“I have no intention of marrying anyone. I prefer a solitary state, and from what I’ve observed, gentlemen tend to demand attention. And you, my lord, strike me as a fellow who would expect a union marked by the kind of intimacy that I am neither prepared nor able to give.”
He hadn’t known whether to be astonished or insulted by Evie’s response. There he’d been, one of London’s most eligible bachelors, offering for an impoverished lady’s companion on the brink of ruin…and she’d turned him down flat. The fact that she’d characterized him, a gentleman vaunted for his self-discipline and restraint, as needful of attention had been icing on the cake. Most men would have washed their hands of her.
James had been utterly intrigued.
Who was Miss Evelyn Ashewood? What sort of woman, with wolves of scandal snapping at her heels, would turn down marriage to a wealthy earl? What lay beneath this lady’s dowdy dress, unshakeable pride, and dark, heart-of-a-sunflower eyes?
James had been determined to find out. While he had a reputation for civility, once he set his mind upon a thing, he went after it with single-minded focus. Although it had taken several attempts, he eventually secured Evie’s hand. Knowing her skittishness, he avoided talk of love…and contrary to her assumptions, he had no desire for messy entanglements. The few turbulent affairs he’d had as a younger man made him dread dramatics and emotional tempests.
What he wanted was a comfortable marriage. A relationship of mutual respect, care, and trust. At heart, he was a simple fellow, and at four-and-thirty, unnecessary complications held little appeal. Passion was well and good but never at the expense of prudence. He wanted a wife who was a steady partner, who valued duty, honor, and family as much as he did. Of course, physical attraction had to be part of the equation: given his views on fidelity, his marital bed would be his sole sexual outlet, and he intended to enjoy it.
Out of this compatibility, affection would naturally grow. Given his upbringing, he valued love—but he wanted the genuine article, not some trifling imitation. In his experience, infatuation was oft mistaken for love, which required time and commitment. He was a patient man and believed that good things came to those who put in the work.
It had taken a while, but he and Evie had said the words—and meant them…or so he thought. Even if mawkish declarations didn’t come easily for either of them, life with Evie was no chore. He should have no complaints, for she fulfilled every requirement on his list. He ought to have been content.
He hadn’t realized the extent of his self-delusion until last night.
The memory of Evie bent over the bed sizzled through him. He felt the giving plushness of her hips beneath his hands and the firm bounce of her bottom against his thighs as he plowed her. Her sheath, snug and wet, had sucked him in with sweetly lewd sounds. With a sensual quiver, he recalled the way his veined beast had split her open, her pink petals stretching prettily to accommodate him…
Feeling the gathering heat, he slanted his gaze downward and saw his cockstand tenting the sheet. Waking up in this condition wasn’t uncommon, but it was usually due to unsatiated lust. For the last six months, he had used boxing and riding as outlets for his physical needs because he believed space was what Evie wanted. Sports had proved to be a poor substitute for bedding his wife, and he had never stopped desiring her—that had never been the problem. What had been at issue was whether she felt the same.
In the early years, he’d caught glimpses of her delightfully wanton streak, but in recent months, she’d been notably reserved. Cooler. In bed and elsewhere. She favored the greenhouse over his company. He’d tried to draw her out of her shell but to no avail. He didn’t know if this was the natural progression of marriage—Lord, he hoped not—or something else.
Something deeper. Some other reason why his wife would hold back…or lose interest.
As lowering as it was to admit, James had wondered whether his love and desire were reciprocated. It was as if an invisible wall had been erected between them, and he didn’t know how to knock it down. He’d counseled himself to act like a considerate husband. He had given her space, thinking that she would come to him when she was ready.
She hadn’t knocked on his door—not once.
But last night, after months of waiting, he had finally re-established his connection with Evie. Her throaty moans, the way she’d wailed his name as she spent, repeatedly, had eased his doubts. She’d creamed around his cock so delightfully, anointing him with her bliss at least three times, and in various positions…
He was painfully hard now. Seeing the wet spot where his tip jutted against the coverlet, he was tempted to take matters into his own hands. To let off some of the built-up steam. Yet he was a grown man and not some overeager schoolboy. He was hungry for his wife, and the knowledge that she wanted him just as badly made him as randy as a sailor on shore leave.
Yet he and Evie had matters to discuss. First and foremost, he needed to know what had changed for her. Perhaps she had finally recovered from…from what had happened a year ago. While he didn’t like to dwell on grief, there was no denying that the loss had pushed them apart, physically and emotionally. Like him, Evie wasn’t one to wear her emotions on her sleeve, and he hadn’t known how to comfort her...or if she wanted comforting.
Admittedly, discussing the subject of feelings was not his forte. He valued restraint and found excessive displays of emotion distasteful. He supposed he took after Papa…although the latter’s stoicism did not extend to Mama. James had witnessed his parents’ open devotion with varying degrees of awe, amusement, and embarrassment. Regardless, he considered himself a man of action rather than words, and right now, he sensed an opportunity in his marriage. He was going to make things right—make up for lost time. He was going to make love to his wife until she was hoarse from moaning his name.
Then he would start all over again.
Resolved, he threw aside the covers and got out of bed. He winced as his erect flesh swayed, heavy and throbbing. With any luck, he would find Evie forthwith, and they could take up where they left off last night. Better yet, if he found her alone where he suspected she would be—in the gardens, inspecting this species or that—he might steer her to the woods just beyond. The fantasy was wild…exciting. The image of Evie, her golden hair dappled by the sun and streaming down her back as she rode him like his very own Lady Godiva, made him do the unthinkable: forgoing the assistance of his valet, Robson, he decided to dress himself.
As he headed for the wardrobe, he passed a small table…and saw the folded note addressed to him. He recognized Evie’s untidy penmanship; it never failed to amuse him that his precise lady scientist had the handwriting of a tipsy poet aboard a tempest-tossed ship. He reached for the note, wondering if he was about to read his first love letter from her. The notion of his practical girl scribbling some bit of sentimental nonsense gave him an oddly heady feeling. With fumbling eagerness, he unfolded the paper.
James,
* * *
I trust you slept well. While I have returned home to tend to my experiments, there is no need for you to hurry back on my account. Stay as long as you wish, and please convey my regards to your family.
* * *
Yours,
Evie
As he stared at her messy scrawl, his vision seemed to darken. Just when he thought the door was opening between them, she slammed it shut in his face. Something sputtered, then extinguished inside him. An instant later, rage swelled.
Damn you, Evie. And damn me for believing that things could be different.
