He brought his hands back up her arm, trailing fresh clay there.
“Aclumsypeer of the realm.” She laughed, turning on her stool to face him, the clay now a misshapen lump on the spinning wheel.
Her clay-covered arms perched on his shoulders. His clothes would be ruined, but he didn’t care as he gathered her onto his lap.
“Clearly, I will have to show you who’s boss.”
“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” Her voice was teasing, and she rubbed her nose against his. “Signore Alessandro Rossi, at your service.”
“I prefer not to think about other men when talking with my wife.”
A shiver ran through her. “Your wife.”
“My wife.Mine.” He reached underneath her on his lap and unfastened his falls.
She pushed her skirts out of the way, gripping his shoulders as she guided herself to rub against him. He felt a little as though he was losing his mind, the way he always wanted to be with her, touching her, or feeling himself inside her.
This would end; he was certain. But for now, it felt good to indulge, and as long as they were at his father’s house, he would rather be consumed with desire for her than think about what his father had done.
“Yours,” she whispered as she slid down on him, wet and tight. “Always.”
He could not say the word back, even though the feeling in his chest swelled, as though his body wanted to return the sentiment.
As though she was the only thing in the world he could ever want.
CHAPTER 18
Although Thalia could have spent more than two weeks at Marrowhurst Hall with Maxwell, they returned to London as planned. This was not about them, or about her, but about Lydia.
For Lydia to make a successful match, they both knew that she needed Maxwell’s presence. And, by extension, Thalia.
Thalia leaned against him in the confines of the carriage. Being with him now felt as natural as breathing, as though they had been lovers all her adult life. Although it had still been a matter of weeks since their sudden marriage, she could hardly recall a time when they had not been like this.
Intimate. Insatiable.
“Tell me a little more about your brother,” he said now, trailing his fingers up her arm idly. Though the words were casual, he said them as though he wanted to hear the answer.
Aside from Anna, no one had ever asked andcared.
“He was the best of men,” she said. “Present company excluded.”
“Naturally,” he said.
“When I was younger, he would always cheer me up after Father did something to make me sad. Or Mother. He had to grow up too quickly, really, but that was just the way things were. When he came back from Cambridge, he would always bring me presents. Bags of candied nuts or new ribbons or a book he thought I might like. Once, he brought me back a doll that I played with every single day, even though I was really too old for dolls.” She sighed, smiling at the thought. “His friends teased him for it, but he never forgot to remind me he cared in little ways. Having him standing up for me and protecting me against Father’s… well, the way he was—it made my childhood a little more bearable.”
“And your mother?”
“I barely remember her, if I’m honest,” Thalia said. “She used to sing me to sleep when I was very young, and I remember Adrian bundling us out of the door when Father came home drunk. That happened more than once. When I was older, I knew to go upstairs to my bedchamber every time Father came home, and he never disturbed me.”
Maxwell’s arm tightened around her. “It sounds as though your childhood was similar to mine in some ways.”
“Perhaps so. Adrian died abroad, so that was different. Better and worse, I’d imagine. I never saw him in his final moments—all we had was a letter informing us of the loss. Father lost his temper so badly that he hurled a pitcher of wine at the walls. To see the letter, I had to sneak inside his study and read it myself, though it barely said anything.”
Her heart pinched at the memory, how she had ducked under the desk to read it and cried silently for fear her father might find her.
“That was a dark time.”
“I’m sorry.”
