They ate in companionable silence. He tipped his wineglass to his lips and peered at her over its rim. Her fruit bowl was empty, except for one plump strawberry with its stem still attached. She picked up the berry, removed the hull, and took a bite. Her full lips glistened with the juices, and the smallest dollop of crème, no larger than a teardrop, punctuated the bow of her upper lip.
Hayden placed his glass back on the table. He couldn’t draw his gaze away from her mouth and the single drop of crème. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Sophia examined the half-eaten fruit she held before surveying the compote. “Forgive me. I’ve eaten all the strawberries. Do you wish to finish this one?” She outstretched her hand, offered him the sweet remnant held between her fingers.
His gaze fell to the berry and the translucent juices running down her index finger.
Sophia’s cheeks colored and she began to pull her hand back. “How foolish of me. Of course you don’t wish to eat a bitten—”
He caught her wrist, brought her fingers to his lips, and took the strawberry. After swallowing, he drew her index finger into his mouth and suckled it before slowly releasing it. “Hmm, sweet.” His thumb glided over the thin skin of her inner wrist.
Wide-eyed, his innocent wife stared at him for a long moment, and then she ran her tongue over her upper lip, erased the small white teardrop of crème, and drew it into her mouth.
His cock jumped to attention. Damnation, the seducer was once again the seduced. Best to leave before he let his desires override him—before all his good intentions evaporated. Sophia needed to rest. He released her, pushed his chair back, and tossed his linen napkin on the table as he stood. “I think I should retire. Good night, Sophia.”
He’d nearly reached the door when her voice halted him. “Are you leaving me for some assignation?”
Hayden swung back around. “What?”
She stood. “Do you have a mistress?” She wrapped her arms around her slender waist. “Are you running off to see her?”
He’d not bedded a single woman since her. “Is that what you think? I’m impatient to get to some clandestine meeting with a lover on my wedding night?” She really did think him a rutting dog.
Since the dissolution of his marriage, he’d slept with only one woman whose taste lingered on his tongue, who consumed his thoughts, and she stood before him. Anger, desire, resentment all coursed through him—a volatile mixture. He strode toward her.
Her eyes widened, and she stepped back until her bare heels collided with the skirting board. He pressed his palms flat on the wall, caged her in. “I’ve never kept a mistress. I’ve had liaisons, mostly brief and loveless, not to mention sordid.”
She gasped. “So you are leaving me for some meaningless assignation?”
“The only assignation I have engaged in as of late has been conducted with a dark-eyed temptress.”
She notched her chin up an inch. “I don’t wish to hear about her.”
“Ah, but I think you should.”
“A gentleman would never speak of such things. I won’t listen.” She slammed her palms against his chest.
He laced his fingers with hers and gently pinned them to the wall above her head. “I suggest you do.” He stepped close—let her feel the hardness beneath his trousers. “Just the thought of her leaves me . . . shall we say wanting.”
“You are wicked,” she said.
“So they say, and yet you allowed me into your bed. Perhaps you’re a little wicked as well.” She narrowed her eyes, and he believed that if he didn’t hold her hands, she would have struck him. “But I digress. Let me finish telling you about my temptress. I shall start with her eyes. They are lovely, dusted with long lashes nearly as dark as her lemon-scented hair. And her skin . . .” He let go of one of her hands and ran the backs of his fingers over her neck and collarbone. “It looks kissed by the sun’s warmth.”
Her eyes misted and a tear trailed down her cheek.
He pressed his lips to her skin to absorb the moisture. “And her tears are sweet, absent the salt they should contain.” Hayden released her other hand, slipped his arm about her waist. “Do you understand?” he asked softly, his anger fading into a warm pool of desire.
She tipped her head to the side and moistened her lower lip. “You lust for this woman?”
“Yes, more than any other. To the point of distraction.”
Sophia stared at him, then she stood on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.
He touched her face, mindful of her bruised cheek, and returned her kiss. He held back his desire to taste her, to take the kiss to a new level. Gentle. Be gentle, a voice in his head advised.
She moaned.
His tentative hold slipped. He coaxed her lips open, dipped his tongue into her mouth. She tasted like sun-warmed fruit. He slipped a hand beneath the open robe to capture the weight of her breast in his palm.
The coiled longing he’d held in check over the last several weeks unraveled. He untied the satin ribbon of her chemise, parted the material, and kissed her neck and collarbone before running his tongue over her nipples. He lifted her legs, drew them around his hips, and pressed his manhood against her. He rocked, insinuating himself closer.
Her legs parted wider.
Eager, he unfastened the top button of his trousers.
He froze.
What in God’s name was wrong with him? Sophia offered him a chaste kiss, and here he was grinding himself into her, preparing to take her right here, pressed against the wall. Had he forgotten she was pregnant? Or that some ham-fisted animal had assaulted her? Biting back a groan, he set his forehead to the cool plastered wall.
Sophia clung to him—quiet, except for the heavy cadence of her breathing which entwined with his. Slowly he set her down. Her respiration remained labored. His unchecked desire probably frightened her. She needed to rest, and he needed a cold bath or a dunk in the Thames, possibly both.
He swept her into his arms, carried her to the bed, and laid her down. Her dark hair spilled against the white sheets. Quickly he drew the disheveled blankets up to her chin.
“You should rest.” He kissed her forehead and left through the door that connected this bedchamber to his before he changed his mind.
Chapter Twenty
Sophia stared at Hayden as he strode into his bedchamber and closed the door behind him. She sat up. What in heaven’s name just happened? The man had kissed her and pressed himself sensuously against her body until she feared she might melt from the heat growing within her.
How could he leave her in such a state? Curse him!
She slipped off the mattress and marched to the door. As she clasped the brass handle, Mathews’s voice drifted through the wood.
Well, she very well couldn’t demand an explanation with the valet in the room. With an unladylike utterance, she stormed away from the door and crawled back between the sheets.
A half hour later, the voices faded, along with her anger and heated skin. She tossed restlessly about, pulled Hayden’s robe around her, and buried her nose in the cloth to draw in his spicy scent.
Doubtful after what had brought them to this marriage, that Hayden and she would ever have the relationship her mother and father had shared, a union based on mutual adoration for each other. But for the sake of their child and Celia, this marriage needed to work, no matter its inauspicious conception. He’d spoken of the possibility that in time they might love each other. If she made him content would he stay with her, not stray? She darted back to the connecting door, placed her ear on the hard surface, and listened.
Silence.
Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, she opened the door, only to collide with a wall of cold air and darkness. Her gaze veered to the fireplace grate. The normal glow from the coals was absent. Why was the fire not banked?
“Hayden?” she whispered, moving to the massive four-poster bed that the gloom had all but swallowed. She peered at her husband. His hair was sopping wet
and he wore no nightshirt. She sucked in a mouthful of cold air. “What in God’s name?” she exclaimed.
Hayden’s eyes opened. He blinked. “Are you an illusion? If not, please go away.”
“You’re going to catch a deadly chill. Have you gone mad?” She stepped to the side of the bed and turned up the gas lamp on the night table.
“By God, you’re not a dream.” He bolted upright and narrowed his eyes at her.
“You’re shivering.”
“Yes, well, that is what happens when one bathes in cold water.” He gritted his chattering teeth.
“Why would you do such a harebrained thing?”
He mumbled. She could have sworn he counted to ten under his breath. “Sophia. Go to bed.”
“Are you delirious from the cold?” She leaned forward and set her hand to his forehead.
The noise he uttered sounded a bit like a growl. The type a stray dog makes when a stranger approaches.
“If you are not warmed you might catch pneumonia.” She lifted the bedding and froze. He wore not a stitch of clothing. She remembered the heat of his naked skin against hers. Her mouth grew dry. She shrugged out of his robe and pressed her knee to the mattress.
His gaze widened. “What are you doing?”
“I read an article about two Russian explorers lost in the wilds of Siberia. They survived by bundling together.”
“We are not in Siberia.”
“I cannot imagine it feels any colder than this room.” She climbed into the bed and slid next to him.
“Out,” he snapped, lifting the blankets up while he motioned for her to leave.
Ignoring him, she leaned over his body and began rubbing his shoulders. His cool skin warmed under her palms. Her own body heated. She peered at him through lowered lashes while she slid a hand down his abdomen. Desire exploded low in her belly.
He closed his eyes and made a sound as though in pain. “Sophia, either you are the most naïve woman in all of Great Britain or you’re trying to seduce me.”
Indeed. The more she touched him, the more she wanted to explore every inch of his skin—to have him do the same to her. Her face warmed. She averted her gaze. “I am, but it appears I’m inept.”
“Good God, woman, if this is inept, you might have me weeping when you are more skilled. If you are doing this out of some misguided sense of—”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “Why did you kiss me, then leave?”
“You have been through so very much. I thought you should sleep.”
“I don’t wish to. I feel . . . restless.”
He took a deep, audible breath like he fought some internal struggle, and she knew he intended to send her away. “Sophia—”
“You do realize we can . . . That the baby is not harmed if we . . .” The heat on her cheeks traveled to her ears.
“I do, but you should sleep.”
She snuggled closer, slid her hand lower on his abdomen, and trailed a finger over the narrow path of hair below his navel.
His eyes drifted closed. When he opened them she could see the desire in their blue depth. “For someone inexperienced with seduction, you are doing a remarkable job. If you continue to torment me, dear wife, there will be no turning back. I might want you all night. Not once, but several times. Do you understand?”
She swallowed. Her body felt molten—more aroused than she thought possible. The place between her legs grew wet. She gave a quick nod of her head.
He set his hands on her thighs and slid her body atop him so she straddled his hips. His firm manhood pressed against the dampness between her legs. Awareness, desire, and need shot through her. She rocked forward, wishing he was inside her.
He groaned and slipped his hands up her thighs, dragging the cloth of her chemise upward. He stilled and held her gaze. “Undress for me, Sophia. Lift your undergarment over your head.”
A shiver of unease raced up her spine. For several long seconds, she stared at him, fighting her discomfort, then she drew the fabric up and tossed the garment aside. She would have thought it impossible, but his manhood grew firmer beneath her. Gooseflesh scattered over her arms.
“We’re going to take this slow.” He twined a hand over her nape, drew her mouth to his, and deepened the kiss.
She loved when he kissed her like this—when his tongue tangled with hers, over and over until her body grew limp. He flipped her onto her back and lay beside her.
His hands explored her, sliding across her abdomen, her hips, until his fingers drifted into the curls at the apex of her legs. Closing her eyes, she savored his touch while he caressed and stroked her. One finger, then another, he slipped into her as his teasing tongue lapped at her breasts, turning the buds hard.
Warmth traveled through her. Could one die from such wicked pleasure? She skimmed her hand from his shoulder to his ribs, down the slightly rippled plane of his abdomen, and curled her fingers around his manhood.
He sucked in an audible breath.
She slid her hand up his silky length, then back downward. Gripping him tighter, she hastened her strokes.
A groan escaped him. He wrapped his fingers around hers. “Slow.” He chuckled. “Or it shall be over much too quickly. Yes. Yes, like that.” His breathing grew heavy. He pulled her hand away, and set his palm on her inner thigh.
“Hayden?” She arched her hips upward—her body’s silent plea for him to fill the void he’d skillfully created.
“Spread your legs, love,” his raspy voice commanded.
She did so, and he settled himself between her thighs. Slowly he buried himself in her heightened flesh. He moved, a rhythm that brought him deeper within her after each thrust.
Her body clenched around him. Her breathing ratcheted upward. She teetered on the edge, nearly there. He pulled back, plunged deeper, withdrew, and filled her again, eliciting exquisite pressure. Once, twice, a dozen times. The nerves in her body gathered. A pulse beat where he joined her, and she splintered at the exact moment his face grew taut and he drove so deep she believed they momentarily became one.
His warm body collapsed onto her. Mumbling an apology, he rolled off and tucked her into the crook of his arm. Their heavy breathing echoed in the still room.
Every nerve within her hummed. Contented, she shifted closer and listened to Hayden’s strong heartbeat.
As her sated body and mind settled back on reality, worry eclipsed her contentment. Was she a fool to try to make Hayden love her by sharing his bed? Though the physical pleasure seemed immeasurable, coupling wasn’t love, and desire could wane. Sophia reflected on what Thomas had revealed about Hayden’s first marriage. A union based on an unplanned pregnancy—like her own. And, in the end, Hayden had walked away. She bit her lower lip. Was trying to hold on to Hayden like trying to grasp air in one’s hand? An unattainable feat? Perhaps it would be wiser to harden her heart toward him, not give it away so freely. That way, the pain wouldn’t be so severe, if he ended up leaving her.
She needed to remember, no matter what he said, that history had a habit of repeating itself. She thought of her family—all gone. She didn’t wish to lose another person she loved. No, it was better not to love Hayden. Better to guard her heart, save her love for the child growing in her.
After all, if the past were anything to go by, it would be just the two of them soon enough.
* * *
Hayden scanned the stack of mail readied for the morning post. He’d breezed through several weeks of correspondence in a remarkably short time, buoyed by a nearly forgotten sense of contentment. He skimmed over the last letter he’d written, and, with a slashing stroke, signed his name to it.
Lawrence Bishop was an art dealer with connections in every major city. Varga’s dossier on Sophia had revealed she’d sold three of her grandfather’s paintings to purchase her Chelsea residence.
How strange Hayden had bought one of them. The art dealer would know who’d purchased the other two. If he didn’t, the monetary gains he offered
Bishop would set the bloodhound within the man to ground. Hayden smiled as he anticipated Sophia’s expression when he bestowed them on her. They would make a wonderful gift for his new bride.
He stuffed his business ledgers inside the top drawer of his desk and locked it. He stood, slipped the key under the inkpot, and strode to the stairs. Was Sophia still asleep? He’d made love to her not once, but twice during the night, and he feared, if he hadn’t vacated the room early this morning, he would have awakened her again.
At this rate, she’d be with child every year. He’d always wanted a large family. Before he’d married Laura, they’d talked about filling the rafters with their brood, yet it was not in the devil’s plans.
A sick feeling settled in his stomach. He was not the same naïve young man who’d married at twenty-one. Now he knew about deceit and hate, and that life was unpredictable and contentment sometimes fleeting.
In bed Sophia and he shared a passion, but now he needed to make her love him—trust him again. Not with words, but with actions. If he could do that, he might have a second chance at happiness. A chance to have all he’d dreamed of. A thread of guilt weaved through him, for there was no second chance for Laura.
Did he deserve to be content?
No, but Sophia did.
He took the steps three at a time, inching the door open and slipping inside the room.
The morning sun highlighted the empty bed. Rubbing the back of his neck, Hayden eyed the door to the adjoining bedchamber. He strode to it and turned the handle.
Locked.
“Sophia, may I come in?”
“I’m dressing.”
He grinned. “I could help.”
“I assure you that isn’t necessary.”
The cool tone of her voice dissolved his smile. What had happened since last night?
His chest tightened. He blindly peered at the sculpted carpet beneath his bare feet while remembering the panicked expression on Sophia’s face when he’d slipped the diamond and sapphire ring on her finger during the ceremony. Hayden understood her trepidation. They’d say she married a scoundrel. A man who wouldn’t be faithful. A bargain she couldn’t win. But he’d prove them wrong.
Never Dare a Wicked Earl Page 20