She had asked him not to lie to her any longer. But if he told her the real reason for his return, she’d leave him for certain, ruining any chance he had to produce an heir. He couldn’t afford to lose everything. He had no doubt his father would leave him destitute. The entail was very insignificant at this point, a mere few thousand pounds a year and Carrington House. Thanks to the marriage settlement orchestrated by the old miser duke, the bulk of Victoria’s substantial dowry had been left in the care of his father, out of Will’s reach. While a stipulated sum had been set aside specifically for Carrington House, it was to be kept in trust by the duke, doled out as he saw fit. He was at his father’s mercy just as he had been his entire life.
Little wonder he had resented her. She’d been one more ducal edict he was forced to obey. The day after they’d wed, he’d been so desperate to flee her, the symbol of everything he hated about himself, that he’d simply left. But now he noticed her, damn it all. She was clever and bold, capable and kind. The servants of Carrington House had been singing her praises at every opportunity. Even he, blind fool that he was, could see the changes she’d brought about while he’d left her to dally in London. She’d been constant. She hadn’t taken lovers. Not a hint of scandal darkened her name. In fact, she was a paragon. A lovely paragon who wore her heart on her sleeve, who’d effortlessly turned the family ruins into a gleaming, improved version of its former self. Even the carpet was new.
But to hell with carpet. Her lips were his for the taking.
He kissed her rather than making any admissions. It seemed easier. He was good at lovemaking—he’d spent years honing his craft. She tasted like chocolate. Her mouth opened for him at last, and he swept his tongue inside, hungry for more of her. He slid his palm up her back, the sensation of her fine silk against his traveling hand tantalizing him. His other hand traced her wasp-like waist before lingering over her breast.
Suddenly, his desire accelerated from a flame into a more uncontrollable fire. He hadn’t bedded a woman in some time. Maria had bored him, and if he were honest, he’d only been using her as a means of infuriating the duke. What he felt for Victoria was somehow new and incredibly potent.
Groaning into her mouth, he led her backward until her derriere rested on the edge of the breakfast table. He reached around her, trying but failing to find her bottom in the elaborate pinning of fabric at the back of her skirts. Instead, he lifted her and settled her upon the table. She was deuced small compared to him, her head scarcely reaching his chest. Her new position allowed him better access.
He dragged his mouth down her throat, finding it soft and creamy white. A high, stiff collar with a small bow stopped him from exploring her décolletage as he wanted. Damn women’s peculiar fashions. He cupped her breast, jealous of her corset. Her bosom was perfection, high and firm and begging to be admired.
“Pembroke.” Victoria’s throaty murmur cut into his passion-hazed thoughts, an unwanted interruption.
“What is it, my dear?” He licked a path to her ear, then caught her lobe in his teeth for a gentle nibble.
“You cannot erase what’s happened with kisses.” She placed staying palms on his shoulders.
He permitted her to put some space between them, even though his body cried out at the denial. “I don’t seek to erase,” he said with the most honesty he’d given her since his return. “I seek a new beginning.” Because he had to win her over or face the consequences. But maybe, just maybe, for other reasons that he didn’t care to examine as well.
“I don’t think I can let you,” she whispered, her small, heart-shaped face cast with a stricken expression.
Why had he never noticed the vivid green of her eyes? It was like staring into the grass in spring, bright and precious after a cruel winter. Her lips were red with his kisses, too large for fashion but nevertheless inviting. Her golden hair had been tricked into an elaborate coiffure he wanted to undo. Last night, he’d sworn her curls had gone to her waist. She was stunning.
He looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time, and mayhap he was. Petite souris. It didn’t fit—it had never fit. She wasn’t at all plain. She wasn’t a typical English beauty, true. But she was lovely in a way that was patently hers, and he wanted to bed her with an irrational need. Perhaps it was because she was denying him. Perhaps it was because she was different than he remembered, showing him such fire. She was his, and yet he didn’t deserve her. He didn’t know why he wanted her with such unexpected desperation, though with the insistent hardness of his cock, he was sure he didn’t care. When he fucked, he wasn’t required to think. He didn’t need to recall just how much of a bastard he’d been to the woman in his arms. How appallingly much like his father.
“You can let me, my dear. I’m your husband,” he cajoled, giving her another sound kiss. He could lose himself in her, spend inside her, forget everything and everyone as he made her body sing with pleasure.
She kissed him in return, her arms going round his neck. She fitted her lips to his with an unpracticed urgency that ensnared him. He thought he was gaining ground until she stopped, tearing her mouth away. Her eyes were wide and expressive. “I cannot. You don’t understand, Pembroke. It’s too difficult.” She pushed at him again and he moved, although the force she exerted wasn’t enough to move a baby rabbit.
Victoria hopped down from the table, her breathing visibly heavy. Her expression was nearly indecipherable, but perhaps a combination of agony and longing. He hoped for the longing, at least. The rest of his life depended upon it.
Mayhap even the rest of their life together, if there could indeed be such a thing.
“I will prove myself to you,” he vowed, though he hadn’t the slightest notion of how he could accomplish such a feat. After all, he had no choice. He never had.
Chapter Three
Victoria hovered at the threshold of the music room, watching Pembroke’s broad back as he played. Faint strains of piano music had drifted to her in the library. Lively and lilting, the tune had drawn her from her hiding place among the musty walls of books. She’d known, of course, that it was him playing. Surely no servant would dare to make a presumption so glaring, and surely no servant could play with such practiced skill. But still she’d come, her curiosity luring her.
The thought of him playing an instrument, creating the haunting beauty of a melody, those long fingers of his working over the keys, had somehow seemed impossible. Improbable. For no man could play the piano as he did—with effortless beauty and striking passion—without possessing a soul. And up until this very moment, she would’ve sworn he didn’t have one.
She caught her skirts in her hand. Truly, she should go before he caught sight of her. Spending time alone with Pembroke, she’d fast discovered, was perilous to her newfound sense of liberty. She’d realized something about herself since his return. For all that she’d felt trapped in the country, she’d delighted in her task of making Carrington House shine again. Even the piano he played, the room in which he set loose such passionate notes, had been in sad neglect. She’d had the piano tuned and ebonized, the room dusted and rearranged, the stained wallpaper, worn carpets, and outmoded furniture replaced. Her father had sent her a handsome allotment, and she’d put those funds to good use.
Yes, she really ought to go. The song, a familiar tune by Pleyel, was nearing its completion. At any moment, he could turn, catch sight of her, attempt to importune her again with sinful kisses and a wandering touch. Of course she didn’t want that. She turned.
The music stopped, the air going still.
“Wait.”
Ignore him. Just go. Keep walking. She took another step, self-preservation at the reins.
“Victoria, don’t go.”
She pivoted before she could rethink the wisdom of obeying him. His words had been part demand, part request. He didn’t deserve her presence. She didn’t owe him her time. But their gazes clashed and held, and even with the distance between them, something made her retrace
her steps, at least back to the threshold where she’d lingered before.
“What do you want, my lord?” She would be cool to him. Civil but not kind. Above all, she didn’t owe him kindness.
He stood, and she realized for the first time how informally he was dressed. Trousers and a crisp white shirt beneath a charcoal waistcoat. No jacket. He looked at home, and the thought produced an unwanted frisson of emotion unfurling within her.
“Do you intend to hover in the hall, or will you join me?”
His rakish grin, taunting and yet inviting, sent heat careening through her. “I intend to remain where I’m safe.”
“Ah.” He sauntered toward her with the bold air of a man who knew exactly the picture he presented. Who knew exactly how much he could make a woman—any woman—want him. “You speak of yesterday’s breakfast.”
“I speak of your attempts to sway me from my course.” Divorce. Yes, that was her course. Even if she had brokered a sort of peace for herself here, a certain amount of contentedness cultivated by her industrious nature, Carrington House was not where she belonged. England was not where she belonged. Nor was she meant to be his wife.
He stopped when he was near enough that her skirts brushed his trousers. His expression was unreadable. “Your course? Surely you cannot be continuing on with this divorce claptrap?”
How dare he dismiss her concerns, he who had spent all of their married life chasing other women until a scant few days ago? Her lips flattened into a grim line. “Freedom is not claptrap, my lord.”
“Freedom.” He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping it up. “Freedom is an American fiction. Of course you must realize that none of us, neither you nor I, are ever truly free, Lady Pembroke. The whims of society and the trappings of our civilized world see to that.”
She pulled away from his grasp. “What a grim view of the world you must have.”
He smiled at that, but it was not a smile that carried to the vivid depths of his blue eyes. Nor was it particularly pleasant. “Surely no more grim than your view of me, dear heart.”
Victoria swallowed. Was it just her imagination, or was he leaning into her? Her skirts hadn’t been so thoroughly crushed against his powerful thighs just a moment ago, had they? She didn’t dare look down or glance away. He was an odd, compelling man, at turns charming and carefree, others dark and jaded. Perhaps the real Pembroke could be found somewhere in between the disparate faces he presented.
“You haven’t given me reason to view you otherwise,” she pointed out to him.
“I shall endeavor to change that.”
“You needn’t bother.”
He stared at her, long and frank, until her cheeks heated. “Why don’t you cross the threshold? I rather fancy you don’t trust yourself.”
She scoffed. “Of course I trust myself. It is you I don’t trust. It is you who isn’t worthy of my trust.”
“Can it be that you’re afraid?” he drawled the question, almost as if he were bored. But his expression told a far different tale. He was intent. Intent upon her.
“Don’t be foolish.” She whirled past him, stalking into the music room and twirling in a melodramatic circle before she could think of how silly it must make her look. Spinning about for the Earl of Pembroke? What in heaven’s name was the matter with her? She stopped, facing him, uncertain of what to say next. “Here I am. Unafraid.”
“Here you are,” he agreed calmly, striding toward her, eating up the space she’d just so breezily put between them. He caught her around the waist, drawing her suddenly up against his tall, hard body. “Here you are.”
Her hands fluttered up, her palms pressing to his shoulders, and she instantly wished she hadn’t touched him at all. He was so very warm through his shirtsleeves. So vital. His scent drifted over her. Musk and shaving soap. She forced herself to think of anything else. “You play quite well, my lord.”
“I’d forgotten how good it felt,” he startled her by saying. His hands splayed over her waist in a possessive grip. Part of her relished it. Another part of her was horrified by it. “There is something about losing one’s self that is quite heady.” His head dipped lower, his breath fanning over her lips.
Oh dear. She had sworn she would not again wind up in such a position, at his mercy. As his willing dupe. “I didn’t know you favored the piano,” she said stupidly. But it was true. She hadn’t. This music room had been meant for her, not for him. That they stood in it together now seemed almost surreal.
“There are a great many things you don’t know about me.” One of his hands slid up her back to tangle in the hair at her nape. His fingers flexed, catching in the strands. “Just as there are many things I don’t know about you. I want to learn, Victoria. I want to learn you.”
“It’s too late for that.” Even if his bold proclamation did create a pang in her heart that echoed the pulse of need growing elsewhere.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and she felt it like a kiss. “Are you certain, my dear? It doesn’t feel too late to me.”
“It felt too late to me the moment you left for London,” she snapped, holding fast to her frustration, her anger. It was the only shield she had remaining, for her body was about to become limp and pliant and eager in his hands.
“I’m here now.” He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest, just above his thumping heart.
She tried to twist away from his grasp, but he refused to allow her retreat, holding her still. Thump, thump, thump went his heart. Such a visceral reminder that he was only a man, after all. “You’re here until you get whatever it is you’ve come for.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’ve already told you what I’m here for, my dear. I’ve come for you.”
The Lord must have had a laugh when he bestowed that beautiful face on such a rotter of a man, she thought. That face was inconstant. Untrustworthy. That face was faithless. Fathomless. She looked away, staring at the striped wallpaper. “You think me a fool, then. Is that it?” Her eyes flew back to him and she made another failed attempt to snatch back her hand. “Does it entertain you to win me and abandon me for a second time?”
He released her hand. “And yet you were just spouting of freedom and divorce, my lady. Tell me, which is it? Do you wish me here or do you wish to leave me?”
Her face flamed in embarrassment, for he was right. The truth of it was, she didn’t know what she wanted, not any longer. Not as her husband plied her with charm, holding her in his strong embrace. Not as his mouth lingered so near to hers. Not as every bit of her clamored for more. Her body responded to him now as it always had, and her weakness was a devil of a thing.
“I want a divorce,” she said softly. “I want to return to New York. You are unencumbered by me. Go back to London and your beautiful Signora.”
His mouth hardened. “I don’t want you in New York, damn it. I want you here where you belong.”
How did he dare to think that what he wanted was of any consequence to her? “I don’t belong here. I never did.”
“Tell me, what has changed? All this time, no one was holding you here against your will. You could have gone back to New York a dozen times by now, and yet you stayed. You redecorated the music room and tuned the piano. And here you are, in my arms.”
She didn’t want to think about the last five months, about how she’d agonized, torn between hurt and anger, duty and indifference, fear and indecision. Longing and resentment. “Someone needed to care for this place and these people.”
“It needn’t have been you, my lady, and yet you remained.” He held up his hands between them like a supplicant. “Even now, you could push away from me at any time. I’ll not stop you. Walk away.”
What a terrible, shameful shock to realize that it was she who held him now, one hand still above his steadily beating heart, the other on his shoulder. He’d drawn her into his web in true spider fashion.
She extricated herself as quickly as if he were made of flame, pushing
him away from her. “Don’t you dare toy with me. Have you not already done enough? Are you not satisfied?”
“Walk away, Victoria.” His expression had grown hard. “Walk away before I do something we’ll both regret.”
The old bitterness cut through her. “It would merely be one more in a vast ocean of them. Go ahead. Do your worst.”
He caught her arms in a punishing grip, spun her around, and pressed her back to the wall of the music room. His mouth came down on hers, hungry and demanding.
* * *
He kissed her with the fury and tumult raging through him. Will was angry with himself, angry with her, angry at the position in which he found himself. Freedom is not claptrap, she’d said with her naïve American ideals. There was no freedom, not for either of them. There never would be. They were inescapably trapped by their union, by duty, the duke, society. Damn it all to hell. Damn everything and everyone but this.
Her.
His tongue sank into her mouth, tasting, claiming, seeking. He cupped her face, his fingers sinking back into the soft cloud of her hair. Too many pins, too many coils. He plucked the pins free, wanting to see her long, burnished curls by the light of day, hanging to her waist. He caught the fullness of her lower lip between his teeth, needing to consume her. She tasted of bergamot and honey.
She clutched at him, and he didn’t know if she intended to push him away or pull him closer, but she made no move to protest. She wanted him, even if her wounded pride wouldn’t allow her to admit it. Her hair had come unbound now, heavy waves spilling down her shoulders and back.
He broke the kiss and stared down into her upturned face. The green of her eyes was especially vivid, her lush mouth swollen. There. Proper progress. He tested the unruly skeins of her hair, letting it sift through his fingers. With his other hand, he caught her chin, swiping the pad of his thumb over her parted lips. The freckles on her nose beckoned. He kissed them and just barely refrained from licking them as though they were tiny specks of sugar on her skin.
Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues Page 31