He passed a hand over his face and sighed. “Forgive me. I am not accustomed to having a wife.”
Not for the last few years, anyway.
Though he had known being a husband once more would feel strange, he had not been prepared for the enormity of his emotions. Ordinarily, he kept his emotions at bay. He had been a machine of war for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like to be a man.
To feel.
“I understand, my lord,” she told him.
No, you do not.
But he did not care to go down that road. Not with her. Not today. Not ever.
“The past is where it belongs,” he said dismissively. “We shall leave it there, as it has no bearing upon our union.”
She looked as if she wanted to argue. Instead, she nodded. “If that is what you wish, my lord.”
“It is the way it must be.” For he did not want to feel. He did not want to speak about Maria and Francisco. He did not want to relive the pain of losing them, the agony of his darkest days when the despair had been enough to drown him.
“Of course,” she said quietly, returning her gaze to the window.
The carriage was not large, and the distance separating them was small. He could extend his arm and settle his palm upon her knee without exerting any effort. But they may as well have been an ocean apart.
His fault, and he knew it.
He cleared his throat. “We will leave for Wiltshire tomorrow morning. Given the lateness of our nuptials, it seemed best to wait.”
She frowned, her attention returning to him once more. “I was hoping we might postpone the honeymoon, my lord.”
He studied her, attempting to measure her mood. “Why?”
If her hesitance was being caused by more Montrose-related nonsense…
“Hattie may need me,” she said. “And Monty, too.”
What if I need you?
Where had that stupid thought emerged from? Ridiculous. He did not need anyone. Not any longer.
“Miss Lethbridge has a family of her own to look after her,” he pointed out firmly. “And Montrose has caused you enough trouble to last a lifetime.”
Catriona’s grip on her skirts tightened, her frown deepening. “But what if Lord Torrington does not regain his memory? And what if Monty should do something foolish?”
He raised a brow. “Lord Torrington will regain his memory or not, regardless of where you are in the world, querida. And it is high time Montrose had to clean up his own messes.”
“Please, my lord. I would prefer to remain in town for a few days at least,” she pressed.
Irritation twisted through him. This entire affair was meant to have been simple. Marry Lady Catriona, travel to Wiltshire to check upon the management of his estate, fuck her until she was breeding. Feel nothing.
“Is it me you object to, or is it Wiltshire?” he bit out, having a suspicion he already knew the answer—both.
“I…” She stared at him, eyes wide, her words trailing off. “Pray do not be angry, my lord. It is merely that you are still very much a stranger to me, and I would prefer some time for us to become acquainted before traveling so far from my family.”
Precisely as he had thought.
“I am your family now.”
“How can I consider you my family when you intend to leave as soon as possible?” she asked.
He had no answer for that question. At least, not one she would wish to hear. Not one which would mollify her misgiving.
“I am your husband,” he said, and though the word felt strange upon his tongue, it also held a significance. A rightness he could not deny. This woman was his. At last.
The knowledge chased some of the grief crowding his mind.
“Of course you are my husband. That has never been in dispute. Family is a different matter, Lord Rayne.”
For some reason, her formality irked him, seeming to underscore her insistence. “Call me Alessandro, if you please. I am your family, whether you like it or not, querida. You are going to bear my son.”
“Or daughter,” she reminded.
Alessandro clenched his jaw. “Preferably the heir first, which is all I require.”
“An heir you have no intention of seeing.” She did not bother to hide the sadness from her voice or her countenance.
“This discussion grows tired, Catriona,” he snapped. “We have already endured it once. I do not like children. You will raise the child. Perhaps, when he is grown, I will be more inclined to meet him, but I make no promises in that regard.”
“No, you make no promises at all, do you, save that you will leave?” she flung back at him, bitterness in her voice.
More anger, the only emotion he welcomed, surged. “The time to air concerns for my stipulations was well before now. You know what I want of you, and you must accept it. My return to Spain has no bearing upon our honeymoon to Wiltshire. Nor does it have any effect upon us here and now.”
“How wrong you are, Alessandro,” she said softly. Sadly.
Warmth settled over him at her use of his given name. For so long, he had been known by either his title or El Corazón Oscuro. His half-sister Leonora was the only other living person who called him Alessandro. Hearing it again, this time in Catriona’s dulcet voice, affected him. He could not deny it.
The carriage came to a halt.
“We have arrived at your new home,” he said, for continuing to argue with her would be fruitless.
He was returning to Spain as soon as she was with child, and that was that.
*
The introduction to Rayne’s domestics proved lengthy and awkward.
Settling herself in her new chamber had been strange indeed. Her trunks were still arriving from Hamilton House by the time dinner began.
After dinner concluded, Catriona was dazed and exhausted. She expected to retire to her chamber and await the wedding night her mother had warned her she would face.
You must lie still, Catriona.
Distract yourself as best you can. Think of the weather. Perhaps recite your favorite psalm.
There will be pain.
Pray your husband is quick and merciful with his attentions.
None of which had sounded particularly promising to Catriona, who had already been harboring an endless font of foreboding in regard to becoming Rayne’s wife.
And all of which was why her new husband’s suggestion took her by surprise.
“Shall we retire to the library, my lady?” he asked formally as he offered her his arm to escort her from the dining room.
“My lord?” she looked at him askance. “I was given to understand you would expect…”
A muscle in his jaw clenched. He was so darkly beautiful in that moment she could almost forget what was to come. She could almost, in fact, welcome it in spite of her misgivings.
“I am not a beast, Catriona,” he said in a low voice so the servants attending them could not overhear.
Once again, her husband left her an odd combination of flustered and confused. “I had not believed you to be one,” she returned, even though she was not entirely certain it was the truth.
But just the same, she allowed him to escort her to the library. Once inside the book-lined chamber, she settled herself upon a striped divan and watched as he strode to a sideboard. She could not deny he cut a fine figure in his well-fitted breeches, which clung to his long, muscled legs like a second skin.
As she watched, he poured two snifters of brandy before returning to her side and extending one to her in offering. When she accepted it, their fingers brushed. A jolt of awareness shot through her. Their gazes met and held.
“Thank you,” she forced herself to say.
He inclined his head. “You are most welcome, querida.”
Dear.
There he went again, calling her by an endearment with such effortless ease, making her feel things she did not want to feel, things she had only ever felt once before…wicked things. Things that had led to her
ruination.
Only, this time, they were far stronger than they had ever been before.
And then, he settled upon the divan at her side.
Devastatingly near.
He flashed her a rare smile. “Take a sip, Catriona.”
She did as he suggested, taking just a tentative taste of the stuff. It was potent and bold on her tongue, with a hint of floral sweetness. “Are you attempting to get me in my cups, my lord?” she could not resist asking.
“Alessandro,” he reminded her, raising his own snifter to his lips and taking a long, slow drag.
With his head tilted back, his cravat tied in an understated knot, she caught a glimpse of his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. A fiery rush of heat washed over her, and she could not be certain if the reaction was owed to the brandy or to him.
“Alessandro,” she repeated.
How strangely intimate it felt to call him by his given name.
An intimacy which was only heightened by his nearness.
“What do you wish to know?” he asked.
Her ears went hot. Surely, he did not mean concerning the consummation of their marriage. Breathing became suddenly difficult. Her heart wanted to leap from her chest.
“About me,” he added, his lips quirking. “In the carriage earlier, you said I am a stranger to you. Ask me a question, and I shall do my best to answer.”
There were so many things she longed to ask. She took another slow sip of her brandy, considering which she ought to pose first. And startled, too, by his show of concern for her, so at odds with the dispassionate man who intended to abandon her after he achieved what he wanted.
“How old are you?” she asked first. A safe question, she reasoned. A place to begin.
“Five-and-thirty.” He, too, took another slow and steady pull of brandy. “My turn. We shall trade a question for a question. What do you say?”
He was older than she was, but younger than his somberness had seemed to indicate.
She swallowed. “That seems fair enough. What would you like to know about me?”
“Why do you truly wish to postpone our honeymoon?”
Had she thought him fair? She instantly suspected his game of questions had been a ruse all along. “I already told you, my lord.”
“No my lord,” he said. “Alessandro, if you please. And what you told me was not the truth. At least, not the full truth. I wish to know now.”
“I…” She paused, uncertain of how to answer. Not wishing to reveal too much of herself to this enigmatic man, who had shared so little of himself with her.
“Come, Catriona,” he prodded. “I answered your question without hesitation.”
“The answer was not nearly as complicated as mine,” she argued.
His regard intensified. “Why?”
“I fear being alone with you in Wiltshire,” she admitted.
He stiffened. “I will not hurt you.”
“That is not my fear,” she admitted, her cheeks going hot now. “At least, not in the way you mean. I…”
How to say she feared she may grow to like him too much?
How to say a part of her already liked him?
“Say it,” he bit out.
“I am afraid of liking you.” There. She had made her confession even though she now felt as if she were drowning in mortification.
She raised the snifter to her lips and took a healthy sip.
It singed a path to her belly.
“Liking me,” he repeated in his velvet-smooth baritone.
More brandy seemed just the thing. She took another swallow, then decided to change the subject.
“It is my turn for a question.” Only, she could not think of what else to ask him. She thought for a moment before finding a suitable topic. “If you do not plan to live in England, why do you want to have an heir? Is it truly because of our cousin?”
“Sí.” He was still staring at her in a way that seemed to suck all the air from the chamber. “My cousin is a despicable, empty-headed wastrel who insulted my mother. I would sooner see the title bestowed upon a chicken than upon his worthless hide.”
Well, that rather answered the question, did it not?
“Indeed,” she said, thinking of nothing better to offer. What could she say to such a response, really?
“My turn for a question,” he said. “What did you mean when you said you are afraid of liking me? Am I to infer you dislike me now?”
“That is two questions,” she said weakly, before drinking the remnants of her brandy snifter. “And no, I do not dislike you now.”
Not at all.
Which was the problem.
A problem that did not seem nearly as troubling with the brandy beginning to take an effect upon her. Her entire body felt flushed. Almost feverish. And concerns which had been multiplying in her mind on the carriage ride to Riverford House dimmed inside her. In their place was an undeniable surge of yearning.
For what, she could not say.
For him, perhaps.
Oh, dear.
His gaze had never left her, and he studied her now, almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. “But what of the rest of my question, querida? Why do you not want to like me? What is it you fear, precisely?”
“That I will like you too much,” she confessed and then promptly clapped a hand over her mouth. “And then you will leave me.”
Drat. She had not meant to say that.
He startled her by caressing her jaw. Slowly, almost tenderly. “I am no good for you, Catriona. I am a broken man.”
“Let me try to heal you,” she blurted.
Where had that thought come from? The brandy? Yes, surely.
He shook his head. “Some wounds cannot be healed. They run far too deep.”
For a moment, his mask fell away, and she saw him clearly. Saw his misery, his anger, his pain. And she wanted to soothe it. To chase all the darkness inside him away and replace it with the unending light of a thousand summer suns.
She pressed her hand over his, absorbing his warmth, his vitality. “Perhaps you have not wanted to allow them to heal. Or perhaps no one before me ever tried.”
“Or perhaps I am not worth healing.”
“I do not believe that, Alessandro.” With her thumb, she stroked the top of his hand. She felt somehow more connected to him than she ever had, even as he held her at arm’s length.
“More brandy?” he asked.
She was sure she ought to say no. But she wanted more of the languid, molten heat roaring through her. She wanted to forget her husband was so in love with his first wife he would never love another. She wanted to forget her jealousy, her fears, her disappointments.
“Yes, please,” she said, and mourned the loss of his touch when he took her snifter and rose to his feet.
She watched as he prowled back to the sideboard, refilling her glass. He returned to her, more somber than ever, and also more handsome. She took the snifter and raised it to her lips at once, drinking.
“Easy,” he said. “You are a novice to brandy, no?”
Of course she was. “Yes.”
But she had never before married the Earl of Rayne, a man who made her heart pound and her stomach flutter. A man who was going to come to her bed later tonight. A man who touched her with such tenderness and showed her more consideration than any gentleman ever had, and yet planned to get her with child so he could go back to his life in Spain.
If she were the sort of lady who easily turned into a watering pot, she would have resorted to tears then and there. But she was not. She was Lady Catriona Hamilton, and she was made of far sterner stuff. Strike that, she was now the Countess of Rayne.
The mantle seemed oddly fitting somehow.
Right.
“It is your turn to ask me a question,” he prompted her, interrupting her troubled musings.
“Why have you never kissed me?”
Her face went hot all over again. She had not meant to a
sk such a bold query. Truly, she had not. This, too, she blamed upon the brandy.
His expression had not changed. He lifted his own snifter to his lips, taking a hearty sip of the spirits, before responding. “I do not kiss on the lips.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“No, querida,” he said. “That is two questions.”
The glow the brandy had filled her with dissipated at the coldness of his tone. And she instantly knew the reason for his refusal to kiss had something to do with his first wife.
“What is your question for me, then?” she snapped, irritation replacing the warmth.
“I believe that is enough brandy and more than enough questions for the evening,” he said softly, plucking the snifter from her fingers and rising to his feet once more. “We should retire before the hour grows too late. Tomorrow morning, we will need to rise early to prepare for our journey.”
Ah, yes, of course. Wiltshire. Their honeymoon. The pretense they had something more than a marriage of convenience was to continue, it seemed. Blast it all.
She rose to her feet as well, but the room tilted. Or she did.
All she knew was that one moment, she was standing with perfect grace and dignity—or so she thought—and the next, she was toppling to the floor.
Chapter Eleven
Cristo.
His bride was drunk.
And on the floor of his library, shaking.
Had she injured herself? Alessandro rushed to her and dropped to his knees at her side. He had understood that, as a lady, she had likely never consumed brandy. But he had believed he had not given her too much. That he had given her just enough to soothe the edge off the nervousness which had held her in its iron grip since their vows had been spoken earlier that day.
Clearly, he had been wrong.
He supposed he ought to be thankful she did not possess the constitution of her drunkard brother, but it seemed a small mercy at the moment. She had been felled like a tree in a wind storm.
With ginger care, he rolled her over to her back.
She was laughing.
And sotted.
“Catriona,” he said, brushing a few stray curls from her face. “Have you hurt yourself?”
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