“I’ve something else in mind for you first.” He caressed her waist, then higher, cupping her full breasts through her chemise. Her nipples were aching and hard, poking into his palms. “If you don’t mind.”
Of course she didn’t mind. She scraped her nails down the taut plane of his stomach, delighting in the excited groan it elicited from him. “Not a bit.” She opened his trousers, releasing him. He was hard and hot in her hand, and an answering longing shot through her. She stroked him, knowing by now just what he liked.
“Damn it, woman.” He shucked his trousers, divested her of her chemise and swept her into his arms before carrying her to the bed dominating the far side of the room.
When he laid her carefully upon it and joined her, she reached for him, thinking theirs would be a fast, furious coupling. But her husband apparently was of a different mind. He pressed her against the counterpane and knelt at her feet.
“This time, I want to worship you,” he told her in a low, velvety voice that sent a frisson of anticipation down her spine. He pressed a kiss to first one knee and then the other. “God, I love the way you smell.”
She hadn’t known. “It’s merely violets,” she said on a sigh as he moved higher, kissing her inner thigh.
“Mmm.” He continued his torturous trail, leaving her all but squirming beneath him. “And I love the way you taste.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her other thigh. “Here.” He kissed her again, drawing ever closer to the place she wanted him most. “And here.” Finally, he flicked his tongue against the swollen, slick bud of her sex. “But especially here.” He sucked on her, then traced a path of fire over her folds. “Here, you taste just like pure honey.”
Dear, sweet heavens. She jerked against him, moaning as an unadulterated rush of pleasure assailed her. He continued his sensual assault, sucking and licking, sinking his tongue inside her. She grasped his hair, holding him against her. She simultaneously wanted more, and yet she wanted it to end. Wanted him inside her, his seed deep within her. She wanted that feeling of being one with him, the blissful surrender.
But her husband was determined to make her unravel for him. He toyed with her, alternating between gentle, whispers of touch and firm pressure. When his finger dipped into her sheath, she almost reached her pinnacle right then and there. She tipped her hips, bringing him deeper. His rhythm echoed the pulse of his tongue on her. Fast, then slow and lingering, then fast once more.
Her climax overtook her then, sudden and fierce. She shook against him, crying out, losing all control. Nothing mattered but his tongue on her, his finger inside her, the glorious sensations he evoked from her body.
Heath withdrew his finger, glistening with her juices, and sucked it into his mouth as if he were consuming the finest delicacy. “Pure honey,” he repeated.
The action was so sensual, so deliberate. She was wet and hungry, ready for him. Ready to be taken by him. Tia couldn’t wait a moment more. She clutched his shoulders and pulled him down atop her. His cock nestled against her, his strong chest against her sensitive breasts. He kissed her deeply, and she tasted herself on his lips.
“Take me, Heath,” she whispered. “Take me now.”
He thrust into her, sheathing himself completely. She matched him thrust for thrust, clawing at his shoulders, wild for him. When he dipped his head to take one of her aching nipples into his mouth, she came again, tightening on him, the waves of pleasure even more potent this time than the last. In another few thrusts, he too had lost himself, crying out as he filled her with his seed.
He collapsed against her and rolled them as one to their sides, fitting her head neatly into the crook of his shoulder. “Sweet Christ, woman. What you do to me.”
He was breathless. Good. So was she. In fact, she was quite speechless as well. This time, she knew better than to ask questions to which she didn’t wish to hear the answers. She settled against him, kissing his neck.
I love you, she thought. I love you desperately.
She didn’t dare to say the words aloud.
Heath watched his sleeping wife in the early morning’s light, brushing a tendril of golden hair away from her brow. He’d spent the night in her chamber, something he’d avoided doing since their wedding night. But she hadn’t wanted him to leave, and he had been reluctant to revert to sleeping alone in his massive bed. An unsettling emotion curled through his gut as he admired the burgeoning glow of the sun casting her delicate features in a soft glow.
Contentment.
Yes, that was the word for it. He was simply content. More content than he recalled being in years, and he was man enough to admit to himself that the prospect scared the bloody hell out of him. It scared him as much for what he stood to lose as what he stood to gain.
He cared for Tia. What he felt for her had transcended the wild attraction that had initially drawn him to her side. She had become deuced important to him. He woke wanting to see her. He bided his time until she emerged from her chamber and he could touch her again, paint her again, hold her in his arms. Strip her nude for an impromptu lovemaking session. Catch a whiff of the maddening scent of violets.
Damn it all to hell.
He hadn’t bargained for this when he’d wed her. He’d intended to have an uncomplicated society union. They would have mutual respect for each other, share their beds and desire, begin a family. That was all. That would have been—should have been—more than enough. But in the course of the last few months, everything had altered so far from his ideal that he was beginning to fear he’d never find his way back. Good Lord, he’d never meant to care for her so deeply that the mere act of watching her sleep turned him into a maudlin fool.
A cold, hard knot settled in his gut.
He needed to put distance between them. He couldn’t afford to fall in love again. He had done so once, and it had ended disastrously. In love, there was far too much to lose. For if he lost the woman he loved again, he didn’t think he would survive with either his sanity or his life.
The reminder of just how low he’d sunk after Bess’ death was enough to have him tossing back the counterpane and sliding out of bed. He tossed a look over his shoulder to make certain Tia still slept soundly. She did, completely unaware of the tumult assailing him, gloriously beautiful and all his. She shifted as he watched, the bedclothes slipping to reveal the curve of one pale breast and the soft pink tip of a nipple.
He hardened instantly but forced himself to turn his back. Lingering would only weaken his resolve. He had come a long way from the naïve, passionate young man who had devoted himself to painting and love and nothing else. Now, he was a man with far more important matters on his hands. He had estates to attend to, the legacy of the duchy to uphold.
Stifling a curse, he stalked from the chamber, not even bothering to retrieve his discarded dressing gown. The chill morning air served its purpose, diminishing his arousal. He closed the door gently at his back and turned his mind to where it belonged. Matters of his estate. He would spend more time in his study, he vowed, and less time painting his beautiful wife.
Falling for her was a steep cliff off which he refused to allow himself to plunge.
Tia was having breakfast alone. It had rather become a habit in the last fortnight or so as her husband’s duties on the estate had begun to require his attention far more than ever. She tried not to allow his recent defection to affect her, but she couldn’t help but find cause for worry.
She stabbed at her poached egg with more force than necessary and forced a bite to her lips. She had hoped—perhaps naively—that time would draw them closer together. But it would seem that it had only led them further apart. His initial passion for painting had dissipated. He hadn’t even put brush to canvas in days. And while he still visited her chamber most nights, he had never spent the night with her aside from the last occasion when she’d risen to find him gone. Only his crumpled dressing gown and the scent of him on her pillow had served as a reminder that he’d been there at all.
Inwardly, she could admit that she was dismayed by the turn of their relationship. Outwardly, she continued to pretend as if nothing was amiss. She was always pleased to see Heath. She was always pleasant and welcoming. She ran the household for him, making sure everything was arranged and ordered to perfection. But the cracks were widening in her veneer, and she wasn’t certain how much longer she could go on pretending his detachment was enough.
Without a bit of warning, the door to the breakfast room was thrown open, revealing the very subject of her frustrated musings. Her husband stalked into the room, looking handsome as ever and completely infuriated.
Oh dear. She’d seen that expression before. It had been just before he’d tied her to the bed. Only, this time there wasn’t a bed in sight, just a young footman watching in barely masked alarm.
Heath dismissed the poor fellow and barely waited for him to discreetly disappear from the room before turning on her. “Jesus, Tia. What have you done?” He dropped a folded missive in her lap with disgust, as if he’d found it out in the stables mired in dung. The vehemence in his voice startled her.
“I haven’t the slightest notion,” she said honestly, at a loss for his abrupt entrance and equally abrupt anger. “Perhaps you could enlighten me?”
“Enlighten yourself, madam,” he bit out. “Read the letter, if you please.”
She unfolded it with care, scanning the contents as understanding dawned along with apprehension. Good heavens. She turned her gaze to her fuming husband, hoping she could snuff the flames of his rage. “I merely sent away a few of your pictures to the Grosvenor Gallery.”
She had preyed upon those she knew in the art world for assistance when it had seemed clear that Heath wanted no part of exhibiting his work. And judging from the letter, they had more than come through for her. Of course, they hadn’t known that she had sent the paintings without Heath’s approval, and now they had rather upended the teapot.
“Without my consent,” he gritted, his eyes snapping with blue fire. “And now they’re bloody well going to display them to the masses. You’ve overstepped your bounds.”
She faltered. This truly was not the reaction she had intended when she’d chosen to send off a few of his pictures in secret. “I hoped you’d be pleased.”
“Pleased?” He was incredulous. “Pleased that my wife has gone behind my back to make me a laughing stock before the world?”
“A laughing stock?” Good heavens, she certainly hadn’t anticipated the level of his rage. She’d imagined he might initially be displeased at having his paintings sent away without his knowledge. After all, she hadn’t forgotten his reaction to her decision to have his pictures brought out of hiding. But still—this—his naked fury, she hadn’t envisioned. “No one will be laughing, Heath. ’Tis high time you allow the world to see precisely how talented you are.”
“Did it ever occur to you as you were in the grips of your self-absorbed meddling that maybe I bloody well don’t want the world to see my paintings?” he all but bellowed.
Tia flinched at his cruel words before pushing her chair away and standing so that he could no longer hover over her like a wraith. Perhaps she had overstepped her bounds this time, but that didn’t excuse how hurtful he was being. “Do you truly think I’ve done this for myself?” she demanded. “How dare you?”
“How dare you, Tia?” He caught her about the waist, trapping her against him. “Why did not you not ask me, damn you?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t allow it,” she said honestly. “Your work is beautiful.”
“It’s private.” His grip tightened on her. “You sent them the picture of Bess.”
Ah, there it was. The true reason for his anger. She had sent away the painting of his precious betrothed. The paragon to whom Tia could not compare. “Pray, be honest. You’re angry with me because I sent away her painting, not because I sent away any of the others.”
“I didn’t paint it for all of London to critique,” he said, his tone dark. “It was meant for her, and when she died, it was all I had left of her.”
She couldn’t deny it. She was hurt by his revelation. Of course, she’d suspected that despite his decision to begin painting again, he hadn’t entirely let go of the past. Of the woman he’d loved. She had to wonder now if he ever would. It seemed that Bess’s hold on him was as sure and strong as if she were alive.
“You will always love her,” she said quietly, hating the fact. Hating herself for the jealousy that sliced through her. How could she be jealous of a dead woman? It made no sense, but there it was. She had married a man whose heart would forever belong to another.
“I’ve made no secret of the fact that I was in love with Bess,” he said, some of the heat leaving his voice. “We’ve spoken of this many times.”
Yes, they had. And yet Tia continued upholding the delusion that one day he would love her too. It was plain to her now that such a day would never arrive. Her heart gave a painful pang in her breast. It was torture, plain and simple, to love a man who would never love her at all.
“The painting will be returned to you at the end of the exhibition,” she forced herself to say. “You’ll have it back. You needn’t worry on that account.”
“You don’t understand the severity of this, Tia.” He raked a hand through his hair, the rage still emanating from him. “This isn’t some frivolous lark at a country house party. My painting—that painting in particular—is a private matter. I told you that I never wanted to exhibit it, and you ignored me.”
She couldn’t argue with the latter portion of what he’d said. She had ignored his wishes, but it was only because she’d thought that he needed that final push. She’d known quite well that he would never exhibit the work on his own. But not only did his paintings deserve to be seen by the public, Heath deserved to realize the part of his life he had sealed off all those years ago. He had traveled to Italy to study painting. She could see very well in his work that it had been his driving passion. She saw now the joy it returned to him. Why shouldn’t he completely cast off the shackles he’d allowed the past to close around him?
But his other words sliced her deeper, creating an uglier wound than any blade could. He thought her too stupid to understand? He’d accused her of being frivolous, of thinking it all a lark. How very wrong he was. She had never been more serious about anything in her life.
She stared at him, numbed and at a loss for how to respond. Indeed, she feared that were she to speak, she would ruin her composure by bursting into tears.
“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” he demanded.
“Nothing, it would seem, that would alter your opinion of me,” she said quietly. “You have already decided that I am nothing more than a stupid interloper here.”
“This time, you’ve gone too far.” His fists were clenched at his sides.
She found herself wishing she produced such emotion in him, instead of a mere portrait of his dead betrothed. And the awful realization hit her then with the weight of a brick to the chest. He would never even care for her, never mind love her. He’d never been able to care for her from the first. He had desired her, that much was apparent. By his own admission, he’d been in search of a wife. But to him, their union had been an arrangement for his benefit. He gained the mistress of his house, possible mother to his heirs. And she had gained only the heartache of thwarted hopes.
“I begin to think you never should have wed me at all,” she told him, her voice breaking against her will. She didn’t want him to see how low he’d brought her, just how weak she was for him. Her pride didn’t want to allow him to know just how much he’d come to mean to her.
Everything.
And yet he was looking at her now as if she were a stranger, as if she were nothing to him. Her heart broke waiting for him to say something, anything. To heal the fissures that were growing between them into a massive chasm. How had they come so far together only to fall into such disrepair?
“Pe
rhaps I should not have,” he agreed at last, his tone frigid. “But the deed has already been done.”
She recoiled. His words were like a slap to her cheek. Somehow, she stood strong before him, unwilling to let him see that he had broken her. “If you will excuse me, Your Grace. I find I’m quite finished with breakfast.”
It was the biggest understatement she’d ever spoken.
She didn’t dare await his response before all but running from the room lest he see the tears already coursing down her cheeks. He’d just confirmed her greatest fear. She had trapped herself in a second loveless marriage. Only this time, her fate was far worse. Because this time, she loved and would never be loved in return.
Tia hesitated outside her husband’s study door while Burnes announced her. She hadn’t faced him in three days. While she wasn’t certain of what her ultimate course of action would be, she was sure of one thing. She needed to get away from Chatsworth House and Heath. She needed time to gather herself, to heal. Bannock had overseen the packing. It was all done. The only thing that needed to be finished was this formal audience with her husband.
It loomed before her, daunting as mounting a horse again after she’d been thrown. Terrifying but necessary. Burnes returned, expressionless as ever.
“His Grace will see you now, Your Grace,” he intoned.
“Thank you, Burnes.” With a deep breath, she swept past him and into her husband’s lair.
He was seated behind his desk, imposing and regal as any duke might be. Looking at him now, it was almost difficult to reconcile him to the passionate lover she’d known. The man who had set her aflame with his passion stared at her now as if he scarcely knew her. She might as well have been another piece of furniture in the room.
“You required an audience?” he asked when she faltered, unable to find her tongue.
She stopped a short distance from his desk, clasping her hands. “Yes. I have packed a few trunks. I’d like to go to Harrington House for a time.”
Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3 Page 73
