His eyes narrowed on her. “Why do I have the feeling you intend exactly that?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps your feminine intuition is asserting itself.”
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. He wasn’t gentle, or sweet, or delicate. He was… desperate. Communicating a need she hadn’t understood at the time of their wedding night. All-consuming heat was a slow rise through her body. Her knees shook, her lips trembled.
He pulled away, entrapping her gaze. “What is this? Nerves from my brazen wife? The woman who threw herself in my arms not twenty minutes past?” He turned her around and made quick work of her stays, then handed her the dangerously sheer negligee. “Would you like my help with—”
She stepped back. “No. I can manage.” She ran for the screen she normally dressed behind. It provided some privacy. She held up the lacy negligee, studying it with disgust. Yes, it was just as sheer as she recalled. Just as she could see through him. Did he truly think she would just forget their wedding night? How he disappeared from their bed the morning after without so much as an explanation? He’d been kidnapped, she reminded herself. Something completely out of his control. But he’d been home for weeks and hadn’t once seen fit to grace her bedchamber with his undying devotion. That was what sent the anger surging through her.
He didn’t want her. So, why now? What the devil was he really up to?
Tossing the gown aside, she yanked her most prim, up-to-the-neck, night rail over her head. She closed her eyes and sent a prayer up to the almighty that he would leave her be.
She stepped from behind the screen and strolled to her vanity and sat down. She picked up her brush.
“I knew you were going to be difficult about this,” he said. He rose from the chair he was sprawled in and sauntered over, taking the brush from her and worked it through her hair with unexpected gentleness. Tension coiled deep inside her. She watched him from the mirror, wariness stealing over her.
“What is your game, Huntley? You haven’t seen fit to visit once since your return. Why now?” She willed back the cringe her waspish tone elicited.
His gaze met hers, raking over her, stopping at her exposed neck. He lifted a brow, a telling smirk covering his too delicious lips. He set her brush down, took her hand, then pulled her to her feet. She tugged at her hand, but his grip tightened. He dragged her over to the table where Diggs had set the champagne. He took one of the flutes he’d filled with soft gold and tiny bubbles rising and handed it to her. “I believe I erred in waiting.” The softness of his voice held danger. “This is my house, and you are my wife. Why else should I visit you? Late, and in your bedchamber.”
“Why indeed?” she muttered. She took the glass and downed the contents.
He refilled it, smiling.
Ripples of icy hot awareness skittered up her spine and down the backs of her knees. She hadn’t cared for intimate relations and would just as soon forget their wedding night had ever occurred. Well, almost. There were the kisses that stirred her body in unmentionable ways. There was his mouth nipping and suckling at her breasts that had them tingling now in remembrance. There was the burning imprint of where his hands had touched and held her.
“We have an heir to beget, in case you’ve forgotten.” The seduction in his tone raised bumps along her nape until his actual words sunk in.
She downed the second glass and plunked it on the table. “Of course. How silly of me to lose sight of the most pressing reason for engaging in the disgusting business.”
The wine he’d just put in his mouth, spewed out, and sent him into a coughing fit. “Disgusting business?” he choked out. He frowned and looked as if he wanted to refute her comment, but clamped his mouth shut.
She raked her gaze over him, letting him know exactly how she felt about being bedded. With a long-suffering sigh, she went to her bed, blew out the nearest candle, and crawled beneath the covers, tugging them to her chin. “Vanquish the others, if you please.” She lay on her back and closed her eyes tightly. She inhaled deeply, releasing it slowly, willing her courage. “I’m ready.”
Eight
Dear Rebecca. Is there naught I can do to help? Yrs. G
Disgusting business. James made his way slowly around the chamber, pinching out flame after flame, stunned by her confession, shocked at how utterly traumatized he’d left her even while anticipation curled through him. He’d been a fool thinking his wife would come to him. That night, after the long celebratory day, last month still came to him in pieces. He could only hope he’d hadn’t ruined her for life with his drunken ministrations. He had much to atone for, he was afraid.
Gabriella being the youngest and last of her sisters to wed, her family had insisted on the grandiose wedding breakfast lauded a duke’s family. James’s position with the Crown, allowed him the excuse in delaying an unwanted honeymoon and he’d leapt on it. He’d begun drinking that morning—slow and steady—until he felt safe in taking their leave without offending Ryleigh. The company, the wine, the spirits had all flowed freely. Lively, boisterous, annoying.
He was no longer resentful. His stint in captivity had clarified his thinking. And if this marriage failed, the fault would lie with him.
His wife deserved a wedding night, and the more time he allowed her, the greater the obstacles in reconciling their life together. Dropping his silk robe to the floor, he lifted the coverlets, and crawled in beside her. Her cotton nightclothes were no match for his plans. Very little light breached the chamber, and what did, filtered in from the full moon. She lay as still and stiff as a plank of wood, her eyes squeezed shut. “What a brave little soldier you are, Lady Huntley,” he said gently. He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek and down. Her skin quivered beneath the touch. He tugged the ribbon loose at her neck.
Her shiver reached through to his bones. He pushed the gown from one shoulder and lowered his lips to her flesh.
“You’re toying with me,” she bit out through clenched teeth.
“Not yet, but soon,” he promised. Again, she shivered. “Do you fear me, Lady Huntley?”
“Certainly not.” He listened carefully for the truth. He detected the slightest tinge of fear. Remorse jabbed him like a sharp knife to his heart, offset by her indignation. And anger. Insurmountable anger. His wife was a fighter, a fact that lent hope for their future.
“I wish to start anew,” he whispered against the swell of one breast.
“And just how do you propose doing that?” Under the suspicion emanating from her, her voice trembled. Impatience coiled through him.
