by Julia Quinn
“Do you want me to?” she whispered.
“It is not my decision,” he said stiffly, unable to say the words that would force her to let him go. “If you’re going to call it off, do it.”
“I can’t,” she said, wringing her hands. Her words sounded as if they were wrenched from her very soul.
“Let it be on your head then,” he said flatly. He left the room without a backward glance.
Henry was aware of very little during the next two weeks, aside from the dull pain wrapped around her heart like a shroud. Nothing seemed to bring her joy. She supposed her friends attributed her strange mood to prenuptial nerves.
Luckily she saw Dunford infrequently. He seemed to know exactly how to cross paths with hers at parties for only the shortest of times. He would arrive with time enough for only one dance before she left. They never waltzed.
Her wedding day loomed closer and closer, until finally she woke up one morning with the most intense feeling of dread. This was the day on which she would bind herself forever to a man she couldn’t satisfy.
A man who now hated her.
With slow movements she rose from her bed and pulled on her dressing gown. The only consolation in all of this was that at least she would get to live at her beloved Stannage Park.
Although it no longer seemed quite so precious.
The wedding was agony.
Henry had thought a small ceremony would be easier, but she discovered that it was harder to maintain a cheerful facade in front of a dozen good friends than it would have been in front of three hundred passing acquaintances.
Henry did her bit, said, “I will,” when it was time, but only one thought was running through her mind.
Why was he doing this?
But by the time she mustered up the nerve to ask him, the priest was telling Dunford he could kiss his bride. Henry barely had time to turn her head before his lips descended onto hers in a passionless kiss.
“Why?” she whispered against his mouth. “Why?”
If he heard her, he didn’t reply. All he did was grab her hand and practically drag her back up the aisle of the church.
Henry hoped her friends didn’t see her stumble as she tried to keep up with her new husband.
* * *
The next evening, Henry found herself on the doorstep of Stannage Park, a gold band now joining her engagement ring on her left hand. None of the servants were out to greet them; it was well past eleven, so she thought they must all be in bed.
Besides, she had written that they were to arrive the next day. She had never dreamed that Dunford would insist they leave for Cornwall directly following their wedding. They had stayed at their reception a mere thirty minutes before she was hustled into a waiting carriage.
Her ride across England had been silent and uncomfortable. Dunford had brought along a book and ignored her the entire way. By the time they arrived at the inn—the same one they had visited on their earlier journey—her nerves were utterly shot. She had spent the entire day dreading the night. What would it be like to be made love to in anger? She couldn’t bear to find out.
And then he had completely stunned her by putting her in a room clear down the hall from his, saying, “I think our wedding night ought to be at Stannage Park. It seems so . . . appropriate, don’t you think?”
She had nodded gratefully and fled to her room.
But now she was here, and he would demand his wedding night. The fire burning in his eyes was proof enough of his intentions.
She stared out over the front gardens. There wasn’t very much light coming from the house, but Henry knew every inch of the landscape so well that she could picture every last tree branch. She could feel Dunford watching her as she watched the chilly wind rustle the leaves.
“Does it feel good to be back, Henry?”
She nodded jerkily, lacking the courage to face him.
“I thought it might,” he muttered.
She turned around. “Are you glad to be back?”
There was a long pause before he replied, “I don’t know yet.” And then he added more curtly, “Come inside, Henry.”
She stiffened at his tone but walked into the house nonetheless.
Dunford lit several tapers in a candelabra. “It’s time to go upstairs.”
Henry looked back through the open door at the still-full carriage, searching for anything that would delay the inevitable. “My things . . .”
“The footmen will bring them up in the morning. It’s time for bed.”
She swallowed and nodded, dreading what was ahead. She ached for the closeness they had shared at Westonbirt, that all-encompassing feeling of love and contentment she had found in his arms. But that had been a lie. It had to have been a lie, or he wouldn’t have needed a night of additional sport in his mistress’s bed.
Henry ascended the stairs, making her way toward her old bedroom.
“No.” Dunford’s hands descended upon her shoulders. “I sent word to have your belongings moved to the master suite.”
She whirled around. “You had no right.”
“I had every right,” he bit out, half dragging her into his bedroom. “I still have every right.” He paused, then continued in a softer tone, as if realizing he had overreacted. “At the time I thought you would be in favor of the idea.”
“I could move back,” she offered, somewhat hopefully. “If you don’t want me here, I don’t need to stay.”
He let out a ragged laugh. “Oh, I want you, Henry. I have always wanted you. It kills me how much I want you.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “It shouldn’t be this way, Dunford.”
He stared at her for several moments, his eyes filled with rage and hurt and disbelief. Then he turned and stalked to the door. “Make yourself ready in twenty minutes,” he said curtly. He didn’t look back.
Chapter 23
Henry’s fingers shook as she changed out of her traveling dress. Both Belle and Emma had contributed to her trousseau, and as a result she now had a valise full of ultrasheer nightgowns. They all seemed vaguely indecent to a young woman who had never worn anything other than thick, white cotton to bed before, but somehow feeling it was her duty to wear these now that she was married, she slipped one over her head.
She glanced down at her body, gasped, and jumped into bed. The pale pink silk did not even pretend to hide the contours of her body or the dark rosiness of her nipples. Henry quickly pulled the covers up to her chin.
When Dunford returned he was clad in only a dark green robe that fell to his knees. Henry swallowed and looked away.
“Why so nervous, Hen?” he asked flatly. “It isn’t as if we haven’t done this before.”
“It was different then.”
“Why?” Dunford looked at her intently, his thoughts racing in the most depressing of directions. Was it different because she no longer had to pretend she loved him? Stannage Park was safely hers now; she was probably trying to figure out how to scare him off the premises most quickly.
She was silent for a full minute before she finally said, “I don’t know.”
He regarded her, saw insincerity in her eyes, and felt anger rising within him. “Well, I don’t care,” he all but snarled. “I don’t care if it’s different.” He tore off his robe and moved onto the bed with feral grace. He hovered above her on his hands and knees, watching as her eyes grew wide with apprehension.
“I can make you want me,” he whispered. “I know I can do that.” He slid down until he was lying on his side, still atop the covers beneath which she had burrowed. One of his hands snaked out behind her neck, pulling her toward him.
Henry felt his hot breath on her mouth a split second before his lips touched hers. As he coaxed her response, she wildly tried to make sense of his behavior. He certainly acted as if he wanted her.
And yet she knew
he didn’t, at least not enough for him to forsake all other women.
Something within her was lacking, but she didn’t know what. Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled away, her fingers rising to cover her swollen lips.
He raised a sardonic brow.
“I’m not good at kissing,” she blurted out.
That made him laugh. “I taught you, Hen. You’re quite proficient.” And then, as if to prove it, he kissed her anew, his mouth hot and demanding.
She was unable to stifle her response, and heat rose within her, licking her skin from the inside out. Her brain, however, remained curiously detached, and as she felt his tongue explore the contours of her face, she hastily inventoried her body, trying to figure out what it was about her that wasn’t enough to keep his interest.
Dunford didn’t seem to notice her lack of concentration, and his hands fanned the warmth of her body, burning through the thin silk of her gown. The fastenings slid open, baring her skin to the cool night air. He traveled upward, along the flat plane of her stomach, until he reached her—
Breast!
“Oh, God!” Henry blurted out. “Don’t!”
Dunford lifted his head so he could see into her face. “What the hell is wrong now, Henry?”
“You can’t. I can’t.”
“You can,” he ground out.
“No, they’re too—” She looked down, objectivity unexpectedly piercing her pain. Wait a second, they weren’t too small. What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn’t enjoy a perfectly good pair of breasts? She tilted her head, trying to analyze their shape.
Dunford blinked. The girl—his wife—was twisting her neck in what appeared to be an extremely uncomfortable manner and staring at her breasts as if she’d never seen anything like them in the world.
“What are you doing?” he asked, too baffled to maintain his anger.
“I don’t know.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with an odd combination of hesitation and annoyance. “They’re wrong somehow.”
Exasperated, he bit out, “What is wrong?”
“My breasts.”
If she had begun a lecture on the comparative differences between Judaism and Islam he would not have been more surprised. “Your breasts?” he echoed, his voice coming out a bit more sternly that he’d intended. “For Christ’s sake, Henry, they’re fine.”
Fine? Fine? She didn’t want them to be fine. She wanted them to be perfect, spectacular, utterly ravishing. She wanted him to want her so much that he’d think her the most beautiful woman in the world, even if she weighed fifteen stone and had a wart on her nose. She wanted him to want her so much that he lost all sense of himself.
Most of all she wanted him to want her so much that he would never need another woman.
“Fine” was something she couldn’t tolerate, and even as his mouth captured one of her nipples in a hot kiss, she twisted herself out of his grasp and scrambled out of bed, frantically clutching her open nightgown against her body.
Dunford’s breath came in short pants. He was painfully hard, and he was clearly losing patience with his new wife. “Henry,” he ordered. “Get back into bed now.”
She shook her head, hating herself for cowering in the corner, but doing it all the same.
He jumped out of bed, unconcerned with the way his erection jutted out from his naked body. Henry stared at him with both fright and wonder—fright because he was advancing toward her like a menacing god, and wonder because it was plainly clear there was something about her he liked. The man definitely wanted her.
Dunford grabbed her by the shoulders and shook. When that failed to shake words from her mouth, he shook again. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know,” she cried out, surprised by the volume of her reply. “I don’t know, and it’s killing me.”
Whatever thread had been keeping Dunford’s fury in check snapped. How dare she try to make herself out to be the victim in this sordid union? “I’ll tell you what the hell is wrong with you,” he said in a low, menacing voice. “I’ll tell you exactly what is wrong. You—”
He stumbled over his words, unprepared for the look of total desolation that washed over her face. No. No. He would not let himself feel sorry for her. Forcing himself to ignore the stark pain in her eyes, he continued, “You know that your little game is up, don’t you? You heard back from Rosalind, and now you know I’m on to you.”
Henry stared at him, barely able to breathe.
“I know all about you,” he said with a ragged laugh. “I know you think I’m a nice enough fellow. I know you married me for Stannage Park. Well, you did it. You got your precious Stannage Park. But I got you.”
“Why did you marry me?” she whispered.
He snorted. “A gentleman doesn’t jilt a lady. Remember? Lesson number 363 in how to comport oneself in—”
“No!” she burst out. “That wouldn’t have stopped you. Why did you marry me?”
Her eyes seemed to be begging him for an answer, but he didn’t know what she wanted to hear. Hell, he didn’t even know if he wanted to tell her anything. Let her squirm for a little while. Let her suffer as he had suffered. “Do you know something, Henry?” he said in an awful voice. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
He watched as the fire flickered out of her eyes, disgusted with himself for so enjoying her distress but too furious and, yes, aroused to do anything other than yank her into his arms and crush her mouth with his. He tore at her gown until she was as bare as he, her skin hot and flushed against his own.
“But you’re mine now,” he whispered hotly, his words caressing her neck. “Mine forever.”
He kissed her with a fervor born of fury and desperation, and he felt the instant when desire overtook her. Her lips began to move against his temple, her hands roved the corded muscles of his back, and her hips pressed urgently against his.
It was utter torture, and he couldn’t get enough.
He wanted to surround himself with her, bury himself within her and never leave. Mindless in his desire, he wasn’t certain how he maneuvered them back to bed, but he must have done so, for he soon found himself over her, pressing his body primitively into hers.
“You’re mine, Henry,” he whispered. “Mine.”
She moaned incoherently in reply.
He rolled over onto his side, pulling her with him. His hand tugged at her ankle, draping her leg over his hip.
“Oh, Dunford,” she sighed.
“Oh, Dunford, what?” he murmured, nipping her earlobe softly with his teeth.
“I—” She gasped as he squeezed her buttocks.
“Do you need me, Henry?”
“I don—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her breaths were coming on top of each other now, and she could barely speak.
He smoothed his hand further down her backside until it curved under her and touched her intimately. “Do you need me?”
“Yes! Yes!” Then she opened her eyes and stared into his. “Please.”
Thoughts of anger and revenge slipped from his mind as he stared into the clear, gray depths of her eyes. He could feel only love, remember only the laughter and intimacy they had shared. He kissed her lips and remembered the first time he had seen her smile—that saucy, cheeky grin. He ran his hands along her supple arms and remembered how she had stubbornly hefted rocks onto the pigpen’s stone wall as he sat and watched.
She was Henry, and he loved her. He couldn’t help himself.
“Tell me what you want, Henry,” he whispered.
She stared at him blindly, unable to form words.
“Do you want this?” He rolled her nipple between his thumb and middle finger, watching it harden and peak.
With a strangled gasp, she nodded.
“Do you want this?” He leaned down and treated her other breast to the pleasure of his tongue.
�
��Oh, my God,” she moaned. “Oh, Lord.”
“What about this?” He gently laid her on her back and placed one hand on each of her thighs. He slowly pushed them apart, meeting no resistance. With an arrogant smile, he leaned forward and kissed her softly on the mouth as his fingers tickled the hot folds of her womanhood.
Her leaping pulse was answer enough.
He smiled devilishly. “Tell me, minx, do you want this?” He kissed a fiery trail down through the valley between her breasts, along the flat planes of her midriff, until his mouth met his fingers.
“Oh, Dunford,” Henry gasped. “Oh, my God.”
He could have spent hours loving her in that way. She was sweet and mysterious and pure woman. But he could feel her inching toward completion, and he wanted to be joined with her when she climaxed. He needed to feel her body tighten around him.
He slid himself up along the length of her until they were face-to-face again. “Do you want me, Henry?” he whispered. “I won’t do this unless you want me.”
Henry looked up at him through passion-clouded eyes. “Dunford. Yes.”
He nearly shuddered with relief, not knowing how he would have had the power to keep his word had she refused him. He was heavy and hard, and his body was crying for release. He pushed upward, entering her slightly. She was warm and wet, but her body was tight with inexperience, and he had to force himself to go slowly.
But Henry would have none of that. She was straining against him, arching her hips to receive his entire length. It was more than Dunford could take, and he thrust forward, sheathing himself completely within her.
It was like coming home, and he lifted himself up on his elbows so he could watch her. Suddenly he couldn’t remember why he was so angry with her. He looked at her and all he could see was her face—laughing, grinning, her mouth quivering in sympathy for the baby who had died in the abandoned cottage.
“Henry,” he groaned. He loved her. He pushed forward again, losing himself in a primitive rhythm. He loved her. He moved. He loved her. He kissed her brow in a desperate attempt to move ever closer to her soul.