His gaze shifted from the window to the vast shelves of books occupying the far wall. This should have been his study.His, and not Philip’s. Everything might have been different then, if only his brother had not stolen his birthright. Aye, for then he might have wed the late... great... son of a bitch’s daughter all those years ago, without the dissent he was now plagued with.
Damn.
Retrieving the snifter from the desktop, he swirled the amber liquid within, envisioning his life as it might have been; theanger that might have been forsaken, the loathing he might not have felt...
He imagined coming home to sweet Jessie, imagined her waiting, tucked prettily between the sheets—their sheets. He imagined taking her the first time, the second time, every time thereafter. His lust was rekindled just so easily, if indeed it had ever been extinguished; blazing white heat shot through his veins.
Christ, the ways he would have her...
What did he care what had passed before? What might have been? She still could be his... if only he might cease brooding long enough to ask for her hand in marriage.
And she needed him.
St. John desired her for one reason, and one reason alone... because Christian had been denied her. It hadn’t hurt matters much that she’d turned out to be such a beauty. And even if Christian wasn’t the reason... everyone knew the way St. John dealt with his women, bloody whoreson that he was. Why would a wife be treated differently? Christian felt an incredible violence stir within him, imagining St. John’s hands upon her—anyone’s hands, for that matter.
If he were to hurt her...
He couldn’t live with it.
But what if Jessie’s fool brother denied him?
Again.
His eyes, narrowed thoughtfully, for he’d simply have to see to it that Westmoor didn’t refuse him.
And what will you do if he doesn’t cow? a voice within taunted. Drive him to suicide as you did their father? Clamping his jaw shut, he groaned, as though to deny the nagging presence that was bent on giving him conscience.
He was what he was.
And if Jessie didn’t wish to wed him... well, then... so be it. He could leave despising her for it, and all would be as it was.
Tossing down the last swallow of liquor, he shook his head, shuddering away the effects, and thrust the snifter none too gently across the mahogany desk. It slid, stopping just before plunging over the edge. It hung there, suspended, contrary to the laws of nature, more of it resting off than on. The sight of it wrung a wry smile from his lips.
Damned if he didn’t feel as though he was going off the edge himself
“Wake up,”demanded a frantic Hildie. “Wake up!”
Jessie lifted the covers over her head, shielding herself from her maid’s scrutiny, moaning. “Go away. I feel sick!”
And it was true, she did, for she’d spent long hours worrying herself that way over her appalling behavior with Christian. She’d practically thrown herself into his arms, after all. She’d ensured her own ruin yesterday, and ruined, she was.
“Sick?” the maid said, sounding worried. She shook Jessie’s tightly bundled form.
“Please... please, just go away!”
Jessie felt like weeping. God’s truth, but she never wanted to show her face again!
The maid sighed regretfully. “I would, lovey, if only I could, but ye’ve a guest downstairs to be attending. Amos said to fetch ye, will ye nill ye.”
No, Jessie fretted silently.
No, no, no—not Christian!
She couldn’t face him, as yet—didn’t want to—especially with Amos there to scrutinize them together!
A whirlwind of emotions swept through her all at once. She sat reluctantly, clutching the coverlet to her bosom. Shame descended upon her like a storm, and she worried that Hildie would discern the difference in her. Surely it would be apparent in her eyes. Her face? She felt as though her loss of innocence had somehow physically changed her.
She felt different.
