you liked it when?—”
“Do you know what I like, Evie? What I truly prefer?”
She swallowed, her eyes wide.
“Honesty,” he said in disgust. “Just the bloody truth. If you cannot give me that, then I want nothing from you.”
He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter Ten
A few days later, Evie wandered into Chudleigh Bottoms. The morning was warm, and she’d enjoyed the mile-long walk from Bottoms House. Villagers were out and about in the square, and several called out friendly greetings, which she shyly returned. James’s siblings were highly regarded amongst the locals, and she didn’t want to ruin their reputation.
The way I ruin everything.
The three days since her arrival at Chuddums felt like the longest of her life. After the devastating row with James, she’d expected he would call off the trip. Instead, he’d remained committed to supporting Gigi’s ball. She’d also overheard his cronies endorsing the trip, saying that Chuddums’s central location in the county would be the ideal place to launch James’s campaign.
Evie had never been to the Outer Hebrides, but she imagined it couldn’t be any colder than the atmosphere during the carriage ride over. In the past, she’d appreciated that her husband seldom lost his temper, yet she was beginning to realize that there were more painful alternatives. His chilly politeness cut like a blade. He shut her out completely, treating her as if she were a stranger or acquaintance he had to tolerate. She almost wished he would shout at her—maybe that would stoke some righteous anger in return. Instead, his indifference pruned her self-confidence, and she felt smaller with each passing moment.
While they could avoid each other at home, doing so in the current situation was trickier. Xenia had assigned them the same bedchamber where they’d had their night of passion—and the memories and close confines added fuel to their tension. Since requesting separate rooms would undoubtedly raise questions—especially in his family, where couples preferred the intimacy of a shared bedchamber—they implicitly divided the space. James slept on the sofa in the attached sitting room and set up a makeshift office there as well. To minimize their interactions, they adapted their schedules. Evie went to bed early (or pretended to, at any rate) while James stayed up late with his brothers.
Feeling more alone than ever, she slept poorly, which did not help her mood. In her lowest moments, she contemplated leaving James. What good was she doing by staying? In fact, she was making things worse. He despised her now. Yet her departure would surely cause a scandal and destroy his chances of winning the Reading seat. She wished being squashed between a rock and a hard place didn’t feel so familiar.
Moreover, she had the blackmailer to contend with. The possibility of his return kept her in a constant state of vigilance. Her initial relief at delivering the hundred pounds had long faded, replaced by a horrible certainty that he would contact her again. She wished she could confide in Harkness, who’d insisted on coming along, but she knew the solution her friend would propose and she wasn’t willing to run...yet.
Thus, she stayed, paralyzed by dread and anxiety, waiting for the guillotine to drop.
In her current state, Evie found it difficult to focus on the ball preparations, but Gigi seemed to have everything well in hand. Gigi’s effervescent spirit camouflaged the fact that she had the organizational skills of a general. Her airy charm and generous purse had tradesmen and servants eager to do her bidding. When she ran into a snag, Mr. Godwin was there to assist…even if they didn’t always agree on things.
This morning, Evie and Gigi had been discussing the speeches to be given at the ball when Mr. Godwin came in. Gigi had informed him of her plan to invite the village nonagenarian, a fellow named Wally, to make a toast.
To which Mr. Godwin had replied, “Duchess, if Wally gives a speech, we shall still be standing there when our grandchildren get married. Absolutely not.”
Gigi had argued, the two bantering back and forth. Finally, Mr. Godwin had silenced his wife…by kissing her. The newlyweds had been so lost in each other that they’d forgotten Evie entirely and hadn’t noticed her slip out. While she was happy for Gigi—no one deserved happiness more—seeing a couple so much in love amplified the misery of her own situation. She had fled the manor, seeking out fresh air and distraction in the village.
She had errands to run, and luckily, she knew she wouldn’t bump into James. His campaign was already in full swing. Two days ago, he’d toured a hospital in the neighboring village of Chudleigh Crest, examining the facilities and visiting with the patients. Yesterday, he’d done the rounds in Chuddums, talking to shopkeepers and listening to their concerns. Today he’d gone to a pottery to learn more about the goods it produced and the potential for exports.
James had not invited Evie on any of these excursions. Instead, he’d been accompanied by his stalwart cronies, Lord Dunsmuir and Mr. Friend, and some local Whig matron of influence. Evie had learned of his activities during the supper conversation with his family. She understood his decision to exclude her: their discord had grown difficult to conceal. Having seen the looks exchanged around the supper table, she knew it was only a matter of time before one of the ladies broached the topic with her. She didn’t blame James for not wanting to put their fractured marriage on display during his campaign. At the same time, his rejection hurt because she wanted to help…wanted desperately to be the sort of wife he deserved.
Well, you’re not. You never will be. So stop crying over spilt milk.
