She tried to squelch the rampant stirring of desire his nearness and heated glances produced. “You speak like a man who has learned from experience,” she observed.
He shook his head slowly. “I have never loved anyone.”
She supposed she shouldn’t be disappointed to have final confirmation that he’d never harbored a tender feeling toward her. But the revelation still stung. Surely he must have loved someone at some point in his life?
“Not your mother?”
His expression was impassive as ever. “My mother only had time for balls and lovers. What was there to love?”
“Your father the duke then,” she suggested, thinking of the rigid, silver-haired man she had met on only a handful of occasions. His demeanor was hopelessly grim and disapproving at all times, it seemed.
“I neither hate him nor love him.” Pembroke’s beautiful mouth drew into a sneer. “I feel nothing for the man. My hatred would give him power, and I refuse to give him anything.”
She was once more baffled. “How can you feel nothing? He’s your blood, your family.”
He met her gaze. “Family means little to those who easily betray it. He has not inspired anything in me other than a desire to be the thorn in the lion’s paw.”
Something must have happened between the duke and her husband. Pembroke surely lied when he said he felt nothing. It seemed odd indeed that she would have been married to the earl for so many months while so much of his life remained unknown to her. She had to believe there was a reason behind his lack of faith.
Or perhaps that was her heart wanting to believe. Focusing her thoughts proved difficult while trapped in the seductive spell cast by being in his arms. It would not do. She’d finally found her strength, and she couldn’t abandon it now.
She gathered up her courage to say what she’d decided she must. “I don’t want to be married to you any longer, Pembroke.”
He stilled, his hands tightening on her cinched waist. “I beg your pardon?”
He seemed genuinely aghast. Victoria felt the heat of his large hands even through the French silk of her day gown, the layers of her undergarments, and the stiffness of her corset. Dear heavens, she wished she was not so drawn to him.
“I no longer wish to be your wife,” she elaborated, her voice as pinched as her waist felt.
“I’m afraid you’re a bit tardy in that realization, my dear. We’re irrevocably wed. We’ve consummated our union.” His gaze was scorching upon her. “Surely you haven’t forgotten? The law has strict requirements in these matters.”
Oh he was a wilier opponent than she had realized. He knew all too well that mentioning the consummation of their marriage would bring with it an onslaught of memories. Pleasurable memories. She’d had no complaints in her marriage bed other than that her husband had disappeared from it and chosen to share it with others instead. She could not forget his sins, particularly after he had flaunted it by living with that woman.
“You abandoned me,” she pointed out, “and I have ample proof of adultery.”
“Complete shite,” he said. “Everyone knows divorce is only granted when one of the parties is a fair candidate for the lunatic asylum. More importantly, how can I have abandoned you when I’ve returned?”
It was true that divorce was rarely granted, particularly in the English aristocracy. Indeed, seeking divorce was seldom attempted for the dreadful fall from grace that ensued. Husbands and wives could do as they wished in seeking bed partners as long as the scandal was not too great. It was Victoria’s experience that the Marlborough House Set, including the prince himself, made adultery into a sport. She simply hadn’t realized she’d been marrying a man who subscribed to the same belief. She had not taken her vows lightly, despite the financially motivated underpinnings of their union.
The way he held her in his arms now could not sway her. Must not sway her.
“I want a divorce,” she said with quiet force.
His mouth flattened. “Preposterous, if not altogether impossible.”
“You don’t want a wife,” she pointed out, trying to wrestle away from his grasp without success.
“I do.” He feathered a light kiss over her lips. “I’ve come back to Carrington House because I want to start anew.”
She didn’t want to enjoy his kiss, especially now that word of his opera singer had made his betrayal all too real. But the plain truth was that she did. His lips on hers sent desire through her. She wanted him in an elemental sense. That much she could not deny.
The truth slipped from her lips before she could hold it back and protect herself. “Pray do not prevaricate any longer. It hurts me too much.”
Hell.
He didn’t want to hurt her. That was a new sensation for him, caring. Ordinarily, he was damn good at not having a care. He’d made a life out of it, at any rate. But his wife had donned a silken dress that showed off the very curves he’d spent the night recalling, and her breasts were a luscious temptation against his chest. His cock was rigid in his trousers, a reminder that despite the vagaries of their situation, he truly did want her.
Still, it wasn’t just lust that sliced straight through his gut at her admission, was it? No, it was something more, something indefinable yet powerful. She wasn’t biting or walloping him now. She was sincere, her stricken eyes telling him more than her words could. And this time, he didn’t want to use her. Couldn’t bear it, actually. The mere thought filled him with disgust for the way he’d treated her.
He hadn’t been prepared to desire her this much. Or to feel compassion for her. Last night had not been an irregularity, for he felt just as raw now as he had then. It was unsettling, to say the least. Damn if he didn’t like her scent more than Maria’s preferred French rose. Here in the brash morning light, he saw her uncolored by the resentment and anger that tainted his every interaction with his father.
She had asked him not to lie to her any longer. But if he told her the real reason for his return, she’d leave him for certain, ruining any chance he had to produce an heir. He couldn’t afford to lose everything. He had no doubt his father would leave him destitute. The entail was very insignificant at this point, a mere few thousand pounds a year and Carrington House. Thanks to the marriage settlement orchestrated by the old miser duke, the bulk of Victoria’s substantial dowry had been left in the care of his father, out of Will’s reach. While a stipulated sum had been set aside specifically for Carrington House, it was to be kept in trust by the duke, doled out as he saw fit. He was at his father’s mercy just as he had been his entire life.
Little wonder he had resented her. She’d been one more ducal edict he was forced to obey. The day after they’d wed, he’d been so desperate to flee her, the symbol of everything he hated about himself, that he’d simply left. But now he noticed her, damn it all. She was clever and bold, capable and kind. The servants of Carrington House had been singing her praises at every opportunity. Even he, blind fool that he was, could see the changes she’d brought about while he’d left her to dally in London. She’d been constant. She hadn’t taken lovers. Not a hint of scandal darkened her name. In fact, she was a paragon. A lovely paragon who wore her heart on her sleeve, who’d effortlessly turned the family ruins into a gleaming, improved version of its former self. Even the carpet was new.
But to hell with carpet. Her lips were his for the taking.
He kissed her rather than making any admissions. It seemed easier. He was good at lovemaking—he’d spent years honing his craft. She tasted like chocolate. Her mouth opened for him at last, and he swept his tongue inside, hungry for more of her. He slid his palm up her back, the sensation of her fine silk against his traveling hand tantalizing him. His other hand traced her wasp-like waist before lingering over her breast.
Suddenly, his desire accelerated from a flame into a more uncontrollable fire. He hadn’t bedded a woman in some time. Maria had bored him, and if he were honest, he’d only been using her as a means of infuriating the
duke. What he felt for Victoria was somehow new and incredibly potent.
Groaning into her mouth, he led her backward until her derriere rested on the edge of the breakfast table. He reached around her, trying but failing to find her bottom in the elaborate pinning of fabric at the back of her skirts. Instead, he lifted her and settled her upon the table. She was deuced small compared to him, her head scarcely reaching his chest. Her new position allowed him better access.
He dragged his mouth down her throat, finding it soft and creamy white. A high, stiff collar with a small bow stopped him from exploring her décolletage as he wanted. Damn women’s peculiar fashions. He cupped her breast, jealous of her corset. Her bosom was perfection, high and firm and begging to be admired.
“Pembroke.” Victoria’s throaty murmur cut into his passion-hazed thoughts, an unwanted interruption.
“What is it, my dear?” He licked a path to her ear, then caught her lobe in his teeth for a gentle nibble.
“You cannot erase what’s happened with kisses.” She placed staying palms on his shoulders.
He permitted her to put some space between them, even though his body cried out at the denial. “I don’t seek to erase,” he said with the most honesty he’d given her since his return. “I seek a new beginning.” Because he had to win her over or face the consequences. But maybe, just maybe, for other reasons that he didn’t care to examine as well.
“I don’t think I can let you,” she whispered, her small, heart-shaped face cast with a stricken expression.
Why had he never noticed the vivid green of her eyes? It was like staring into the grass in spring, bright and precious after a cruel winter. Her lips were red with his kisses, too large for fashion but nevertheless inviting. Her golden hair had been tricked into an elaborate coiffure he wanted to undo. Last night, he’d sworn her curls had gone to her waist. She was stunning.
He looked at her as if he were seeing her for the first time, and mayhap he was. Petite souris. It didn’t fit—it had never fit. She wasn’t at all plain. She wasn’t a typical English beauty, true. But she was lovely in a way that was patently hers, and he wanted to bed her with an irrational need. Perhaps it was because she was denying him. Perhaps it was because she was different than he remembered, showing him such fire. She was his, and yet he didn’t deserve her. He didn’t know why he wanted her with such unexpected desperation, though with the insistent hardness of his cock, he was sure he didn’t care. When he fucked, he wasn’t required to think. He didn’t need to recall just how much of a bastard he’d been to the woman in his arms. How appallingly much like his father.
“You can let me, my dear. I’m your husband,” he cajoled, giving her another sound kiss. He could lose himself in her, spend inside her, forget everything and everyone as he made her body sing with pleasure.
She kissed him in return, her arms going round his neck. She fitted her lips to his with an unpracticed urgency that ensnared him. He thought he was gaining ground until she stopped, tearing her mouth away. Her eyes were wide and expressive. “I cannot. You don’t understand, Pembroke. It’s too difficult.” She pushed at him again and he moved, although the force she exerted wasn’t enough to move a baby rabbit.
Victoria hopped down from the table, her breathing visibly heavy. Her expression was nearly indecipherable, but perhaps a combination of agony and longing. He hoped for the longing, at least. The rest of his life depended upon it.
Mayhap even the rest of their life together, if there could indeed be such a thing.
“I will prove myself to you,” he vowed, though he hadn’t the slightest notion of how he could accomplish such a feat. After all, he had no choice. He never had.
ictoria hovered at the threshold of the music room, watching Pembroke’s broad back as he played. Faint strains of piano music had drifted to her in the library. Lively and lilting, the tune had drawn her from her hiding place among the musty walls of books. She’d known, of course, that it was him playing. Surely no servant would dare to make a presumption so glaring, and surely no servant could play with such practiced skill. But still she’d come, her curiosity luring her.
The thought of him playing an instrument, creating the haunting beauty of a melody, those long fingers of his working over the keys, had somehow seemed impossible. Improbable. For no man could play the piano as he did—with effortless beauty and striking passion—without possessing a soul. And up until this very moment, she would’ve sworn he didn’t have one.
She caught her skirts in her hand. Truly, she should go before he caught sight of her. Spending time alone with Pembroke, she’d fast discovered, was perilous to her newfound sense of liberty. She’d realized something about herself since his return. For all that she’d felt trapped in the country, she’d delighted in her task of making Carrington House shine again. Even the piano he played, the room in which he set loose such passionate notes, had been in sad neglect. She’d had the piano tuned and ebonized, the room dusted and rearranged, the stained wallpaper, worn carpets, and outmoded furniture replaced. Her father had sent her a handsome allotment, and she’d put those funds to good use.
Yes, she really ought to go. The song, a familiar tune by Pleyel, was nearing its completion. At any moment, he could turn, catch sight of her, attempt to importune her again with sinful kisses and a wandering touch. Of course she didn’t want that. She turned.
The music stopped, the air going still.
“Wait.”
Ignore him. Just go. Keep walking. She took another step, self-preservation at the reins.
“Victoria, don’t go.”
She pivoted before she could rethink the wisdom of obeying him. His words had been part demand, part request. He didn’t deserve her presence. She didn’t owe him her time. But their gazes clashed and held, and even with the distance between them, something made her retrace her steps, at least back to the threshold where she’d lingered before.
“What do you want, my lord?” She would be cool to him. Civil but not kind. Above all, she didn’t owe him kindness.
He stood, and she realized for the first time how informally he was dressed. Trousers and a crisp white shirt beneath a charcoal waistcoat. No jacket. He looked at home, and the thought produced an unwanted frisson of emotion unfurling within her.
“Do you intend to hover in the hall, or will you join me?”
His rakish grin, taunting and yet inviting, sent heat careening through her. “I intend to remain where I’m safe.”
“Ah.” He sauntered toward her with the bold air of a man who knew exactly the picture he presented. Who knew exactly how much he could make a woman—any woman—want him. “You speak of yesterday’s breakfast.”
“I speak of your attempts to sway me from my course.” Divorce. Yes, that was her course. Even if she had brokered a sort of peace for herself here, a certain amount of contentedness cultivated by her industrious nature, Carrington House was not where she belonged. England was not where she belonged. Nor was she meant to be his wife.
He stopped when he was near enough that her skirts brushed his trousers. His expression was unreadable. “Your course? Surely you cannot be continuing on with this divorce claptrap?”
How dare he dismiss her concerns, he who had spent all of their married life chasing other women until a scant few days ago? Her lips flattened into a grim line. “Freedom is not claptrap, my lord.”
“Freedom.” He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping it up. “Freedom is an American fiction. Of course you must realize that none of us, neither you nor I, are ever truly free, Lady Pembroke. The whims of society and the trappings of our civilized world see to that.”
She pulled away from his grasp. “What a grim view of the world you must have.”
He smiled at that, but it was not a smile that carried to the vivid depths of his blue eyes. Nor was it particularly pleasant. “Surely no more grim than your view of me, dear heart.”
Victoria swallowed. Was it just her imaginati
on, or was he leaning into her? Her skirts hadn’t been so thoroughly crushed against his powerful thighs just a moment ago, had they? She didn’t dare look down or glance away. He was an odd, compelling man, at turns charming and carefree, others dark and jaded. Perhaps the real Pembroke could be found somewhere in between the disparate faces he presented.
“You haven’t given me reason to view you otherwise,” she pointed out to him.
“I shall endeavor to change that.”
“You needn’t bother.”
He stared at her, long and frank, until her cheeks heated. “Why don’t you cross the threshold? I rather fancy you don’t trust yourself.”
She scoffed. “Of course I trust myself. It is you I don’t trust. It is you who isn’t worthy of my trust.”
“Can it be that you’re afraid?” he drawled the question, almost as if he were bored. But his expression told a far different tale. He was intent. Intent upon her.
“Don’t be foolish.” She whirled past him, stalking into the music room and twirling in a melodramatic circle before she could think of how silly it must make her look. Spinning about for the Earl of Pembroke? What in heaven’s name was the matter with her? She stopped, facing him, uncertain of what to say next. “Here I am. Unafraid.”
“Here you are,” he agreed calmly, striding toward her, eating up the space she’d just so breezily put between them. He caught her around the waist, drawing her suddenly up against his tall, hard body. “Here you are.”
Her hands fluttered up, her palms pressing to his shoulders, and she instantly wished she hadn’t touched him at all. He was so very warm through his shirtsleeves. So vital. His scent drifted over her. Musk and shaving soap. She forced herself to think of anything else. “You play quite well, my lord.”
“I’d forgotten how good it felt,” he startled her by saying. His hands splayed over her waist in a possessive grip. Part of her relished it. Another part of her was horrified by it. “There is something about losing one’s self that is quite heady.” His head dipped lower, his breath fanning over her lips.
Her Errant Earl (Wicked Husbands Book 1) Page 4
