It had taken all his willpower not to go to her. The last two days had been hell, and he didn’t know how many more he could endure, with the temptation of her so close. Maybe he ought to go travel. See the world. He had money, time, and, for the first time in his life, freedom to do what he wanted.
The problem was that the only thing he wanted was Primrose. Wherever he went, for as long as he lived, he would never forget her. He would hoard his memories of their time together, warm himself with them in the cold, lonely nights that stretched ahead.
“You’re doing me a favor,” he said quietly. “It makes it easier to walk away knowing that I’m leaving Corbett’s and the other clubs in good hands.”
He’d spelled it all out in the contract. He would give ownership of his brothels to Fanny and Grier in exchange for a cut of the profits. The pair would uphold all the benefits he extended to his employees—and offer a new one.
“This new profit-sharing idea of yours is bound to rile up Todd,” Grier said dourly.
Rewarding workers with a small percentage of the revenues was an idea that had been percolating for some time. It would be Andrew’s final legacy to the business.
The fact that his plan would irk Todd was just a bonus.
“You don’t have to worry about Todd,” he said. “I’ve spoken to Bartholomew Black. He knows what’s what. If Todd makes a move, he’ll step in.”
“And that’s it? That’s your revenge on Todd?” Fanny planted her hands on the desk, her expression indignant. “After all the trouble’s he caused?”
“Lord, woman,” Grier muttered. “Leave it be.”
“Oh no, you don’t, Horace Grier. Just because we’re to be partners doesn’t mean you can order me about,” Fanny warned.
It’s going to be a beautiful partnership, Andrew thought with a touch of satisfaction.
Aloud, he said, “Doing what I want—what I believe to be right—is the best revenge.”
And it was.
A knock sounded on the door, and Grier left to answer it.
Fanny eyed him. “You’re doing this for the chit, aren’t you?”
His chest tightened. “I’m doing it for myself.”
“You can’t fool me, Corbett.” The bawd snorted. “Why don’t you just marry her and be done with it?”
Because she deserves better. Because I want her to have the best.
Because I love her… and always will.
Grier returned, announcing, “We’ve got a problem.”
“What sort of problem?” Andrew said.
The Scot shook his head. “It’s best you see for yourself.”
That didn’t bode well.
Getting to his feet, he shrugged into his jacket. “Lead the way.”
He and Grier hadn’t even made it to the front salon when he heard the brouhaha, the excited swell of chatter. He frowned. What the bloody hell is going on? The salon was packed with bodies. Men were craning their necks to see over one another, their attention centered on something… by the pianoforte? He couldn’t see through the throng, couldn’t guess what would captivate this raucous bunch. Surely not a musical performance—unless one of the wenches was doing it naked.
While that did happen occasionally, it never created a stir like this one.
Andrew pushed through to the front of the crowd—and stopped short.
His disbelieving eyes took in Primrose standing by the pianoforte. No longer dressed in widow’s weeds, she wore a vibrant yellow gown the color of her namesake. The diamond necklace he’d given her sparkled like dew around her throat. She was so beautiful that he ached just looking at her. Her eyes met his, and the expression in those jade orbs jammed his breath.
She said to Sally, who was seated at the piano (fully dressed—thank God), “I’m ready.”
Sally played the opening bars of a ballad.
Primrose began to sing, and the room fell silent as her voice floated into the air.
What's this dull town to me
When you’re not near….
Where all the joy and mirth
Made this town heaven on earth
Oh, they're all fled with thee
My own true love…
His throat clogged as she sang the words to him, her gaze never leaving his. He couldn’t believe that she was doing this. Couldn’t believe what she was sacrificing in doing so. All she’d ever wanted was respectability and now—
A part of him knew he should put a stop to this, salvage whatever part of her reputation he could… but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t fight his love for her any more. This glorious woman whose song reached his soul, chasing away the darkness and filling it with her own bright, unique light.
His Primrose. His love. His.
What when the play was o'er
What made my heart so sore
Oh, it was parting with
My own true love…
She devastated his self-control, and for once he didn’t care if the world knew what he was feeling. He saw the answering love on her face, and the rest of the room disappeared. It was just the two of them, the way it had always been and was meant to be.
But now thou'rt cold to me
My own true love
Yet he I loved so well
Still in my heart shall dwell
Oh, I can ne'er forget my own true love
The last note lingered in the air. An instant later, thunderous applause broke out. Amidst the shouts, whistles, and foot stomping, he went to Primrose. Her arms looped around his neck as he carried her away from the mayhem—and past Grier and Fanny, who stood side by side, grinning.
In the privacy of the hidden corridor, he said hoarsely, “I wasn’t being cold to you. I wanted you to have a better man than me.”
“Oh, Andrew, don’t you know?” Her eyes glimmered. “There is no better man than you.”
“Even though… I didn’t tell you about Kitty?” He swallowed over the razors in his throat. “I wanted to, but I was ashamed. It was never good, never right. I tried to end it—”
“I understand.” The tenderness in her expression told him that somehow, miraculously, she did. “You were just a boy when you got tangled in her web. And, trust me, I know a thing or two about repeating mistakes. I won’t judge your past any more than you judge mine.”
“What about the fact that I left you with her?” he said with roiling self-recrimination. “I wanted to take you, but I didn’t have the money. Or the courage.”
“Andrew, you were scarcely more than a boy yourself. How could you be expected to take care of another child?” The compassion in her eyes made his own heat. “It was wrong of me to blame you, and I’m so, so sorry that I did. But don’t you dare question your own courage. You’ve survived more than I can even imagine, and I admire you more than I can say. I love you so much.”
“I love you,” he said fiercely. “It’s been hell without you.”
Her dimples peeped out. “Does that mean you’re going to marry me?”
“I’ll challenge any man who dares to stop me.” He paused. “Er, unless that man happens to be your father. Or another of your kin.”
“My family adores you,” she said.
He was certain she was lying, and he didn’t even care. He would win her family over. With her by his side, he knew he could do anything… but did she feel the same way about him? Was it fair of him to ask her to give up everything to be his wife?
He forced himself to remind her of the consequences.
“If you marry me, you won’t be marrying a gentleman. You’ll lose your position, title, and fortune,” he said. “Are you certain that’s what you want?”
“You are a gentleman, Andrew Corbett.” Her hands clenched his lapels in emphasis. “And none of the rest matters. I don’t want anything but you.”
He strode into his suite, didn’t stop until he had her in his bed. He followed her down, her soft curves swamping him with pleasure. With love and lust and joy beyond imagining. Looking into her p
recious face, he knew there was one last thing he needed to say.
“Thank you for the song, sunshine,” he murmured. “It is a gift I’ll treasure forever.”
“You know my fondness for the dramatic.” She touched his jaw, her eyes smiling at him. “I hope you don’t mind a lifetime of this.”
“A lifetime with you won’t nearly be enough,” he said, “but I’ll take what I can get.”
He sealed his vow with a kiss. Then again—with his body, heart, and soul.
Epilogue
Seven months later
That night, lying in bed, Rosie watched her husband enter their bedchamber.
Despite her dark mood—or perhaps because of it—she noted how absurdly attractive he was. One wouldn’t think it possible, yet during their year of marriage, he’d grown even more handsome. He smiled more. He looked more relaxed, his face tanned and hair gilded from the wedding trip they’d taken abroad. He engaged in daily physical pursuits—riding or boxing at his club—and his black silk dressing gown showcased his honed virility.
The man she adored looked happy and healthy, and her heart swelled with gladness. When he’d first told her about his plans to give up Corbett’s and his other clubs, she’d had mixed feelings. She hadn’t wanted him to change for her. Wanted him to know that she loved him unconditionally.
“Don’t do it for me,” she’d said resolutely. “Do whatever makes you happy.”
His eyes had grown serious.
“I’ve worked all my life, in one form or another,” he’d said quietly. “I’m done with it. Now all I want is to enjoy being married. I want to spend time with my beautiful wife, who I’ve waited for all my life. I want to travel with her, show her exotic places, and share adventures with her… especially in bed.”
That had been that.
He’d done all the things he’d wanted—and not necessarily in that order.
They’d gone on a glorious, extended wedding trip. They’d toured the vineyards of France, the villas of Italy, and the breathtaking islands of Greece. Exploring foreign lands with the love of her life had been an exhilarating time of adventure and discovery… and, near the end of it, Rosie had received another surprise.
Not that it ought to have been a surprise, she thought dryly. Since their wedding night, Andrew had stopped using the sheaths, and given the frequency of their lovemaking, it had only been a matter of time before she got with child. When he found out about her pregnancy, Andrew had arranged their immediate return to London.
Since arriving home, she’d divided her time between lying nauseated in bed, casting her accounts in a chamber pot, and bursting into tears for no reason. She felt worn, frayed, and ugly—like the little rag doll that Andrew kept in his bedside cabinet. The fact that he’d kept a memento of her all those years was achingly sweet… but she didn’t want him to think that she resembled the pitiful thing.
And she feared that he did. No, she didn’t just fear it, she knew it. Knew that he was losing interest in her. His behavior proved it: her passionate, exciting lover—who’d made love to her during a gondola ride in Venice, on a secluded beach in Crete, and on a balcony overlooking Paris—hadn’t touched her for weeks.
Panic thrummed as the subject of her brooding came over to her. Tucking a curl behind her ear, he murmured, “How are you feeling, sunshine?”
“Fine.” She was not fine. How could she be when the man she loved no longer found her attractive?
“Good.” He paused. “Can I get you anything?”
Over the past few weeks, she’d learned to resent that solicitous tone. The unfailingly gentle manner in which he treated her—as if she were an invalid.
“No,” she said shortly.
He went to his side of the bed. She watched as he removed his dressing robe—and, Dear God, she couldn’t stem the longing that flooded her at the sight of her husband’s naked form. She couldn’t stop her eyes from devouring his powerfully hewn chest with its light furring of hair, the rippling ridges of his flat belly. And between his muscular thighs…
Her mouth pooled. His cock hung big and thick, semi-erect.
Her pulse racing, she raised her eyes to his and saw the frown carved between his brows. As if he were disgusted… at her? Her heart seized. A moment later, he doused the lights and got into bed. He put an arm around her but did nothing else. They lay next to one another in the darkness, still and stiff and awkward as two corpses.
He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t love me…
In an act of pure desperation, Rosie turned and put a hand on her husband’s chest.
His hoarse voice came at her like a blade through the darkness. “Sunshine, perhaps it would be better if I slept in the dressing room tonight.”
Her heart lodged in her throat. In all the time that they’d been married, he’d never slept apart from her. In fact, he’d told her that she was the first woman he’d ever spent the entire night with, and she loved how he never let go of her, how they always woke tangled up together.
Now she said in a choked voice, “You can’t even stand to share a bed with me anymore? I disgust you that much?”
The mattress shifted, and the lamp flared to life.
Andrew was sitting up in bed, staring at her. “What the devil?”
She struggled up against the pillows. “I know I’m ugly and fat, but I’m still your wife! You’re supposed to love me no matter what. You promised.”
He looked… mystified? “First of all, you’re gorgeous. Second, you’re not fat—you’re expecting. And third…”
“Third, what?” she challenged.
He opened his mouth—and closed it. “Third, this conversation is so insane that I’ve forgotten what I was going to say,” he muttered.
“I’m not insane! You haven’t touched me for weeks. You used to all the time,”—her voice broke—“but now you can’t even stand the sight of me. I’m so revolting you want to sleep in a different bed.”
She burst into tears. When he put a hand on her shoulder, she shrugged him off and, burying her face in her hands, began weeping in earnest.
“Christ. This is mad.” Through her tears, she saw him rake a hand through his hair. “How could you think that you revolt me? The opposite is true. You’re beautiful, and I want you… but I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re lying,” she wailed, “just to make me feel better.”
Sobs shook her. She felt hurt, agitated, and, truth be told… a teensy bit daft. A part of her knew she was being irrational, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. These days, emotions rolled over her in sudden, overwhelming waves, and she struggled to find her equilibrium.
“Twenty-seven days.”
At his non sequitur, she stopped crying long enough to say, “Pardon?”
“Twenty-seven days.”
“I heard you the first time, but I don’t know what you mean,” she said, sniffling.
“It’s been twenty-seven days since I last made love to you,” he clarified.
His meaning hit her like a face full of sunshine.
“You’ve been counting?” she breathed.
“Days, hours, sometimes even the damned minutes,” he said ruefully. “Why did you think I offered to sleep in the dressing room just now? You’d tempt a saint, and I’m trying to be a considerate husband. One who doesn’t make demands on his wife when she’s not feeling well. Christ, Primrose, I’ll always want you—and knowing you have my babe inside you, seeing you glow with new life… you’ve never been more beautiful or desirable to me.”
Once again, emotions swept over her. Only this time, they were waves of relief and joy.
“Oh, Andrew,” she said tremulously, “I’m so glad you think so. To be honest, I haven’t been glowing with life; I’ve been perspiring in the most unmentionable fashion.”
“Minx.” His mouth twitched. “I know you haven’t been comfortable. Why do you think I’ve left you alone?”
“It was all… for me?” She felt ridiculous an
d swoony at the same time.
He nodded.
“You’re the most considerate, most wonderful, most loving husband in the world,” she blurted.
Lines crinkled around his eyes. “Is that all?”
“I’m, um, sorry if I’ve been acting a bit daft.”
“At least you seem to be feeling better.”
“I am,” she said brightly. The storm had passed; she felt better than she had in weeks.
“Excellent.” His slow, sensual smile stirred a different sort of turbulence in her. “Then you can make it up to me. Your considerate, wonderful, and—might I add—randy husband.”
He swept aside the coverlet, revealing his magnificent erection.
Rosie giggled. “You did miss me.”
“Wretch. You know you have this effect on me.”
“Shall I kiss it better?”
His coffee-dark gaze turned steamy. “I always love it when you do.”
She made a space for herself between his legs. Taking firm hold of his cock in both her hands, she brought her lips to the burgeoned head and gave it a generous lick. His chest heaved, and on the second swipe of her tongue, she tasted his essence: salty, male, and infinitely arousing. Eagerly, she took more of him, reveling in the sounds he made, the way his hands clenched in her hair when he hit the end of her throat.
“Christ, your mouth,” he growled. “You make me feel so bloody good.”
She answered by bobbing up and down on his cock, wanting to make him feel even better. Wanting to give her beloved all the joy and bliss that he gave her every single day, just by being himself. She released him with a popping sound that made him groan (she knew it would). Continuing to frig him firmly the way he liked, she traced her tongue down one of the raised veins of his mighty shaft. Reaching the base, she kissed the soft, supple sac of his stones—then she mouthed them, sucking gently.
“Bloody fuck.” His neck arched, the tendons stretched taut.
She returned to the tip, taking him as deep as she could, savoring his hot spurts of pleasure.
The next thing she knew, her chemise was whipped off, and she was flat on her back, her husband’s mouth between her legs. It wasn’t long before she was crying out his name, her climax rippling over her. And it wasn’t long after that—in fact, it was less than a minute because her climax was still rippling—when he surged inside her, vital, essential, filling her completely.
The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6) Page 31