Page 47 of Only Scandal Will Do

“The fancy one with lace, my lady?” Margery swiftly unpinned the gown, efficient despite her trepidations.

“The plain cotton one, please.” She doubted Dalbury would crash back through

the door to continue their argument, still she glanced over her shoulder. She suspected she had seen the last of her husband for the night.

Margery returned with the gown and soon Kat was snug under soft covers, a hot brick at her feet, a large shot of brandy in her hand. Blessing Margery, she downed the spirits and relished the slow burn that stole through her body. She blew out the lamp beside the bed then pulled the curtains and stared at the darkness that surrounded her.

Her wedding day. The thought sent an odd little hitch to touch her heart. She could hardly have imagined a more nightmarish one had she tried. Kat thumped the pillows in an attempt to get comfortable, though she doubted she would sleep at all.

She found herself fighting the memory of his strong arms around her, the way the warmth of his body had sunk into her... There was much about the marquess she might like--his wit, his skill with a sword, the willingness to respect her own prowess. And his form was not unappealing. She conjured him before her in an instant: his tall, proud stature, the rugged features of his face, the brawny strength of his gentle hands.

That seductive image became instead his outraged visage when she’d suggested he might force her to his bed. She’d asked because she had no way of knowing what he was capable of. The catch in her heart, almost a pain now, seemed to persuade otherwise. She’d wanted to hurt him, to make him feel some shame for forcing her into this marriage. Well, apparently she’d succeeded, though the victory was cold.

They were truly married, no matter how incredible it might seem. And according to her closest friends in Virginia, a bride should be happy, thrilled, in love.

She was none of those things.

A bride should be lying in the arms of a man she trusted and adored, who would do anything for her. She was alone, in a strange bed, facing life with a man she did not know, did not love, and dared not trust. The rake had proved that tonight, beyond a doubt.

The little catch of pain rose from her heart into her throat and became the tears she had not allowed herself to shed before the ceremony. Before she’d become tied to the one man she feared would never feel anything for her. The man who could never be what she wanted him to be.

* * * *

Duncan slammed out of Katarina’s bedchamber, not caring if the house fell down

around him. He strode to the table that held a decanter of his favorite brandy, poured a hefty amount into a glass and tossed it down his throat, savoring the pleasant flame it ignited in his belly. God knew something should be pleasant today, although it certainly was not his bride.

He poured another drink, this time not stopping until the glass stood brimming over. Might as well drink the night away. No other way to occupy his time on this wedding night. He stared down at the glass in his hand then hurled it into the fireplace, causing the logs to blaze up and crackle wildly.

Why had he thought she would be different tonight? Because she’d responded magnificently this morning when he’d nipped her neck and claimed her as his. Her little moan had almost undone him. She’d even admitted she believed he could be kind to her. He had been certain she felt something for him.

He stood before the fire, staring into the roaring flames, and let despair wash over him. How could she have said such a thing to him? That she would think he would take her by force was more than an insult. It was beyond reason. Had that night in March turned her mad?

Oh, no. Not mad. Stubborn and vindictive. He rubbed the still-healing scars on his cheek. Vindictive and vicious. And he had married the bitch. God, he should have let her sail to Virginia and marry that lieutenant or captain somebody. Better for him to be the recipient of her affections.

Duncan left the fireplace and threw himself into the window seat overlooking the rear garden. A glorious view on a moonlit night, but tonight only a new moon shone, and the garden lay still and dark. Like his bed.

He could take a mistress again, by God, if Katarina was going to be cold and unwilling.

Amorina even...

The mere thought of Amorina’s luscious body had always aroused him. But somehow, the image of her, naked, welcoming him into her bed now left him cold. Most disturbing, because he had not had a woman in his bed since Italy, over two months ago and... He winced as the image of Katarina naked in his bed, her glorious copper hair streaming over his chest, created an arousal so potent he grunted in pain. He took several deep breaths and willed his flesh to do his bidding.

Why did he desire this insufferably insolent and headstrong woman?

Well, she was not so much insolent as spirited, not headstrong but... He chuckled to

himself. Katarina was stubborn. She would not back down one iota in that duel. And when she lost, she’d still agreed to marry him, even though she’d looked as though she was headed to the gallows.

He sighed and some of the tension left him. He had badly misjudged the woman who was now his wife. Somehow, he’d expected her to acquiesce to the marriage when she’d lost the duel to him. As one of those insipid girls in the ton would have done. He doubted Katarina had ever acquiesced to anyone in her life.

Restless with the realization he was much to blame for his cold marriage bed, Duncan paced the room. The problem seemed to revolve around her lack of choice in the matter of their marriage. Then, he must find a way to make her want to be married to him. How could he make her see he was not the callous rake he had been that night? Show her he wanted to care for her and protect her, cherish her magnificent spirit. Love her with body and soul.

Love her? The thought took him by surprise. That was absurd. He didn’t know the girl.

He winced as the truth in his heart became clear. Everything about her--her spirit, her wit, her protective nature--made him love her. Even her skill with a sword endeared her to him because it attested to her strength of character to have mastered such a weapon. She was not just a beautiful face on a voluptuous body; she was Katarina, who had touched his soul.

That she abhorred him, in the face of his love for her, devastated him.