“Blast it, Cass, why the devil did you do that?” he demanded. “Invite that cursed Englishman to that infernal ball! As if it wasn’t going to be bad enough already!”
Cassandra gazed up at him, all bewildered innocence. “I thought Norah would like it. You said I was to be kind to her, to try to mend things between us because the wedding is over and there is nothing else to be done.” She regarded Norah warily. “Norah, won’t you like for him to be at your ball? Won’t it be ever so much more comfortable?”
Sir Aidan Kane and Lord Philip Montgomery circling the same ballroom? Norah thought grimly. It would be about as comfortable as being locked in a stable with two raging stallions fighting for a mare. For there could be no mistaking the hot possessiveness that had flared in Aidan’s eyes, and the cold loathing, the disgust that had shone in Philip’s.
As if things weren’t bad enough! Now to have Philip here, to witness what? The disaster that this marriage had already become? Her fumbling attempts to regain Cassandra’s affection? The stinging humiliation and stark uncertainty of her relationship with her new husband on this, their wedding night?
Their wedding night…
Norah cringed. What if Philip somehow discovered that she would be spending this night in her own bedchamber, alone?
No. There was no way Philip could know that—no way anyone could. Or could they?
She caught her lip between her teeth, a bank of blossoms blurring before her eyes.
“Norah?”
She looked up into Cassandra’s face and saw triumph there. The sad triumph of a hurting child, who had managed to wound someone back. And the uncertainty of a girl, nearly a woman, who was suddenly, reluctantly, ashamed.
“Perhaps I could come to your chamber, help you with your gown and hair for the ball. You’ll want to make the grandest impression, and…”
Norah barely heard the girl’s chatter. She wanted nothing more than to bar herself in the Blue Room and stay there forever, forget about ballrooms full of strangers and a reluctant bridegroom who had barely taken the time to say his vows. Forget about Cassandra, the pain and hurt in her eyes, and forget long-forgotten dreams about a youth with golden-brown hair who danced with an agonizingly shy girl.
“Cassandra, go inform the servants to install Lord Montgomery in the chambers across from mine.” Aidan’s hard voice shook her to the core.
“But—but I…” Norah started to protest, but Cassandra had already bolted off.
“Why?” she demanded, glaring at him in fury. “There are a dozen other places he could be.”
“But he will be here at Rathcannon tonight, won’t he, my dear? On our bridal night.”
“I didn’t invite him! You must know that!” Norah insisted, her voice quivering.
“You don’t want him here? Strange, when I first saw you with him here in the garden, you seemed quite pleased that your girlhood hero had come… to what, my love? Rescue you once again?”
The memory of Philip’s words made Norah squirm. “I—I don’t deserve this. I married you, Aidan.”
“No, you don’t deserve this. For marrying me, you most likely deserve a medal for bravery or else keys to your own cell in Bedlam. Of course, you married me and then you told me I was not welcome in your bed.”
“I… after what happened, I…”
“Don’t distress yourself. I’m quite certain I will get over my disappointment. It’s not the first time my wife has denied me her favors. And you will have your so-dear friend Lord Montgomery to console you. After all, you are not completely friendless in this godforsaken land.”
With that, he turned and stalked away.
How had everything gone so hideously wrong? Norah thought. She had run away from London to escape this: the grinding humiliation, the brutal sense of awkwardness that had tormented her from the first moment she had stepped into a society ballroom. But as she recalled Philip’s outrage and her husband’s stormy countenance, she feared that this bridal night and the morrow’s impending ball might well be the most horrendous ordeal she’d ever endured.
Chapter Fourteen
The bastard couldn’t keep his eyes off of Norah, thought Aidan as he brooded, his gaze following Lord Montgomery’s every movement with a lethal negligence that would have sent any of his gaming opponents diving from their chairs.
Every flutter of those gentle hands that had soothed Aidan in his sickness, every nervous tug of those soft lips into a smile or a tremulous frown, every glint of gold or amber in those liquid dark eyes were captured by Montgomery’s arrogant aristocratic gaze.
Aidan shouldn’t have given a damn. Yes, Norah was now officially his wife, but it wasn’t as if he were in love with the woman—infected by that poisonous emotion that had once set his veins afire with the need to hold on to something that was as deadly as it was beautiful, addictive as it was venomous.
He was no longer prisoner to emotions that had run white-hot knives through his vitals with every laugh, every smile Delia had bestowed on another man. He’d buried that part of himself on a dueling field the third year of his marriage. Even now, he could still feel the agonized struggles of the last opponent he’d faced because of Delia’s unfaithfulness. The eighteen-year-old boy’s only sin had been being seduced into sipping the maddening poison that was Delia. Aidan had held the boy down as the surgeon had extracted the pistol ball from his shoulder, disgusted with himself, loathing the woman who had brought them both to this pass.
Time and again, Aidan’s gaze had tracked from the wound to where the boy’s heart was beating, horrified at the notion that if he’d moved his shot but five inches to the left, the lad would be gasping out his final breath.
For what? For a woman who would forget him before the week was out? For a harlot in lady’s garb who would likely not remember his name in a dozen weeks’ time?
And Aidan—hadn’t Delia triumphed over him as well? She had turned him into something so ugly it matched this wounded boy’s pain.
Couldn’t he extract that part of him that Delia had infected? Rip it free, the way the surgeon ripped free the lead bullet?
In that moment, Aidan had done so. He had deadened that besotted fool that had been Delia’s pawn until he didn’t give a damn about her—about any woman, except to gain pure animal pleasure in the silken sheath of their bodies.
He shouldn’t have cared that Montgomery monopolized what few forays Norah had made into the conversation held around the bridal supper’s table. Or that the Englishman had rushed to pull out her chair, to compliment her gown, to ramble on ad nauseam about boyhood antics of the stepbrother Aidan had never met, the crack-brained, careless youth who had precipitated Norah’s flight to Ireland.
Even Cass had bestirred herself to be charming after the long and grueling “discussion” he had had with her after the wedding. Not that he entirely trusted the chit’s sudden turnabout. He was uncertain whether she was testing her budding feminine wiles on a peer of the realm, or merely trying to drive her father to distraction by prattling more questions about the infernal social whirl of London society until Aidan thought his head would explode.
It had been all he could do to remain civil in the hours since he’d stalked from Rathcannon’s gardens. But he’d vowed then and there that he’d be damned before he’d let any of them know the restlessness that possessed him, the hunger that had nothing to do with cakes or feasts or even the brandy he’d drunk far too much of in the hours since they’d left the table for the drawing room.
Yet with every minute that ticked by, Aidan felt the tension inside him wrench tighter. With every glance of revulsion Philip Montgomery shot at him down that perfect patrician nose, Aidan became more and more tempted to break it.
“Papa, you’re being dull as a stone.” Cassandra’s voice shook him from that attractive contemplation. “Norah has asked you three times if you would care to play a game.”
Aidan shifted his gaze to his bride, letting her see the seething recklessness in his eye
s.
Hers widened, like some woodland creature caught in the gaze of a wolf. “I—I just thought that… that you must be weary of enduring tales of—of childish nonsense. That perhaps a game would be diverting.”
Aidan couldn’t stop himself from purring, “I cannot tell you how I’ve been anticipating playing games upon my bridal night.” His brow lifted with a suggestiveness that made color flood into Norah’s cheeks, and he cursed himself as a bastard.
“I meant faro, or whist, or—” Norah’s gaze locked with his, reproachful, hurt, yet containing anger that made her eyes shimmer hotly. She rose and paced to the mantel, and Aidan wondered if she was trying to decide whether to break down in a bout of feminine tears or whack him on the head with the fire iron. He devoutly hoped she chose the latter. Perhaps such a blow would drive this strange fever from his brain. Obliterate this driving need to take her in his arms, strip away her proper clothes, force cries of ecstasy from those lips that were so tempting.
“I truly am not in the mood for that type of… entertainment,” Aidan said with a wave of his hand. “But if you and Philip would care to indulge…”
The double entendre made her chin tilt at that angle that always wrenched at Aidan’s heart. She wasn’t beautiful, damn her, Aidan thought. Then why the hell was he crazed with the need to grind his mouth down onto the pliant curves of her lips, possess them in a way that would drive the memory of every other man in the world from her mind.
She faced him with the dignity of a captive princess. “I find myself reluctant to play any more games today. If you’ll excuse me, I think I shall retire to bed.”
“My dear, it’s early yet,” Montgomery objected, sweeping up from his chair to prevent her. “I will be here but a few days. Surely you can bear to stay with me a little longer.” The Englishman looked as if the idea of her sharing a bed with Aidan Kane sickened him. Aidan wished he could blame the man, dismiss his scorn. Yet it was true that he wasn’t fit to kiss the hem of Norah’s gown.
“She said she is tired, Montgomery,” Aidan bit out, furious with Montgomery, furious with his own chafing doubts. “Since your visit was totally unexpected, you can hardly expect my wife to sit up until all hours entertaining you. Especially since this is her wedding night.”
The Englishman blanched. “I should think that a gentleman would not mention—”
“I doubt you would accord me the title of gentleman, my lord. Now bid my wife goodnight.” Aidan unfolded his long frame out of his chair. “Cassandra, it is time for you to retire as well.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“You’ll have a long enough night tomorrow at the ball,” Aidan said in a tone that brooked no argument. “That is, unless I decide to forbid you to go because you’re behaving like a fractious child.”
“Papa!” Cassandra hissed, with a painful, pointed glance at their guest. The girl’s face flooded with surprise and hurt, and Aidan wondered when his relationship with his daughter had grown so infernally complicated. His throat tightened at the flash of betrayal in those eyes that heretofore had always sparkled at him with delight and complete confidence.
He wanted to call Cassandra back as the girl bid Philip Montgomery a reluctant farewell and Norah a stilted, brusque one. He felt a twinge, deep in his chest, as Cassandra glared at him and then turned stiffly and exited the room.
Not a word—no Goodnight, Papa. Not one of those exuberant kisses he treasured. If the girl had sought a weapon to wound him with, she could have found none better.
And as if Cassandra’s antics weren’t grating enough, his new bride now stood, her gaze shifting between him and Montgomery, as if she suspected that the minute she stepped from the room they would fling themselves at each other’s throats like snarling wolves.
“Perhaps I am not so tired as I thought,” she said, crossing to where the teapot sat upon a chinoiserie table.
“You look tired to death,” Aidan said quietly, and he meant it. “Go to bed, Norah.”
Her fingers fidgeted with the lace at her bodice. Aidan tried not to notice the soft, pale swells of her breasts above the delicately webbed trimming, the fragile cords of her throat shifting as she swallowed hard.
“Aidan, will you… will you join me?”
Why did the plea irritate him beyond imagining? What did the woman hope to do? Lure him away from Lord Montgomery by promising her new husband entry to the bed she had earlier denied him? Perhaps her attachment to this Philip person must be more intense than he’d guessed. The fact that Aidan wanted her, was tempted to take what she offered in spite of that—made him furious.
“Please, Aidan.” She came to him, laying one hand on his chest.
He glimpsed the gold of his mother’s wedding ring upon her finger, the symbol of his right to claim her.
That warm, feminine hand pressed against his heart. He wanted it to burrow past his waistcoat, through the slit in the front of his shirt. He wanted that hand eager, seeking out the ridges that marked his rib cage. He wanted them threading through the dusting of dark hair with indescribable delicacy. He wanted those feminine fingertips to discover the dark disk of his nipple, circle it, before he taught her shy, soft lips to kiss him there the first time.
But wasn’t it possible Norah had dreamed of another man teaching her the ways of pleasure? Was it possible that she had dreamed of being taken to Philip Montgomery’s bed, having him touch her body?
Aidan’s jaw knotted. He’d already been chained to one wife who had hungered for another man when he’d come to her bed. There was no way he would put himself through that experience again. Would he?
“Aidan?” Her voice was pleading, when he’d already taken so much from her, hurt her, lied to her.
Her accusations in the church rippled through him again, chafing him. Reminding him that when he’d dragged Cass out to the gardens earlier that day, it had been with the best intentions. He’d resolved to apologize to Norah for the debacle of the marriage ceremony, and his callous disregard for her feelings.
“I’ll join you later,” he said, his voice harsher than he’d intended.
He might have been able to recapture his good intentions were it not for the fact that he caught her glancing once again at the polished English aristocrat who stood with belligerent elegance beside the drawing-room window.
Was it relief Aidan saw in Norah’s great dark eyes? Why? Because she had averted more conflict between the two men? Or was it something else?
Throughout his marriage with Delia and the many sexual affairs he had had since, he’d learned to regard women with a healthy dose of suspicion. Call it an attitude of stark self-preservation, but he’d done his damnedest to unravel their motives, uncover their plots, before he found himself neck deep in one of them again. But Norah had baffled him from the first moment, confused him, unsettled him.
There was something so blasted genuine about the woman. Honest, open. No wonder she’d been a target of ridicule to the haute ton. No wonder she had suffered such embarrassment.
Embarrassment.
The word lodged in Aidan’s chest. Was that the reason his bride had experienced such a sudden change of heart? It would be one thing to bar a bridegroom from one’s bedchamber with no one but servants to witness it. But to spend a solitary wedding night, when the gentleman of one’s childhood dreams was residing just across the hall, would be painfully humiliating, would it not? And considering Montgomery’s obvious disapproval of Norah’s choice of husband, wasn’t it possible that he would breach the gentlemanly code and discuss Aidan’s reprehensible behavior with Norah’s stepbrother? And perhaps even others?
Aidan’s jaw hardened as Norah left the room, the scent of fading roses teasing him in her wake.
“Kane.” Montgomery’s voice made Aidan wheel to face him. “You’re not fit to touch the sole of her slipper.”
Aidan met the Englishman’s glare with his own, filled with mockery, and a hard challenge no man could ever mistake. A possessiveness so
intense it shook Aidan to his core.
“I’ll be touching a great deal more than her slipper tonight, Montgomery. Whether you deem me… fit to do so or not.”
“You libertine bastard, taking advantage of her! If it were in my power, I’d—”
“It seems to me that Norah’s future might have been within your power some years ago. All these pretty protestations of your devotion come a trifle too late. Where were you when Norah was betrothed to that simpering child her stepfather attempted to saddle her with? Where were you when she was so desperately unhappy that she chose to run away, into the arms of a stranger? Promise to share his bed? Bear his children? Though she had never looked on his face.”
“I care about Norah!”
“You danced one waltz with her at some society affair and you expect to be nominated for sainthood. What did you spare her from? A half hour’s agony in an entire season of hell? Perhaps my daughter believes you to be Norah’s hero. I have more stringent standards than that.”
“You have no standards at all! You think I don’t remember all the scandal that swirled around you and your first wife? You, a gamester without honor; your wife, playing the harlot to so many men, even the most dedicated gossip mongers couldn’t keep count.”
Aidan struggled to maintain the lazy air that had always been his defense during such confrontations. “At last count, I believe the number was thirty-six—that is if you include a brace of brawny stable lads and Lady Redmond’s head groom.”
Montgomery paled. “You repulse me.”
Aidan let a dangerous smile spread across his lips. “And yet here you are, a guest in my home. I can only hope I repulse you so deeply you cannot bear to remain at Rathcannon overlong.”
Montgomery turned stiffly and stalked toward the door.
“My lord.”
The Englishman stilled, his back to Aidan.
“I would advise you against making any allusions to my first wife’s… appetites to my daughter. I promise you, you would regret it for the rest of your life.”
Lords of Ireland II Page 95