Page 51

“You are stunning.”

Better late than never, he supposed, and certainly safer than demanding what the devil she’d been about at supper.

The smile she gave him did not belong to his wife.

Beneath the blanket, his hands curled into fists.

Michael would not lash out, damn it all. He’d contain these feelings until they lost their biting edge, then they would discuss what was bothering her tomorrow calmly… rationally.

“Were you pleased with the course of the evening?” he asked in the blandest tone he could muster.

“Of course. It seemed a promising start to negotiations. Mr Blackwood appears to be a most agreeable man.”

She turned then, lifting the knot of her hair to reveal the row of buttons down the back of her gown. Only one had been undone.

“Would you mind? I had to have Mrs Peffley help me do up the buttons.”

Michael folded back the counterpane, welcoming the shock of cold floorboards against his feet as he crossed to his wife. He'd rarely seen Gwen with her hair swept up in the sort of elaborate arrangement most ladies preferred. Even when she attempted something simpler, her thick locks fought their containment at every pin, and more often than not, whatever tidy knot she'd begun the day with had surrendered to a plait by evening. Wisps curled around her nape and strayed about her face and temples in soft defiance.

Those willfully disobedient strands had been the only trace of his wife he’d seen all evening, and he had the absurd notion that if he set the rest free, they might bring his Gwen right along with them. He plucked out a pin, then another, watching with rapt attention as a frizzy cascade of red tumbled down her shoulders.

“I meant the buttons.”

“I know what you meant.” He raked his fingertips through her hair, where they immediately snagged, then he lifted the bulk of it over one shoulder so he could reach the fastenings. One by one, he worked them free until the garment hung loose. Then he hesitated. Gwen had always undressed herself. To do more than what was asked would transform their nightly ritual into something new, something far more intimate. He let his hands linger at her waist, neither holding her nor stepping away.

When she didn’t move, he eased her dress down until the fabric pooled at her feet, then pulled the long tail of the corset string, working it loose with careful fingers. He hadn’t realised until that moment how much he’d longed for this part of their marriage; her body, pliant beneath his hands as he peeled back all her layers. The gradual stripping away of what belonged to everyone else until what remained was for him alone. Something fierce and proprietary welled inside him, and he breathed through the urge to take what she was freely offering. But he could not shake the feeling that everything about this evening had been wrong and he didn’t want to risk piling more wrongness atop what was already there, so he let his hands fall away from her loosened corset and stepped back.

When it became clear that he had no intention of proceeding further, she cast a glance over her shoulder, her lids half lowered. “Will you not help me with the rest? I thought we might… celebrate tonight.”

Michael licked his lips. Shifted in place. “I will of course if you wish it but, Gwen, are you quite well?”

She turned her head, concealing her expression. “You’re the one behaving oddly, Michael. You couldn’t possibly have missed how well we worked together tonight, and now, I’ve made my intentions for the evening plain, and you’re… just standing there. Have I not been plain enough? I want you to make love to me, Michael. Surely this is what you want.” She removed her corset and dropped it to the floor.

This is what she thought he wanted? An agreeable wife whose only contributions took place in his bedchamber? To have her quietly defer to him in all matters concerning the yard? Sparks of frustration flew in every conceivable direction.

“Alright, what the devil is going on, Gwen? First, the pretense of equal partnership over dinner, when we both know this yard is ruled entirely by its queen, and now…” He gestured helplessly with both hands. “This.”

Her shoulders tensed.

Shame it was too late to feign sleep.

“I don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss, Michael. We are married, are we not? I simply thought it might be… better… in the long run… were I more open to your thoughts about the yard. As for the rest…” She swallowed, her usual defiance faltering in a way that made his heart lurch. “Am I wrong in thinking you want me as much as I want you?”His breath left him in a rush, and he dragged a hand down his face.

“Of course I want you.” He had to stop himself from reaching for her, knowing that if he touched her now, he would muddle all the rest. “But sweetheart. Llanelli is yours. That was our agreement. Why would you wish to change those parameters now? You say it’s better this way, but better for whom?”

Certainly not her. And Gwen was the only person in this room whose interests he currently gave a damn about. He tried again.

“I know Lionel insisted upon a certain degree of oversight on my part, but he made that stipulation without the benefit of ever having met you—without having seen how truly capable you are. He is, I assure you, a more than reasonable fellow once he’s properly acquainted with the facts. Surely you’re not going to allow one uninformed request on his part to silence you.”

Her back was still to Michael, and he hated the distance… the disconnect of not being able to see her face, know what she was feeling. “When I took you as my wife, I swore to myself it would be the last choice—the last anything—I would ever take from you. That I would devote the rest of my days to protecting your interests.”

He laid a hand lightly between her shoulder blades.

“At the time, I assumed I would be protecting you from myself, that I would recognise every manoeuvre that could be used to sway you in my favour, and that, if I wasn’t vigilant, eventually, I’d find ways to justify taking everything I wanted.”

He had to agree; the notion was rather ridiculous… the proverbial fox guarding the henhouse while fighting the urge to feast.

“I can’t help but feel as though I’ve somehow gone and done it anyway, despite all my efforts. That I’ve pressed you into something, or at least allowed for something you did not—do not—want.”