Reckless Need (Heart's Temptation Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  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 ne
eded 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?

  “Perhaps 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.”

  “Harrington House?” He raised a brow. “I wasn’t aware of any such plans. It’s the midst of winter, Tia. You know as well as I that the roads can become impassible quite easily.”

  She had already foreseen such an argument. “Snow has yet to fall. The journey will be a short one, and I’m expected. I’ve sent word ahead of my impending arrival.”

  “You arranged all this without my knowledge.”

  “Yes.” She paused. “I thought that you wouldn’t mind to see me gone after our last words.”

  “I’m sorry for the way I reacted,” he surprised her by saying.

  “Thank you,” she said simply. But it didn’t change what had happened. It didn’t change the disparity between what he felt for her and for Bess. It didn’t change what she must do. “And I’m sorry for going against your wishes. My leaving for a time is best, I should think.”

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  She hadn’t expected that either. “You don’t want me. You made that clear.”

  “I desire you,” he told her.

  Ah, so they were back to that old story once more.

  Desire was not love. Tia knew well enough to understand the vast ocean of difference between the two. Sadness swept through her, for she knew for certain that she couldn’t continue in this manner, with the ghost of Bess between them. She loved Heath, but his heart belonged to a dead woman, a woman with the face of an angel, and a woman with whom Tia could not dare compete. She couldn’t bear to love him while he loved another.

  “Desire is a fleeting thing,” she said slowly, numbed by the direction of her thoughts. She was going to have to leave him, to leave Heath and the life they’d been building together at Chatsworth House. It was the only way. “You love another.”

  His expression was pained, his jaw clenched. “I’ve made no secret of my past. I cannot change it now, nor would I wish to.”

  Of course he wouldn’t wish to change his past with Bess, she thought with more than just a trace of bitterness. His time with her had made him happy. His time with Tia had merely been duty combined with desire. Not love. Never love.

  “I wish to leave this morning,” she announced.

  “Why now?” he demanded.

  Because her poor heart was breaking, but she couldn’t tell him so. “I daresay some time apart would be a boon for us both,” she lied. “I find that I miss my family, and I’m sure you would like to attend to the estate without my interference.”

  “How long?” he asked, clearly not liking the idea.

  “A fortnight,” she said. “Perhaps more.”

  “A fortnight,” he agreed grimly. “No more. I won’t have us living apart, Tia. You are my wife.”

  She longed to rail at him, ask him why he didn’t treat her as his wife anywhere other than in the bedchamber. How could he expect her to carry on while he carried the flame for his lost love? “I’m aware of my duties,” she told him coolly. After all, he had made it abundantly clear to her that she was just that to him. A duty. His heart would forever belong to another. “I will return whenever you wish it of me.”

  In truth, she didn’t even know if he would miss her. Beyond the bedchamber, that was. But as much as she reveled in the undeniable passion they shared, it simply wasn’t enough. She wanted more from him. All he had to give. And that included his love, even if she knew she’d never receive it.

  “You will come back to me in a fortnight’s time,” he repeated.

  If she’d longed for tender words, none were forthcoming.

  arling, you look horrid.”

  Tia grimaced at her older sister Helen. She’d arrived at the familiar, imposing façade of her childhoo
d home and was immediately bombarded by her boisterous family, brothers, sisters and all. Helen, ever the perceptive one of the Harrington clan, sensed something was amiss and hadn’t waited long to take her aside. She’d marched into Tia’s chamber at the first possible opportunity, not bothered in the least by Tia’s assertion that she required a rest after the hardship of travel that day.

  “How sweet of you to say so,” she told her sister wryly. “I’m sure I’m quite flattered by your kind words.”

  “Oh pish.” Her sister, who was just as blonde as she and possessed their mother’s fair beauty and stubborn temperament, waved a dismissive hand. “You needn’t feign injury on my account. I’m your sister. I can read you like a book, and you’ve got to be Friday-faced for a reason.”

  “I don’t know what you’re prattling on about,” she lied, not wishing to delve into the depressing tale of her marriage. Not now. Perhaps not ever. She preferred to wallow in her private misery, thank you very much. She had come to Harrington House to be distracted, not dissected. “I’m merely worn out from pitching about in the carriage.”

  “It’s the duke,” Helen guessed, not about to allow Tia her privacy. “What has he done? I’ll box his ears if he’s done you ill.”

  “He’s done nothing wrong,” Tia was quick to say, mindful of the ears of the unpacking maid. She raised a brow at her sister, communicating silently.

  “You may go, Dobbs,” Helen dismissed the girl, taking Tia’s cue. “Thank you. That will be all.”

  The maid dropped into a curtsy and disappeared. Her sister scarcely waited for the door to click closed before returning to her quest for information. “Now, you must tell me all at once. I’ve scarcely had the opportunity to speak with you since your wedding, aside from letters, that is.”