Her hesitant smile, the way her hands must have grasped that forbidden book, the molten copper of her hair sparking in the bookstore’s dusty light, all half-formed in his mind. A wisp of memory lingered, possibly, an echo he couldn’t summon fully into shape.
A beautiful girl. A quiet shop.
A boy escaping to town after another violent row with his father.
Now, walking along the gravel path leading to their new home, hiswifeat his side, afternoon sunlight bathing her in gold, Dom sought to connect the despondent boy and the clever girl who’d already known him better than most. To reconcile the stunning woman with the shy academic, wonder tugged at him that both could somehow be the same person.
And that this person wantedhim.
In the doorway of the Georgian manor he’d bought in a fury the week prior, Louisa turned to him, her smile, as it had been all day, a delight. Sensing his nerves—this had been a continued manifestation as well—she took his arm and drew him inside the house, nudging the heavy oak door shut behind her. The scent of beeswax and linseed oil lingered in the air, evidence of a hasty cleaning, though the faint sting of decay curling through the entry betrayed the residence’s neglect.
“I haven’t hired permanent help,” he began, understanding that not being met by a long-suffering, etiquette-obsessed crone of a butler was unusual. “For now, we have a maid and a cook during the day. I thought to leave the scheduling and staffing to—”
“I’m glad we’re alone tonight.” Louisa walked ahead of him two steps before pausing to glance mischievously over her shoulder. “As long as there is foodstuff and wine for later.”
In bemused silence, not knowing quite how to respond to her flirtation, he shadowed her as she peeked into the kitchen, the parlors (two, one a monstrous yellow, the other a sedate blue), a narrow morning room with faded chintz draperies, and a small music room with a harp sitting forlornly in the corner.
He hadn’t had many chances to tease orbeteased.
He’d had three brief affairs in addition to one faltering but enthusiastic relationship in his youth. The baroness and the scandalous articles attached to this had given society the idea that he was as experienced as his brother, just another Beckett Lothario—when in truth, his carnalrésumé was sparse. At least by rakish standards.
If he was a skilled lover, as some claimed, it was only because attending to detail was second nature in the wagering world, and at times, he’d been averyastute gambler.
Unaware of the decidedly ribald direction of his thoughts, Louisa grinned and reached to straighten a painting of a dour fellow dressed in attire from a century past. “A relation of yours?”
Feigning interest in the dreadful painting, Dom angled closer—not for the art, but for another breath of his wife’s scent, lilies soft and heady. “The baron who sold the place, an unfortunate client of the Lyon’s Den, likely knows who he is. I assume their relationship wasn’t good, hence his being left behind. Along with the harp and a tarnished silver service gathering dust in the scullery.”
Continuing down the corridor, she halted in the doorway of his favorite room in the house. A breathy sigh slipped from her lips as she stepped into the library. She trailed her hand over a stack of books piled high on a console table. “My, the baron was a collector.”
Dom followed, hesitantly leaning a shoulder on the jamb. The stained-glass windows rained a prism of color over her, and he decided that he loved this feature of the space even more than the exquisite walnut paneling. “They’re mine. A bit disorderly, as I’ve only just brought them over from my rooms at the Albany.”
She glanced back, eyes widening at the admission.
He shrugged and flicked a strand of hair he’d kept longer for her from his eyes. “Mad, isn’t it, when I have trouble reading them. Or, reading them quickly. I don’t know what to say except I love the smell of aged parchment.” He crossed to her, picking up a volume—a worn copy ofThe Works of Virgil—and caressed the spine, the leather smoothed by decades of use. “The weight in my hand, the sound of pages turning is sensual, almost. Maybe because words are one of the things denied me.”
Her gaze lifted, glazed with something far more potent than bookishreverence. She hardly knew what she was doing when it came to seduction, yet God help him, he knew. As they stared, the air thickened, charged with an emotion that felt dangerously like promise, and for a fleeting instant, Dom wondered if the room itself held its breath.
He shook himself free.This wasn’t love. Couldn’t be.
Bessie Dove-Lyon didn’t deal in love. Her arrangements were pragmatic, born of necessity rather than sentiment. That his brother’s arrangement had turned out to be true was a fluke, even Bessie said so. Although, in the chapel, Louisa’s clear jade eyes had shown with something he hadn’t been able to define as she repeated her vows.
Frankly, he’d been frightened to define it.
“Come outside, there’s more,” he whispered, turning toward the door. He needed distance, or at least air, before he lost himself to what he felt, and to the risk she might not feel the same.
His hunger, however, was solidly apparent. Regardless of his case of new-groom nerves, he planned to make love to her all night if she’d let him. Rendered breathless every time he recalled the dazzling incident in his warehouse, Dom lifted his hand to his nose, though the scent of her was only a memory.
Yet, it was a memory he’d kept close every second since.
Battling with himself, he led the way down the corridor, his footfalls muffled by the faded runner, until they reached the servants’ entrance near the kitchen. Bracing a hand against the frame, he swung the door wide for her, stepping back to keep himself from dragging her to their bedchamber before she was ready. And as he watched Louisa drift down the flagstone path toward the dowager’s cottage, late-afternoon light gilding her hair like fire and his cock near to crushing his trouser buttons, he admitted the truth.
He’d never wanted to fuck a woman this desperately in his life.
The love conundrum, he would disregard for the time being.
With a measured exhalation, the knot biting at his throat, Dom tugged his cravat loose as he hastened to catch up to his wife.
Louisa Radcliffe Beckett might truly be a first.
