by Emma Wildes
sensations. She was there with him, she was willing and soft, and so damned beautiful. . . .
“Kiss me,” she said on a breathy exhale. “Make love to me.”
It halted him even as he lowered his head to take her mouth and adjusted his hips between her
open thighs.
If he did this, he would be truly making love, Colton realized with a shock. It was no longer
about desire, or conjugal relations, or any of the other reasons men and women came together in
the oldest of ways.
I love her.
If he didn’t, he might be angry over a possible betrayal, he might be affronted at the slight to his
pride, he might even wish retribution, but none of that was particularly significant. Revenge was
the last thing on his mind, his pride be damned, and as for anger, it wasn’t the right word to
explain how he felt.
He was afraid. Of losing her. Oh, not in a literal sense. He could keep her no matter what—she
was his wife, he was a duke and wielded power and influence—but he needed more.
All of her.
She was wet, ready, her body primed for the culmination of their joining. He could feel the slick
heat as he positioned his cock, the willing give of her body as he tested his welcome, the grip of
her hands on his buttocks as she urged him without words to take her.
The night of his birthday, she’d made sweet, sultry love to him. Soft kisses, subtle movements,
suggestive caresses. Colton was determined to do the same, entering her body with exquisite
slowness, kissing her temple, the side of her jaw, the tempting arch of her throat. When they were
one, he rocked forward, making her give a low cry of pleasure, her pelvis tilting up so he could
effectively put pressure in just the right spot.
And she shuddered in response.
He selflessly continued the erotic, measured rhythm, her pleasure his goal. A faint film of sweat
sprung out on his brow as he held himself back until Brianna arched frantically beneath him in
fevered ecstasy and her cry of release echoed through the bedchamber. He followed, intense,
riveted on the rapture, his explosion leaving him both replete and exhausted.
Later Colton lay in the dark, cradling his wife in his arms. Brianna slept warm and lax against
him, her naked body all feminine curves, her breath a light drift against his throat.
He loved her, and not just with his body.
By God, he loved her.
Whatever he had expected of marriage, it wasn’t this.
How could she respond to him with such sweet enthusiasm, their bodies in such perfect harmony,
he marveled, if she had betrayed him? How could she gaze at him with such innocence in her
eyes if she was in truth a Jezebel? How could she cling to him and kiss him with open abandon if
she yearned for someone else?
He didn’t think he was so besotted he’d be fooled by a façade, but he’d never been in such a
situation before. It was true, at dinner she had looked astonished over his behavior, not guilty.
Hurt, not wary.
If they hadn’t had the argument, would she have told him she was pregnant? That was the
question that hung at the back of his mind. To solve their differences, she’d gladly taken him to
her bed. His physical hunger for her was a weakness—had she exploited it to divert his attention?
God, how he hated this inner war.
Brianna stirred and then subsided back into peaceful slumber. Colton toyed with a golden curl,
testing the silk of it between his fingers.
Though he was tired as hell, he had a feeling sleep was going to be elusive yet again. At least he
had the pleasure of holding her, he thought, shifting her closer. It was a simple thing, but now
that he recognized the depths of his feelings, an important one.
He just hoped falling in love with his wife wasn’t the worst mistake of his life.
Chapter Twenty
When it comes to social intrigue, do not underestimate men. They may remark on how females
take too close an interest in the lives of others, but men can be just as observant, just as
interested—and just as capable of meddling. Trust me on this point.
From the chapter titled: “Rumor, Gossip, and Innuendo, and How They Work for You”
Robert hadn’t followed Damien’s advice and waltzed with Rebecca. Touching her, even in such a
socially accepted manner, was a dangerous idea.
So he’d completely lost his mind and waltzed with her mother instead.
“I do so love this new tune, don’t you, my lord?” Lady Marston smiled at him pleasantly, as if
unaware that the sight of the notorious Robert Northfield dancing with a middle-aged, married
woman had more than one tongue wagging. Not that Robert didn’t dutifully ask one of the
dowagers upon occasion, but most often they were relatives of some kind, or the hostess of the
event. Lady Marston was neither.
It had taken some fortitude to make the request, for he had to brave the ranks of the matrons,
usually ensconced together in a formidable mass so they could gossip and chat while keeping a
keen eye on their daughters, nieces, or wards. His approach stilled more than one conversation,
and when he bowed over Lady Marston’s hand and asked her for a dance, mouths literally hung
open.
It was clearly a deranged moment. Yet here he was.
“It’s pleasant, I suppose, but not at all as impressive as the music we heard at Rolthven.” He
swung her into a graceful swirl.
“Yes.” The reply was neutral. “You’ve mentioned several times you enjoyed Rebecca’s
performance.”
“She is as talented as she is beautiful, which is high praise indeed.”
Lady Marston looked up at him, her mouth pursed. “I am aware of my daughter’s interest in you,
and I am sure, with your level of experience and sophistication, you are aware of it also.”
Though he tried not to analyze his motives in dancing with Lady Marston, he supposed he wished
to test the results of his visit the other day. He was still not sure whether Damien’s diabolical
interference had been helpful or the worst idea possible, but he’d done nothing but think about it.
In his current state of disquiet, he couldn’t sleep or concentrate on even mundane tasks.
What if I could court her?
“I’m both flattered and at a loss,” he said with rueful sincerity. “And I am sure you are
sophisticated enough, my lady, to understand why.”
“With my daughter, you don’t have your usual options.” She added in a dry tone, “That is both an
observation and a warning, my lord.”
“Do I have any options?” he asked bluntly. “I’ve wondered.”
“It depends on your level of determination, I suppose. When you arrived the other day and I
realized it was not just the random social call your brother intimated it to be, I admit I was taken
aback.”
Her low level of enthusiasm had been duly noted at the time, though he was too polite to mention
it.
At that moment the music came to a halt. Robert had little choice but to release her hand and
bow. In return, she gave him a gracious inclination of her head and a level look. “I think what
happens next is up to you. Weigh the strength of your interest, and if it is sincere enough, for my
daughter’s sake, I will help you with Benedict.”
She turned and walked away, leaving him standing with what was probably a ve
ry surprised look
on his face. Aware of the avid stares around him, he composed his expression and strode off the
dance floor.
Weigh the level of your interest.
He went into one of the card rooms and sat in on several games, but his inattention was obvious,
and when he won the last hand, the gentleman next to him had to give him a nudge to collect his
winnings. Bloody hell, he might as well face it, he thought as he rose from the table and made his
farewells; he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. It was hard to believe, but he’d even pictured
what it would be like to walk down the hallway of his home and hear the sound of a pianoforte
being played skillfully in the background.
The result of all the moody introspection seemed inescapable.
He might not want to court anyone, he might not wish marriage, but he simply couldn’t quite put
Rebecca Marston out of his mind. He wanted her—wanted to taste her lips again, wanted to feel
her warm and willing in his arms, but it wasn’t all he wanted.
Making his excuses, he left abruptly, and headed toward some place that wouldn’t remind him of
the woman who had him so distracted.
Fifteen minutes later Robert alighted from his carriage, noted the lights blazing in the house in
front of him, and grinned at one of the other arrivals. “Palmer. How are you?”
Lord Palmer swayed a little, obviously foxed as he came up the walk. “Doing deuced well,
Northfield. Thanks. Sounds like a capital party, eh? I hear Betty is sending some of her best girls
for this one.”
Robert tried to look noncommittal. Now that he was there, he really wasn’t interested in a troupe
of Cyprians, to his dismay. “Sounds diverting.”
A diversion was what he desperately needed.
“Well, there’s nothing like gambling and women to entertain a man, is there?” Palmer clumsily
elbowed Robert in the ribs as they went up the steps. “I know you agree.”
Perhaps he used to agree. The only reason he’d chosen to leave the ball and attend this particular
event was that it was the one place he could think of where he couldn’t possibly run into
Rebecca. If he went home and spent the rest of the evening alone with his thoughts, he would
drive himself insane. A mindless evening of debauchery sounded like just the ticket. He’d
attended bachelor affairs like this many times before, and they always involved a great deal of
flowing champagne, the purchased warmth of willing women, and bawdy entertainment.
“Yes,” he murmured and preceded Lord Palmer through the door held open by a liveried
footman.
The next hour passed with excruciating tedium as he attempted to make merry when he wasn’t
merry at all.
It was a damnable exercise. He didn’t want to sit at home and brood. He couldn’t attend any of
his usual entertainments lest he see Rebecca. He obviously didn’t want to be here either.
A drunken voice called out that the girls had arrived, and a buzz of anticipation filled the room.
It was probably best, Robert decided, given his restive state of mind, if he left now. He really
wasn’t in the mood to watch half-naked women drape themselves over a bunch of drunken fools.
Whatever had made him think in the past that this passed for entertainment? He asked a footman
for his greatcoat, quelling the need to tap his foot as he waited.
Sure enough, the door opened and a mass of giggling young ladies entered the townhouse. Betty
Benson ran the most upscale brothel in London and her employees were always clean, diseasefree, and at the least pretty, but usually gorgeous. This group was no exception. Blondes,
brunettes, at least two striking redheads strolled in the door and were immediately offered
champagne. The din of the party rose to new heights as the men began to single out their partners
for the evening. Robert watched the proceedings with a jaundiced eye as he waited for his coat.
All of the men in attendance were unmarried with only a few exceptions, the girls would be
treated and paid well, and when in the hell had he acquired the morals of a bishop anyway?
Suddenly, he froze in the act of accepting the garment from a servant, not quite certain he could
believe his eyes. The last girl to trail in the door was not dressed at all in a suggestive manner, her
gown modestly covered by a dark blue cloak, her sable hair upswept in a ladylike style than made
him want to yank the pins from it and feel the warmth as it tumbled over his fingers.
What in the devil was Rebecca doing here?
And why had she arrived with a bevy of prostitutes?
He stood there, aghast. What on earth was she playing at?
Once his muscles unlocked, he grabbed his coat, dashed across the foyer, and took hold of her
arm with more force than intended. “You can explain later. In the meantime, I am going to get
you out of here. I swear if you argue, I’ll sling you over my shoulder and carry you out like a
sack of potatoes.”
Rebecca stifled a gasp. Robert’s hand clamped on her arm so tightly it almost hurt as he more
dragged than escorted her down the front steps into the cool night.
The expression he wore when he spotted her arrival was something she would remember the rest
of her life.
He’d been horrified. It had been stamped on his handsome face, a caricature of surprise and
dismay, unmistakable—and not very flattering, considering the trouble she’d gone through to get
there.
Why?
Because she’d arrived alone? Well, not precisely alone—a carriage had pulled up just before the
hack she hired had rolled to a halt in front of the brilliantly lit townhouse, and quite a few young
women had alighted. She’d wondered how to enter without an invitation anyway, and following
them inside had been easy.
“My lord—” she began to say.
He cut her off ruthlessly. “I have no idea why you are here, but until we are safely away, don’t
say another word and for God’s sake pull up your hood.”
She’d risked censure and her parent’s displeasure to slip out of the ball and come to find him in
the first place. If she hadn’t felt the desperate need to talk to him, she wouldn’t have done it.
He practically tossed her into his carriage, rapped on the roof sharply after he clambered in, and
they rocked away. He stared at her from across the small space, his brows drawn into a taut line.
“Do you mind telling me,” he said through his teeth, “just what you were doing showing up at
Houseman’s gathering? I know for a fact you were not invited. Weren’t you safely with your
parents at the Tallers’?”
Rebecca opened her mouth to reply but he cut her off. “I watched you all evening.” His blue eyes
glittered. “You must have danced with every gentleman in attendance.”
“You didn’t ask me.” Her voice was quiet.
“Of course not.”
Of course not. Those three words stung and she lifted her chin.
But he had danced with her mother. Surely it meant something. That single act had given her the
courage to follow him.
Robert went on, forestalling anything she could have said, though she wasn’t sure she even knew
how to reply. “As for your arrival a few moments ago, in case you didn’t notice, the other ladies
in attendance are from a slightly different walk of life than you are. Let’s just pray no one saw
you.”
It was true, she hadn’t recognized any of them, but they’d been dressed in sumptuous gowns
and. . . .
Oh. No.
Comprehension dawned.
“Yes.” He correctly interpreted her appalled expression and inadvertent gasp. “That is exactly
what I mean. They make their living a certain way and were hired as, well, I don’t need to say
anything more. Rebecca, why were you there?”
She crushed her fingers together in her lap so tightly the bones actually hurt. “I overheard several
gentlemen discussing this party. They mentioned your name as one of the invited guests and that
it was your probable destination when you left so abruptly. I didn’t realize. . . .” She faltered.
His jaw set like a marble statue’s.
“I very much want to talk to you,” she added, the excuse feeble even to her own ears.
“So much you may have damaged your reputation beyond repair?” he asked in an acidic tone. He
shook his head and turned away, for a moment staring at nothing but the side of the carriage.
“This,” he said with measured emphasis, “is a disaster.”
She was very much afraid he might be right, but she straightened her spine. “All I knew was that
it was a party to which my parents had no intention of going. I thought I might get a chance to at
least speak with you if I managed to sneak in. I really had no idea—”
“Where do they think you are?” He cut her off with borderline discourtesy. Rebecca was
beginning to get a true sense of what her reckless idea might have just cost her and she felt a little
faint.
“I pretended I was going with Arabella and her husband to another event.”
“In other words, you tricked your parents.”
Well, she had, though at the time, she’d excused it more as a necessary falsehood. She nodded.
He said a word she’d never heard before under his breath, but not quietly enough she didn’t
wonder what it meant, though this didn’t seem like the time to ask.
“I don’t think anyone saw me slip away and flag down the hack,” she defended herself. “Arabella
knows, of course, but no one else.”
He transferred his gaze back to her face. “What if someone did see you?”
She really couldn’t think of a single thing to say.