He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “Do you, Alexander Bishop, take this woman...” She wanted too much.
“...for richer, for poorer...”
He could never be what she wanted. Tiny beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
“...in sickness and in health...”
Could never give what she demanded. “...until death do you part?”
Alexander opened his mouth to speak. He should set her free, let her find someone who could give her the love she deserved, without restriction or restraint. And yet he knew he wouldn’t.
“I do,” he said, with a fierceness that surprised him. Francie was his now. Until death do them part.
***
Francie pulled the silver brush through her hair one last time. Where was he? Where was her husband? She glanced at the door. The household had retired over an hour ago and she’d been waiting for him almost two hours. He was coming to her, wasn’t he? She gnawed on her lower lip. Perhaps she was supposed to join him in his room. Had he mentioned something of that nature? No. She would have remembered.
After all, he’d spoken so few words since the ceremony, most of them were etched in her brain. She sighed. Would she ever understand the man? Probably not. But that didn’t keep her from loving him or wanting to be with him.
She worked her wedding ring around her finger. Two rows of rubies surrounded by a row of diamonds—elegant and fashionable, like her husband. Her gaze dropped to her nightgown. It dipped low in a daring swirl of satin and lace that clung to her with each movement. Another gift from Alexander. Surely if he’d taken the time to pick it out himself, he meant to see her in it.
The minutes ticked by with Francie perched on the bed, staring at the door. Waiting. A half-hour later, she knew he wasn’t coming. He must have changed his mind and decided to forgo his wedding night. How humiliating. Had he tired of her already? Perhaps her lack of skill bored him. Or had the reality of his wedding vows hit him square in the nose and he was already regretting his decision? It could be any of those things. In truth, it could be all of those things.
She bowed her head as self-pity closed in on her, squeezing tight. What worse humiliation than abandonment by one’s husband on one’s wedding night? It was preposterous. Horrible. Agonizing. Degrading.
Unacceptable.
The word crept into her brain, nudging aside the others. She lifted her head and stared at the door again. Her gaze narrowed on the knob. Unacceptable. He might not be coming to her this evening but that didn’t prevent her from going to him. She deserved an explanation. And she would have one.
Scrambling off the bed, she grabbed her wrapper and belted it around her waist. If her husband were in this house, she’d find him. And then she’d find out if their marriage were real. If the words he’d spoken in Amberden about needing her and wanting to marry her were real or just another part of a grand scheme to inherit Drakemoor.
She snatched the candle from the bedside table and hurried from the room, her bare feet padding down the hall. When she reached the top of the stairs, she stopped to listen. There were no sounds below, nothing save the quiet tick of the clock in the foyer. Had she somehow missed him walking past her door to his room? No. Her new husband was downstairs, most likely in his study, unless he’d sneaked away somewhere in the darkness of night.
She moved down the spiral staircase and into the foyer. The tiles at the bottom of the stairs were cold and unwelcome beneath her feet. She held the candle before her as she crept toward the study, her gaze fixed on the eerie shadows flickering from the candle’s flames onto the walls in front of her. She paused at the door of the study and listened. Nothing. Inching the door open, she slid inside.
He wasn’t in his chair or on the sofa. The lantern on his desk burned low, which made it difficult to discern much past the illumination from her candle. Francie inched forward, holding the candle in front of her. She would have sworn he’d be in here.
Her heart sank to her bare feet as she realized he’d lied to her. About everything. She’d bet her half of Drakemoor he was spending the night in his mistress’s bed instead of hers. He’d used her in Amberden to get what he wanted—Drakemoor. It had all seemed so real back there. So wonderfully real.
Damn him! It had all been a lie. She must face that knowledge and choose her destiny, though there really was no choice at all. She’d pack in the morning and this time she knew he would not come after her. There was no need for pretense, not when he had Drakemoor.
She turned to leave and the flame from her candle caught a dark shadow on the Aubusson rug. George, no doubt. She held the candle closer. It was George all right. He opened one golden eye, blinked once, then closed it with a muffled growl. The animal hated to have his sleep disturbed. Poor George. He’d miss this rug. The house in Amberden boasted a few braided ones, but nothing as thick and luxurious as this.
She heard another growl that sounded more like a moan. George? The dog’s huge head rested between his tan paws, his eyes still closed, his breathing slow and heavy. No, the noise hadn’t come from him. Mr. Pib? No, it was definitely not a cat’s mewling. She heard it again. A low groan that sounded like...Alexander?
Through the flickering flame she detected a man’s shoe, and a long leg, clothed in black. Francie crept closer, careful to keep the light low. She inched the candle up his body, noting a broad chest with a half-buttoned white shirt, a too-square jaw, and a forearm shielding his eyes.
The first thought that bombarded her brain was that Alexander was not in Lady Printon’s bed. The second was that he’d chosen to sleep on the floor next to a dog rather than with her. Before she could consider her actions, she drove her bare foot into his side.
“Ahhhh.” He let out a cry of pain and clutched his side.
“Curse you, Alexander Bishop!” Francie gave him another boot. “Curse you to the devil.”
He grabbed her foot and almost toppled her. “Stop it!” he growled, his fingers biting into her ankle.
She stilled, waiting for him to release his hold on her. The minute he did, she kicked him again. “Damn you!”
He grabbed the hem of her nightgown as she tried to escape.
“Let me go.” She twisted and pulled to free herself from his grip.
Alexander yanked hard. The ripping sound of fabric filled the room and Francie shrieked as her robe tore open and her nightgown split a jagged path from her breasts to her stomach.
He was on his feet, quicker than a panther stalking its prey. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, moving in front of her to block any thought of escape.
She yanked the nightgown together with her free hand and met his gaze. He stood in the shadows, making it difficult to see his face, but she didn’t need to look at him to know he was furious. Well, she was furious, too.
“I thought tonight was our wedding night.”
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I was detained.”
Francie tried to laugh, a short harsh sound that came out like a hiccough. “Detained? Really? Did George detain you?”
“Of course not. I was doing some paperwork and I got sleepy, so I decided to close my eyes for a few minutes.”
“On the floor? With the dog?”
He shrugged. “I needed to stretch out.”
“There’s a piece of furniture for that. It’s called a bed.”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Francie.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she said, holding the candle higher so she could see his face. His brows were drawn together in a straight line, his lips turned in a frown. “And lying doesn’t become you either, Alexander. So stop pretending. You spent the night devising every possible reason not to come to my bed. I waited for you, like a fool, listening and hoping you would come.” Her voice shook. “But you didn’t, because you had no intention of coming.”
“I was—”
“No,” she cut him off. “No more excuses. At least give me that.” She took a deep breath and smoth
ered the pain. “It won’t work. This was all a big mistake. I actually thought you were with Lady Printon tonight. I almost wish you were. At least it would have made sense. Be honest with me and with yourself. You don’t want a wife. All you really want is Drakemoor. That’s all you’ve ever wanted. Well, you can have it. All of it. In the morning, I’m leaving for Amberden and when I do, please don’t come after me.”
“Francie—”
“Just let me go. Please.”
“I can’t,” he breathed, a mere whisper filled with so much pain it startled her. “I can’t,” he said in a louder voice. He took a small step toward her and shook his head. “I wanted to come to you tonight, wanted it so badly I had to force down half a bottle of whiskey to keep myself in that chair,” he said, pointing to the leather chair behind his desk. “Even then, I wanted you.”
“Then why didn’t you come?”
He blew out a ragged breath. “I couldn’t. I have to fight these feelings, be stronger than this overwhelming need for you that consumes me. Day and night, I’m tortured with wanting you. Thinking of you. Needing you. It’s hell.”
“I know,” she whispered, taking a step closer to him. As understanding dawned, relief unfurled the pain and tension that had built in her these past few weeks. In its place, love grew stronger.
“I have to distance myself, Francie. Until I get control again over these erratic thoughts. I must make sense of these feelings I can’t understand much less anticipate.”
He turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alexander?” She touched his shoulder. “If you keep running from your feelings, you’ll be a tortured man all of your life. Trust me.” He turned toward her and she stroked his stubbled chin. “I won’t betray you,” she murmured, trailing her finger along the jagged path of his scar. “I love you. Let my love make you whole again.”
He hesitated a second, then reached out and traced her lips with his finger. “I don’t deserve you or your love.”
She set the candle on the mantel and circled her arms around his neck. “I love you, Alexander. All I ask is you let me show you. Don’t ignore me,” she whispered, leaning up on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his scar. “Don’t avoid me.” Her lips trailed down his face to his chin. “And don’t refuse me.” She touched her mouth to his. “Just let me love you.”
“Francie,” Alexander groaned. “You bring me to my knees.” He buried his hands in her hair and pulled her to him.
“Trust me,” she whispered against his lips. “Trust me and my love will make you the strongest man in the world.”
***
Francie’s words pounded in Alexander’s brain, her promises coursing through every nerve in his body.
Trust me. Don’t ignore me. Trust me. Don’t avoid me. Trust me. Don’t refuse me. Trust me. Just let me love you. Trust me.
He was so damned tired of waging this battle against himself and these feelings that clamored inside, begging for release. What if he did the unthinkable and opened himself up to her? Just a crack, giving her a sliver of trust? What then? Could he do that? Would she accept the meager offering or would she demand more?
There was only one way to find out. He released his hold on her and cupped her face in his hands. “Show me your love, Francie.” He bent toward her, his voice thick with emotion. “Give me the strength to show you mine.”
She smiled, a brilliant smile filled with love and desire. And hope. Her arms circled his middle and she met his mouth in a hot, hungry kiss that spoke of passion and promise. Alexander groaned and pulled her closer, nestling her hips between his thighs.
“I want you,” he said, bunching her nightgown in his hand and dragging it up.
Her throaty laugh scorched him with need. “Then you shall have me, my husband,” she murmured, pulling away. Her gown hung open, torn down the middle to reveal a generous expanse of creamy breast. A pink nipple peaked out from the edge of the fabric. His gaze followed the jagged edges of thin material ending just below her navel.
His fingers shook as he inched the nightgown from her shoulders and let it land in a white heap at her feet. The light from the candle flickered along her body, casting golden shadows over her naked skin. Her hair hung down her back in a red-gold display of fire and sunshine. His gaze drifted downward to the fiery nest of curls between her legs and he knew this goddess from heaven would indeed rescue him from his own private hell.
She moved toward him, hands outstretched, lips parted in a slight smile and held his gaze as she released the last three buttons on his shirt. She eased it from his shoulders, her hands splayed across his chest, her fingers curling in a mat of dark hair. When her fingers slid to the top of his trousers, Alexander forgot to breathe. Those damnable entrancing eyes never left his face as she worked the buttons, first one, then another, and another until she’d released them all.
The need to end this sensual torment warred with the desire to prolong the sweet anticipation. He clenched his teeth and prayed for strength when Francie pulled the trousers over his hips. He’d always been the dominant one, but not tonight. This night, his wife would explore his body and test her powers and he would let her, even if it killed him—which it might well do.
His penis sprang free—hard, ready, throbbing. When her hands circled him, it took every last ounce of control not to throw her over the sofa and dive into her like a madman. It’s what he wanted to do. What he was dying to do. He blinked hard and tried not to think of those slender fingers stroking the length of him.
“Alexander?” Her soft voice drifted to him.
“Hmm?” he grunted. He couldn’t speak, not now when he was fighting for his sanity.
“What’s wrong? You’re looking at me but I don’t think you’re seeing me.”
If only those damn fingers would stop moving. “What?” He blinked again, bringing her back into focus. “I’m looking at you, Francie,” he said, staring at her. “And I’m seeing you.”
“You sound angry. Don’t...don’t you want me to touch you?”
Now there was a question. Her finger touched the tip of his penis and he jerked against her. He grabbed her wrist. “Stop.” His words fell in short, raspy breaths. “Stop.”
“You don’t like it, do you? I’m sorry, I’m doing it all wrong.”
“If you did it any more right, it would be over right now.”
“Oh. Then you do like it,” she whispered, a faint smile brushing her lips. “Perhaps overmuch.”
“Not perhaps, Francie,” he ground out. “Most definitely.”
Her smile deepened and her eyes closed to a sultry slant. “What do you want to do?”
He swallowed and tried to force his addled brain into action. Her fingers pushed his hand aside and she stroked him again, this time concentrating on the tip, moving around it in slow circles. “What do you want to do, Alexander?” she repeated, her voice a breath of throaty sensuality.
He shook his head and reached for her wrist again.
“No,” she said. “Trust me.” Her finger found a bead of moisture and swirled it around until he thought he’d go mad. “Show me.”
“I have to see to your pleasure,” he said, sucking in a deep breath. And in three more strokes it will be too late.
“You will. And you are,” she murmured, leaning forward to flick her tongue over his nipple. He jerked in response and she sighed. “It gives me great pleasure to know you’re enjoying my touch.”
“That’s not what—”
“Trust me.” She pulled away to meet his gaze. “For once in your life, for this moment in time, forget about shoulds and shouldn’ts, have to’s and must nots.” She stroked the jagged end of his scar. “Let yourself be free to act as you will. Without thought to situation or circumstance. Only feeling. Just let yourself feel. And trust me.”
She’d offered him a gift he couldn’t refuse. Didn’t want to refuse. And hoped he wouldn’t regret.
“Trust me,” she whispered, with a smile. Alexander groaned and pulled her
to him, plunging his tongue inside her mouth, unleashing all the passion burning inside him since Amberden. His hands moved over her body, kneading and molding her softness to his hard lines. He wanted to devour her, swallow her passion in a wild union, pound into her until he spilled his seed deep inside her. Trust me, she’d said. Let yourself be free and act as you will. Her words drove him as he lifted her in his arms, never breaking the kiss, and carried her to the edge of the sofa. Tearing his mouth from hers, he looked once more into the blue depths of her eyes and saw heat and fire. And love. It was the last that pushed him to do her bidding.
He turned her away from him, gently coaxing her over the arm of the green fabric, and spread her legs. Then he grabbed her hips and dove into her, hard and fast and deep. She cried out once, but the smile on her lips as she turned her head to look at his face told him it was a cry of pleasure, not pain. And then he let himself go, opening his heart as he thrust into her again and again as the freedom of love’s trust carried him to his ultimate release.
A long while later, they lay snuggled on the Aubusson rug, Alexander’s arm draped over Francie, his fingers brushing her stomach. Had he gotten her with child tonight? Part of him wanted it to be so. He pushed aside the thought, unable to deal with any more new feelings. Getting used to his new wife would be challenge enough. A faint smile played about his lips as he recalled her rather loud screams as she reached her own pleasure. Three times. He’d have to remember to kiss her next time just before, so she wouldn’t alert the household.
He sighed. The things a husband did to protect his wife. His smile faded. He would do anything to protect Francie.
***
“I’m glad you’ve finally accepted the fact Bishop’s got a bride,” the Earl of Belmont said around a mouthful of roast pork. “From what I’ve heard, he’s quite taken with her.”
Claire stabbed a boiled potato with her fork. “Oh?” She tried to keep her voice calm. “I hadn’t heard.” That wasn’t true. She’d been receiving daily reports from the young stable boy she’d hired to spy on the couple.
A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) Page 24