I have been thinking of how I can make amends.
Could she trust him, this beautiful man before her who still remained so much a mystery? Dare she trust that he meant what he said? His words yesterday had revealed a part of her to herself that mystified and mortified her at the same time. She had remained at Carrington House not just out of duty but because it meant something to her. Because he meant something to her.
“I need you,” he said finally. “Please stay.”
Those three words tipped the scales inside her. “I shall stay,” she relented. “For a few days.”
“You won’t regret it, my dear.” He drew her hand to his lips for a lingering kiss, his stare searing her.
She fervently hoped he was right.
* * *
After turning about the gardens with Pembroke, Victoria returned to her rooms to announce her change of plans to her lady’s maid, Keats, only to find that her husband had already called off her trip without her knowledge. He was very sure of her, she thought to herself. Perhaps too sure of her. It was a niggling concern in her mind as she joined him for dinner that evening as had become their routine.
“You are utterly beautiful,” he murmured to her as he escorted her to dinner.
She’d chosen one of her best Worth gowns to wear that evening, a silk, satin, and velvet evening gown of dark green and ivory. The bodice hugged her curves and emphasized her bosom. It was complete with a skirt of shot cream silk and a drape of handmade French lace. The gown was from her trousseau, very different from the demure pastel gowns her mother had chosen for her before her marriage. Mother had never possessed an eye for fashion, and as a result, Victoria had faced her society debut with a wardrobe rife with ill-suiting frocks. She’d never had an occasion to wear a truly beautiful dress. Until now.
“You are very handsome yourself,” she said, admiring the way his formal black trousers and coat hugged his impossibly tall and strong form.
He covered her hand with his for a moment and winked at her, the charming flirt once more. She supposed he was accustomed to hearing compliments from the fairer sex, but his words of praise were rare for her to hear, trapped away as she’d been in the country. Even before her marriage, however, she’d always considered herself plain. There were many women with far greater beauty than she possessed, women who commanded the interest of men like Pembroke. The thought curdled the warm glow of appreciation that had suffused her.
He seated her and lingered at her elbow, his spicy scent toying with her senses. He hadn’t come to her chamber since the night he’d returned, and the knot of longing within her continued to grow, particularly after their tableau in the music room. She didn’t want that knot. Indeed, she tried with all her might to undo it.
She treaded dangerous ground now. Victoria focused her gaze on the spray of English daisies and roses upon the table as she thanked Pembroke for his escort.
“You are most welcome,” he said, his voice a low, velvety timbre in her ear.
Unless she was mistaken, he hesitated just long enough to deliver a quick nibble to her earlobe before straightening and rounding the table. His expression remained impassive as he sat. Had she imagined the delicious tug of his teeth upon her? The peculiar sensation of restlessness skittering through her suggested that she had not.
Awkward silence descended as the first course, a lovely smelling turtle soup, was laid before them. Pembroke abruptly directed the servants to leave them alone, startling her. She looked at him askance, trying not to notice how rakishly handsome he appeared with his too-long mahogany locks brushing the collar of his coat, his lively eyes sparkling in that too-handsome face, his mobile mouth always quirked with a hint of naughtiness.
“Everywhere I look, it seems I find another change wrought by the fair hand of my wife. You’ve done away with the powdered wigs,” he noted when the door had closed, leaving them completely alone.
When she’d arrived at Carrington House, everything had been outmoded and dilapidated. She knew from experience that these days, country houses rarely required footmen to wear the wigs so preferred by previous generations unless it was the most formal of occasions. She was once again at a loss. He had always seemed far too busy being a devil-may-care to pay attention to the dress of his servants.
“Almost no one requires it any longer,” she offered. “Scratchy, dreadfully uncomfortable things, I’m told, though still preferable to powder.”
“Indeed?” He raised a brow. “Do you make it a habit of inquiring after the welfare of all our footmen?”
“Most certainly not.” She flushed, having difficulty concentrating with his gaze pinned upon her. “I asked my lady’s maid when I contemplated the change. It seemed so silly to continue the practice unless we actually had guests in residence. Do you object, my lord?”
“Pray call me Will, my dear. We are on decidedly intimate terms now, are we not? As it happens, I don’t mind the absence of the wigs. Always looked as if they were about to slide off anyhow.” He tasted his soup. “Delightful. I shall have to pass my compliments to Mrs. Rufton.”
She hadn’t known much of Pembroke as the master of his estate. But from what she’d gleaned from belowstairs gossip related to her by her lady’s maid, he hadn’t been the sort to notice anything in his household unless it affected his own pleasures. Yet it appeared he had gone to great length to take note of even the tiniest changes she’d made.
She wasn’t certain if it was because he’d taken an interest in her, or if it was because he disliked her taking up the reins. “I waited quite some time to begin making my mark here at Carrington House,” she offered, feeling as if she ought to explain. “You never answered my correspondence, and so I suppose I took your silence as acceptance.”
“Of course you would.” He flashed her a smile that she couldn’t quite decipher. “May I ask you something, my dear?”
“You may.” She stilled in the act of sampling Mrs. Rufton’s rich soup. “But I cannot promise an answer.”
His smile deepened, and it served to only enhance the startling effect of his good looks. “Everyone, from the new housekeeper to Mrs. Rufton to the very proper Wilton, has been raving about how wonderful a mistress you are. I can see much has changed, and yet when I arrived, there was an inordinate amount of dust in my chamber. Why?”
She felt her cheeks go warm. Oh dear. It seemed her husband’s newfound skills of observation extended to all matters. She was embarrassed that he’d caught her childish act of defiance. “You were not mistaken.” She paused. “I directed Mrs. Morton to tell the housemaids not to touch your chamber.”
“Indeed?”
“I had no reason to think you’d be returning any time soon,” she added hastily. “But I must admit that I was also hoping that should you return you’d suffer a very unpleasant welcome.”
He laughed at her admission. At least, she reasoned, he wasn’t angry with her for allowing the dust to grow in his chamber. Lord knew it had given her endless amounts of satisfaction to imagine him sneezing away in it during the months of his absence.
“I daresay you won that battle, my dear. I’m sure I was sneezing my wits out all evening when I first arrived.”
She shared his smile, aware she was ever falling more under his potent spell. “You deserved it, my lord.”
“Will,” he reminded her.
“Will,” she said, trying his Christian name on her tongue. Will seemed fitting. Pembroke had been the rogue husband who’d abandoned her. It was as if Will was the charming, perceptive man who’d taken his place. Except Will and Pembroke were one and the same, knave and charmer in one gloriously handsome form. There was the rub.
His expression sobered. “I confess I do like hearing my name on your lovely lips.”
She forced herself to recall the awful months he’d left her to cavort with other women in London, lest she throw herself at him there in the dining room. “You deserved it, Will,” she said pointedly before returning her attention to her sou
p.
“Touché.” He raised his wine goblet to her in mock salute. “But I still enjoy hearing you say my name.”
She looked back up at him. “I’m sure you’ve grown accustomed to hearing it on the lips of many other ladies.” The emphasis she put upon the word left no doubt that she did not think any of them had been ladies at all.
“Am I to be forever reminded of my past misdeeds?”
“I’m not one to quibble over definitions, but I do seem to recall that only a fortnight ago, you were engaging in misdeeds at the Belgravia house with a Signora Rosignoli. That hardly seems so far away as to be deemed past.” It was her turn to raise a brow. “Until you’ve proven you’ve changed for good, I remind myself as much as I remind you.” For her own self-preservation, she added silently.
“I’ve told you before that I never wanted to hurt you, Victoria.” He put down his spoon. “My battle is with my father, not you, and I regret that you were caught up in the crossfire.”
The acknowledgment seemed genuine, but so had his interest in her during their courtship. Even if he was being honest now, she didn’t know if it was enough. “Thank you,” she offered simply. “I am gratified you’ve realized that much, at least.”
“You are most welcome.” He studied her intently. “Now, I find I’ve tired of the soup course. Have you?”
Her turtle soup had long gone cold. She nodded, watching warily as he rose from the table and stalked toward her. He stopped when he was at her side, leaning his hip negligently against the table. He framed her face with his large hands.
“We both know I never wanted to be a husband when I married you,” he said at last, his tone grave.
His acknowledgment had an air of deep candor to it, far more than his effortless flirtation and charming grins did. She searched his bright gaze, wondering if she could trust him. Wondering if she should. It occurred to her that what had happened in the past did not hold as much power over her life as what could happen in the future.
“And what of now?” she asked. “What do you want now?” It was the question that seemed to matter the most.
His gaze grew shuttered. “I have a duty to do by you.”
She frowned, trying to understand him. His hands were still a warm, tempting touch on her face. “Duty is not a want.”
“Sometimes it becomes a want,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to crush hers.
The hunger of his kiss took her completely by surprise. He slid his palms down over her arms and hauled her to her feet. Her chair toppled over behind her. She clutched at his shoulders, opening to his questing tongue. His words swirled through her mind, confusing her all the more. Was he saying he wanted her? Or that he still considered her a duty?
She couldn’t be sure, but all she did know for certain was that he was undoing the hidden jet buttons at the back of her bodice. He dragged the lace-capped sleeves down over her arms, drawing her gown, chemise, and corset cover to her waist. The creamy tops of her breasts were exposed above her satin corset.
He tore his mouth from hers to gaze upon the flesh he’d revealed. His eyes were hot, glittering with lust and, unless she was mistaken, appreciation.
“Scarlet?”
Flushing again, she looked at the extravagant red corset she’d had commissioned in Paris before her nuptials. “It’s my favorite color,” she said, slightly embarrassed by her whim.
“I adore it.” He dropped a kiss upon each of her breasts, cupping them through the fabric and stiff whalebone that helped her curves to attain the proper shape. “I’d adore it even more if it was on the floor.”
She gasped, reality returning to her at his bold pronouncement. “We mustn’t. Not during dinner. What would the servants say?”
He looked up at her, a wicked expression on his face. “I expect they’d say that I’ve gone mad, and I’m afraid they wouldn’t be too far off the mark.”
“I must say I prefer mad Will over sane Pembroke any day,” she confessed.
The old Pembroke certainly wouldn’t have all but made love to her over dinner. Goodness, what was she thinking, allowing him to cajole her into such scandalous behavior? Bad enough he had her at sixes and sevens. Now, she was en dishabille during the soup course.
“I suppose you’re right.” He sighed and began straightening her desperately askew bodice. “It wouldn’t do to ruin the servants’ proper opinion of us. But I’m afraid I cannot wait much longer for you, my dear, else I’ll go mad in truth.”
He wanted her.
He wanted the shy woman he’d married for money. His attentions had not been feigned. His scorching passion in the music room had been real. Her stomach upended like a tipped teacup. Oh dear. She hadn’t permitted herself to even think of sharing the marriage bed with him again. It was far too tempting, far too dangerous to her heart. But part of her didn’t care. Part of her longed for passion. For him.
His hands were gentle as they righted her gown over her bared shoulders before reaching round the back to redo the hidden procession of buttons. “May I come to you tonight?”
The request sent her heart into a wild rhythm as passion slid through her body like warm honey. She closed her eyes for a moment, uncertain of what her answer should be. Very probably, it ought to be an outright “no”. And yet, she couldn’t deny she was drawn to him as ever. What could be the harm? It was only her heart at stake.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You may.”
Chapter Five
He’d won. Already.
Will lingered in his study long after dinner’s end, nursing a brandy and soda water, brooding. He’d finally gotten what he wanted. His cock had been hard as hell for the duration of dinner, but he’d wanted to give Victoria time to prepare herself for his visit, so he’d gone off to his study.
The trouble was, once alone, his conscience had set in, the very conscience he’d no longer thought he possessed. He cursed and tossed back a bit more of his drink, disgusted with himself. Returning to the country had turned him maudlin. Somehow, over the course of the time he’d been at Carrington House, he’d grown to like his wife. He admired her for her skills at running his household and for her strong will. Back in London, he hadn’t considered the particular conundrum in which he now found himself so precariously mired.
He was poised on the precipice of success. In less than a sennight, he had wooed his wife into accepting him in her bed again. He should be thrilled. Christ, he should be stripping her out of her naughty French undergarments and sliding inside her sweet little cunny right now. He shouldn’t be hiding away in his study.
With his ultimate goal so close at hand, he wasn’t supposed to be feeling empathy toward his wife. She was a means to an end, a necessary duty. He definitely wasn’t supposed to be so achingly attracted to her. Bloody hell, feeling anything at all most certainly was not part of his plan.
Yet, he did.
Yes, he liked her. He liked her sharp mind and the way she pursed her lips when she was mulling over something and the way she held herself with quiet grace when she entered a room. He liked her snapping eyes and her long, luscious blonde hair, and good Lord he positively loved helping to unleash the wicked streak within her.
This was a strange development indeed. Of all the women he’d flirted with and bedded in his life, and it was an admittedly lengthy list, he could honestly say he hadn’t truly admired many of them. Perhaps he hadn’t even admired any of them, now that he thought on it.
A conundrum indeed, one of the worst sort. Victoria was waiting for him in her chamber, willing and ready. And yet here he lingered in his study with a tumbler of spirits, realizing he harbored an alarming depth of sentiment for his wife, the very woman who had been foisted upon him, the woman he’d spent months resenting, the woman he’d thought he could so easily forget. But he wouldn’t forget. Not now. Not her.
He tossed back the remainder of his brandy and soda water. It was foolish to linger any longer like a callow virgin on his wedding night. He was no callow vir
gin, and he’d already had his wedding night. Even so, he had a bothersome feeling that what awaited him would leave him forever changed.
* * *
Victoria had dismissed Keats. She wore only a silk wrapper and a few dabs of orris root at her throat and wrists. Will had told her he preferred the scent.
Will.
Her husband.
It seemed so odd, so improbable, that the man whose presence she eagerly awaited was the same man who had wed and abandoned her, the same man she’d sworn she’d never forgive. Her mind told her she was a candidate for the lunatic asylum. Had she learned nothing from the five months of loneliness and swirling scandal she’d had to face alone? Perhaps not, for all she could think of now was the devastating way he’d looked at her for the duration of dinner. Like he wanted to devour her.
He had kissed her as if he were a starving man and she the feast before him. He touched her and set her aflame. She wanted him very much, wanted more of what had happened in the music room. At that thought, a solid series of knocks sounded on the door joining their chambers together.
Despite knowing he would be coming to her, she started, a bout of nerves gripping her. She tightened the belt at her waist and consulted her reflection in the looking glass. Her hair was down, a curling sweep of locks to her waist. The lamp light was low, bathing the chamber in a warm glow.
Another knock interrupted her worried contemplation. Her mouth went dry.
She took a deep breath. “Enter.”
The door creaked open and she thought she must have one of the footmen oil it. Then her husband filled the doorway and she quite forgot everything. He wore a black dressing gown, his large feet and strong, masculine calves peeking beneath its hem. Her face went warm and she was sure she was flushed as a ripe apple. Her eyes traveled up from the tie drawn at his lean waist to the sliver of his bare chest visible. Their gazes clashed as a delicious tide of longing washed over her.
Dashing Dukes and Romantic Rogues Page 33