by Ingrid Hahn
You wouldn’t accept these from me before. Perhaps you will do me the honor of accepting them now? M.
Her fingers traced over the words. The way the ink skipped in places bespoke the note having been hastily written with a pen in need of mending.
Max.
She sighed. Where was he? Was his inhibition about entering the marriage state due to not wanting to join with her in the marriage bed?
No. Not a chance. That day in the park when they’d shared a picnic… She might have never been so much as kissed before, but she wasn’t so ignorant of men and their male ways to have mistaken the strong current of physical attraction that had coursed unreservedly between them.
Was she?
The tea things arrived, along with the box of dried leaves from the drawing room. She used her key to unlock the little treasure chest and brewed a whole pot, all for herself.
Two cups, five chapters, and one trip behind the screen to the chamber pot later, waiting for Max had lost its charm. She left a leather strip to mark her place in the book and went to the door that linked the master’s bedroom to her own. Hardly daring to breath, she pressed her ear against the panel.
Nothing.
Although the door was likely solid oak.
The keyhole, then.
Phoebe knelt and peered, but only darkness met her.
All right, so perhaps he wasn’t home yet. Maybe he’d been detained.
By what?
She sat upon the bed. She wasn’t succumbing to sleep. She couldn’t, even if she wanted, because there wasn’t a single tired bone in her body.
It was still dark when a noise jerked her awake. The candles had burned low, and the fire was nothing but a few lingering orange embers.
Blinking the sleep away, Phoebe pushed herself to sitting, straining to listen. She felt for her ring. Yes. It was there—real and solid and very much on the correct finger of the correct hand. The marriage hadn’t been a dream.
There was the sound of a door closing. Her heart began pounding madly.
Max.
Had to be.
She brushed the hair back from her eyes and stood to straighten her night rail.
A small glow appeared in the space between the bottom of the door to his chamber and the floor. Yes, it was him.
A delicious heat swelled between her legs. Max couldn’t enter her bedchamber soon enough. She was so ready to know everything—to learn everything in his arms.
In her lap, she clenched one hand atop the other to keep her fingers still. It was one part nerves and one part blatant excitement. Of all the people, in all the world, with whom a woman could be bedded, she would be bedded by Max. What dashed fine luck.
But he didn’t come. Time, of course, had likely turned to sludge, so she made do and waited longer. And longer. And longer.
The light under the door vanished. She scowled. This was her wedding night. By God, she was going to have one. She wasn’t going to think on the matter any longer. If she allowed herself the comfort of an advantage versus disadvantage list, her legs might refuse to carry her to where she wanted to be.
With that—before she could allow herself time to think—she marched to the door and flung it open.
Chapter Eighteen
Max collapsed in a chair. With the hours he normally kept, he never made Digsby wait up for him. So there was never anybody to greet him when he finally dragged his weary body into his bedchamber.
Perhaps tonight he should have made an exception to the rule. He’d punished himself far, far worse than he had in ages. Not since the night Juliet had died, when he’d been blind with near-crippling grief, had he worked so mercilessly—which he wasn’t going to think about now. As it was, he had to find a way to remove his clothing without help. It’d be no easy chore. He could barely lift his arms. And move…no. It seemed nigh on impossible.
Maybe he’d sleep in the chair tonight. Fully dressed. Digsby could attend him in the morning. The valet preferred to be the one to manage Max’s clothes, anyway. And bed seemed desperately far away.
At least there was no chance of hobbling to Phoebe’s room and throwing everything away by slipping between her sheets and…
Oh, hell. He was exhausted. All of him. Even his cock.
His cock defied the thought by lengthening and stretching. Phoebe was in the bed next door. His wife. His for the taking.
Ha! Mine for the taking, indeed. What a lark. He was many things, but he would never be a brute of a husband. Were there any men who treated their wives so ill? They were hearty fools, if they did.
Not that he could throw stones on the husband score. What sort would he make? His poor, sweet, trusting, brilliant, beautiful Phoebe. She deserved so much better. He had nothing to offer her. Little more than a name, and what good was Maxfeld, really? There was also Thomas, whom, if Max had his wish, she might one day come to think of as a son.
Max rubbed his temples. He’d gone out specifically to shut away unwanted thoughts. In addition to curbing his base desires, of course, which didn’t seem to have worked in his favor.
For now…sleep. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…creeps in this petty pace from day to day…
Tomorrow he could think about whatever he cared to think about, from plays, to Phoebe, for however long he wanted to think about them.
He reached to the nearby table and pinched out the candle.
Darkness took him in her warm embrace. And soon, the sweet solace of oblivion would fall upon his head, saving him from these tortured longings.
The door that never opened—the one he couldn’t stop thinking about—opened.
He needed no light to know who was there. Candles burned in her room, creating a soft glow around the shape of the dark figure.
Phoebe.
“And what is it you think you’re doing?” Max snarled, harsher than he ever wanted to speak to his wife. But she had to stay away.
“We’re married.”
“I was there.”
“Well, aren’t we going to… I mean, aren’t you going to… I mean, I thought we were supposed to…” She cleared her throat.
His body responded with a resounding yes. His arms said yes to holding her. His lips said yes to finding their way upon hers and kissing her in every imaginable manner. His cock said yes to exploring her from the inside.
“Go back to bed, Phoebe.”
“Come with me.” Her voice wavered with vulnerability.
Hell.
“I can’t.”
“What’s the matter? What is your terrible secret? Do you have some vile disease you’d give to me if we—”
“No.” Making her believe otherwise might have suited his purposes, but that struck too hard a blow to his pride.
“Well, you can, can’t you? I mean, you’re…er…capable.”
“I assume so.” His cock felt all the force of the near insult, straining for the chance to be put to its proper use, once and for all.
All day long he’d fought the voice in his head trying to make him believe he’d be master of himself—that it’d be the same as any other woman. That he’d be able to partake of certain pleasures without succumbing to the temptation of breaking his vow.
The voice had lied.
“But you won’t?”
“No.”
“Is it me?”
He forced himself to stand and lit a candle. If they were going to talk, they wouldn’t do so in the dark. “Certainly not.”
She took a few tentative steps into the room. Her feet were bare, her head uncovered, that glossy hair of hers long and loose. Her rumpled bedclothes hung loose about her body, only hinting at the womanly figure they concealed. “Tell me.”
No doubt the conversation would have been far easier if they’d remained in the dark. Max had to force himself to look away. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”
“We can talk about it now.”
He rubbed his eyes. “It’s late.”
“Have you somepla
ce to be tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Early?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
Unaccustomed to being so bluntly called out, he raised his head. “No, I’m not. I’m going to rise early, have my face shaved, be dressed, and leave.”
“That tells me only that you’re leaving, not that you have someplace to be. I can only assume you mean to distance yourself from me.”
“I suppose I do.”
“The time has come to explain, Max. We’re married. I’m your wife. I’m owed at least a reason as to why my husband must stay away from me.”
He drew a long breath. “Because I want you too much.”
A brutal silence followed his pronouncement. Finally, she ventured a shy reply. “There’s an easy remedy for that.”
A tiny smile pulled his lips. “If only it were that simple.” He was riding a second wind, his body apparently having lied about being so utterly exhausted. He could take her into his arms…bring her to his bed…
“Why isn’t it that simple? Your reputation isn’t spotless, you know. You’ve had intrigues, I know you have. And if them, then why not me?”
“Ah, but you’re wrong in your assumption that I took them to my bed, my sweet.”
Her eyes went enormous. “What?”
“I know what you’re thinking, and no, you’re not mistaken.”
“But…”
Unable to witness her expression, he put his back to her. “I won’t father children, Phoebe.”
Her voice dropped an octave. “What?”
“I should never have allowed our relationship to progress so far. Yesterday, I was angry…”
“You don’t want children?”
His mouth twisted. If he was going to bare himself to her, there was no point in holding back. Still, he couldn’t quite risk answering with complete honesty, for fear of hearing his own voice quake. “There are many things in life that are for other people and not for me.”
She took hold of his arm, her fragrance permeating his senses. “That’s absurd.”
“Phoebe, I’m sorry.”
“I won’t hear it.”
The truth came to the tip of his tongue. And with it, the agony returned. Twisting. Relentless. Vitriolic as all hell.
If he didn’t speak now, would he ever? This thing—this shadow, this darkness—had been over him for every minute of every day of his life. It never left him completely. It ruled him.
But he had to take some of himself back. He must admit it here and now, in the low light of his bedchamber in the middle of the night. Alone with her.
“I wish…” He sighed. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you.”
“Don’t bother about that. Tell me. I think I already know, but whatever it is, I want you to confide in me.” She paused, softening. “I would be honored if you would.”
“My father went mad.” There. He’d said it. Shame wound its ugly vines around his heart in a bitter stranglehold. Memories threatened to resurface. Only a lifetime of practice kept them at bay.
Instead of releasing him and retreating away, she held fast. “And because of that, you prefer to stay trapped in fear instead of living?”
Trapped. Yes, in some ways she was entirely correct. However… “There is more to living than pleasurable pursuits.”
“You’ve dedicated your life to pleasurable pursuits.”
He turned to meet her eyes, but didn’t speak.
Understanding softened her face. “Oh, Max.” She took his hand, threading her fingers in his, and squeezed. “I’m so sorry. You’ve spent your whole life playing this role in order to hide from your past.”
He squeezed her hand back. “That’s a facile interpretation, if ever I heard one.”
“Is it?”
Not entirely.
“Why don’t you leave?” Unlinking their fingers, he reached to stroke her chin. Her skin was so soft. Max had been tempted before, but never like this. Everything in him wanted to skim his lips over hers. Just a taste. One taste. “I’ve misled you. Horribly. In the worst way a man can.” His voice went rough. “Why don’t you rant and rail against me and swear revenge?”
But he knew himself too well to listen to the urges coaxing him to stumble and slide down that particular slope. He was not to be trusted. Not where Phoebe was concerned.
“Because I’m your wife.”
“That’s not a good enough reason.”
“Would you rather I flew into a temper?”
“I’d understand if you did.”
She drew a long breath. “‘Because I’m your wife’ will have to do as a reason for now until we find another.”
“Now you’re being plain stubborn.”
“Don’t be cynical.”
Max’s mouth twisted. If she’d seen what he’d seen… “I know no other way of being.”
“I think you do. I think…well, you can learn. If you want. And I do hope you want to learn, Max, really I do.” Pausing, she pressed her lips together. “Whatever you do with your past is up to you. However you want to think about it, protect it, share it, understand it. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel. I will never condemn you for any emotion you might have.”
His wife was far more generous with him than he was with himself.
She continued. “What you do with your emotions, however, is a different matter, because what one does is the only thing that counts. And what we have is a future—a future together. We must make something of it. Something good. I want you to allow me to be a part of it, and not in name only.”
Oh, angels in heaven help him. This woman only had to say the word and his heart would be hers. Unreservedly, wholly, and forever.
“I can’t risk hurting you. I can’t risk becoming what my father became and doing to my child what he…” Max shook his head. “It’s no good. I swore I’d never marry, and selfishly, because I wanted to call you my own, I did marry. But that’s as far as this goes. I broke one vow to myself. I will never break another.”
“Some risks are worth taking, Max.”
“Not these.”
She was so close, their bodies almost pressed together. Head tilted back as if to offer him her lips, she reached up to cup her hand over his cheek, her skin radiating soft warmth against his. “Just one kiss?”
Max was sore, and his muscles ached. But not because of the evening’s exertions. No, those were long forgotten. He ached from the strength it took to resist her.
This would be the trial of his life. Did he have enough strength remaining in him to prevent his raging need to have her—really have her—if he took this road?
The control on which he’d prided himself for all his adult life was crumbling.
Some risks are worth taking…
She was wrong. But the words sounded right. So very right. And he was weak. He no longer had the strength to resist. Could he trust himself with a single taste? Because nobody could be strong forever. Not even him.
Chapter Nineteen
Phoebe’s eyes closed as Max’s mouth met hers. She drew the mysteriously masculine scent of him as deep into herself as her lungs would allow. Their lips locked gently. He kissed her and kissed her again, each small movement building upon the last.
“Max, did you really marry me because you were angry with me?”
He softened, reaching out to stroke her hair, voice dropping. “No.”
“I don’t wish for you to regret our marriage.”
“I don’t wish for you to regret our marriage.”
How could she regret a single second spent with this man? “And I want to be your wife.”
“You are my wife.”
“I mean…” She expected a rush of heat to overtake her face. None came. Her wants and desires didn’t seem shameful. Oh, she wouldn’t be introducing the subject into her everyday discourse, not by any means. But Max, he was different. Her husband. Not only that, the man she wanted. The man who, strange as it still m
ight seem, she’d come to trust so unreservedly. “You know what I mean. Please reconsider.”
A terrifying silence fell over the room. If he became angry with her, she wouldn’t be able to bear it.
The horrifying interval came to an end, and a shiver coursed quickly over her spine. “There are other ways, my sweet.” His whisper might have been low, but his deep voice rippled under her skin, ripening her for pleasure.
“Other ways?” Her mind scampered in all directions for answers, but supplied only questions.
He ran his lips back and forth over her brow. “Other ways I might please you.”
Oh. Other ways. She blinked, the pieces falling together in her mind. Oh! Other ways.
She went dizzy. Breathless. Her knees went doughy, legs threatening to collapse under her. “You mean in bed?”
“It’s as good a place as any. For now.” He smiled. “I daresay you would like that, wouldn’t you?”
Unable to speak, Phoebe could only nod.
There had been no guarantee he would even have a care for her pleasure in the marital bed. Whispered horror stories and vile tales of what a woman must endure for the sake of her husband were not common. But neither were they exactly uncommon, even to Phoebe’s oh-so-tender ears.
She, while unmarried herself, should have been a sheltered innocent—a term she’d never liked and a category for which she’d never had any use. How had such a fine point in marriage’s favor—that was, stepping out of innocent and into experienced and worldly—never appeared in her list of advantages regarding marriage?
Of course, she’d hoped Max would prove different.
He drew back, his eyes hooded with what could only have been raw desire, heat radiating from their glistening blue depths.
Perhaps she was a virgin now. Perhaps her husband intended to keep her one. But she had no intention, none whatsoever, of remaining one.
If he had never been with a woman and she had never been with a man…well, there was a certain sweet destiny in that, wasn’t there? She would become a wife to Max, and he a husband to her, in the fullest way possible.
That, however, was for another night. Now she would take what he would give.