Not with the servants about. Not when he was still half in his cups, head still pounding like the devil’s blacksmith himself was using his cranium as an anvil. Better yet, it was a conversation they ought never to have, for what could he say?
How was he to explain himself to her when he could not? When he could not even trust her? When she was his bloody wife, and there was nothing he wanted more than to strip her from her layers and lose himself inside her softness, but he could not touch her? Yesterday had been a mistake. He had no right to touch her, to kiss her, to long for more. Today was a mistake. Standing here, now, in the same space as her, breathing in her exotic scent, was a grievous error.
Misery slithered through him. He wasn’t meant to feel anything for her. She was a means to an end. So why the hell did her stricken, pale face rattle him? Why did seeing her so vulnerable make him want to take her into his arms?
“Where should we have such a dialogue, Your Grace?” she asked quietly into the silence that had fallen between them. “Because I wish very much to know where I stand.”
An odd, tight sensation began in his chest and settled low in his gut.
Guilt.
Surely not. He was trained to never empathize. His capacity for emotion was tainted by years of living a secret life, of never allowing anyone to breach his defenses.
He swallowed, unable to look away from her. Daisy. The woman he’d married. The woman Carlisle wanted to throw into prison. Jesus, as if she hadn’t already suffered enough. It was guilt, alright. He felt lower than a goddamn worm.
He was lying to her. Manipulating her. Using her.
She could be innocent. Or she could be guilty as sin.
“Come to my study in two hours’ time,” he bit out, tamping his conscience firmly back down to the furthest, unreachable depths of himself. Precisely where it belonged.
aisy would have sworn she faced a different man entirely as she entered the duke’s study.
He stood at her arrival, steeped in his customary arrogance once more. Not a wrinkle was to be found on his jacket, not a dark hair on his head out of place. He looked handsome and refreshed. For a moment, it was difficult to recall her earlier ire at being abandoned on their wedding night in favor of a bottle of whisky.
Difficult but not impossible.
“Daisy,” he greeted, his tone formal rather than warm. “Do sit, my dear.”
She didn’t know which version of the man she’d married to expect. He was at times forbidding, at times unbearably sensual, others remote and aloof. This morning, he had arrived the dissolute wastrel and metamorphosed into her champion before once again closing himself off to her. Who would he be now?
Arranging her skirts with care, she seated herself opposite his imposing desk. “Have you breakfasted?” she asked, instantly wishing she could call the words back as soon as they left her lips.
She’d had her breakfast alone, and she’d thought to send him a tray but had not at the last moment, deeming him unworthy of such an act of consideration. Guilt had been a gradually growing knot in her belly ever since, even if he didn’t deserve it. Such an odd thing, to have another person to fret over. To be living in a strange house with a strange man, with servants whose names she couldn’t all yet remember, and yet to belong.
An odd expression flashed across his face, as though she’d startled him but also displeased him at the same time. “I took a tray in my chamber. Thank you for your concern.”
She swallowed, laced her fingers together in her lap, and tried not to appear as awkward as she felt. “It is my duty as your wife to look after you, Your Grace.”
His jaw went rigid. “No it is not. I shall look after myself just as I always have.”
He was angry with her, but she didn’t know why. Wouldn’t most men expect a wife to make certain they were well pleased and well fed? In her father’s household, keeping him content had been her chief concern. Over time, she’d found it helped to assuage his tempers. Little things, like making certain each meal contained only his favorites, served at the right temperature, the right time of day.
But this man was not her father. Nor, she hoped, was he anything like him. Naturally, that would remain to be seen. He had promised never to harm her, but she still knew so little of him. And what she did know left her with nothing but questions and consternation.
Then again, perhaps her revelation that she’d sought to entrap him was the source of his disquiet. It was a sin she owned fully, for she alone had led him into the moonlight. He was equally as responsible for what had occurred next, but the initial lure had been her doing.
She pressed her lips together, considering her words with care. “It is not my intention to displease you.”
As much as he had hurt her, she was willing to forgive. After all, she had manipulated him. Having to wed in such an abrupt manner could not be easy for anyone. Lord knew it had not been for Daisy, though she found her union to Trent infinitely more palatable than a forced marriage with Breckly.
His vexing actions aside, she wanted them to have a fresh start. For their unorthodox marriage to have a chance to flourish rather than to founder. While she’d spent most of her life motherless, she longed for children of her own one day. The notion filled her heart with a bursting, airy sort of joy as she stared at the forbidding stranger before her.
Her children would be his, as odd as it seemed, and she would not bring children into an unhappy union. She had been the product of one, and she didn’t wish to visit the same sin upon an innocent. At the very least, she felt certain they could achieve mutual respect for each other, if the duke was but willing.
He frowned then, but the severity of it only seemed to intensify his looks rather than detract from them. “You do not displease me, Daisy.”
And yet his every reaction to her suggested the complete opposite. “Clearly I have or else you wouldn’t have left me on our wedding day only to return the next morning smelling of whisky, wearing the same clothes you departed in.”
There. She’d said it. And a humiliating tear was poised at the corner of her eye, drat it all. She would not allow it to fall. Would not. When he didn’t immediately speak, she launched into another speech, fearing the silence and what it would do to her. “I understand you resent me for having trapped you. It wasn’t fair of me to place my own wellbeing and desires before yours. Fear of my father is not sufficient excuse. If I could redo what I’ve done, I would, knowing how wrong it was. But I would very much like our marriage to be a cordial one… pleasant, even. I think perhaps we might be friends, if you’ll but grant me your forgiveness and a second chance. Do you think you can, Your Grace?”
“Sebastian.” He stood so abruptly that his chair flew back, nearly toppling over.
She should have stood as well, but something about the man and the moment kept her rooted to her chair, incapable of motion.
“Sebastian,” she repeated hesitantly as he circled the desk and approached her.
He was inscrutable yet determined. He slid between her skirts and the front of his desk, bracing his big hands on the polished arms of the chair and lowering his head to meet her gaze. “Daisy.”
His eyes were twin pools of hot, blue fire, burning into her where she sat. “Yes?”
“You didn’t entrap me.”
“Of course I did,” she argued. “It’s the reason you’ve been so cold. The reason why you don’t want to consummate our marriage. I understand. Truly, I do. What I’ve done is despicable. I would not want me either.”
“I want you.” His tone had softened. He leaned down, clasping her hands with his and pulling her to her feet. One tug and she fell against him. “I followed you. I kissed you. I dishonored you. I married you. My behavior last night was… regrettable. I’m sorry for leaving you here alone to wonder. All I can say is that my mind has been whirling ever since I first laid eyes on you.”
She liked the feeling of his body burning into hers. And she wanted to believe him, even if a troubling
undercurrent she couldn’t quite identify tinged his words. His gaze devoured her with a hunger that threatened to light an answering fire within her. How she wished she could know his heart. Hear the inner workings of his capable mind. Was he being honest with her now? Or was he, as she suspected, withholding some part of himself?
“You’re only seeking to assuage my guilt,” she dismissed, trying to disentangle her hands from his grasp. “You mustn’t, Sebastian. What I did was unconscionable. I can only think it was a moment of weakness, fearing my father’s imminent return, which led me to act as I did.”
He wouldn’t allow it, holding firm, the connection of his bare skin on hers sparking the ever-present need within her into a full, engulfing flame. “You will cease, my dear. An apology is not what I require at this moment.”
She shouldn’t dare to ask what it was he required. Everything about his demeanor had changed. He fairly smoldered. But he was her husband now, some wickedness inside her reminded. He was hers. She could dare as she pleased.
Daisy rocked to her tiptoes, bringing her mouth nearly flush with his. His breath was hot, ghosting across lips that tingled with anticipation. Lips that longed to be claimed. “What do you require, Your Grace?”
A wolfish smile pulled at his sensual mouth. “Sebastian. What do you require, Sebastian?”
“Sebastian,” she relented. And then her mind returned to her, piercing the rose-colored haze wrought by her foolish need. He had abandoned her last night, only to return this morning. Inebriated. “If you want me as much as you claim, and if you aren’t angry with me for forcing your hand, then nothing makes sense. Why did you leave me last night, Sebastian?”
He inhaled sharply, almost as though she’d surprised him with her boldness. Good.
Those beautiful lips frowned at her. “Honor.”
Here, at last, was something torn from him with a ring of truth. The rest, she was beginning to suspect, was pure, masculine seduction. But she had faced many a handsome rake, and having lived twenty years in fear of her father, she could harden herself better than anyone. She’d spent her entire life reinforcing herself against everyone—it was something of a talent by this juncture.
And it was that same inurement that led her now. She could not forget that regardless of how handsome and alluring her husband was, she didn’t know him and couldn’t trust him. Just as she had never been able to trust anyone other than herself. Ever. “Honor made you lose yourself into a decanter of whisky and only return by breakfast?”
“Not precisely, buttercup.” His frown turned into a smile, though it held little warmth. “But I suspect you already know that, being the intelligent, resourceful woman that you are. Which begs the question: what do you want from me?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Honesty.”
By all the heavens, she hadn’t escaped one untenable situation for another. And if she’d somehow misread the signs, she would remove herself as expediently as possible. Since their vows, a new sense of understanding had dawned upon her. For the first time in her life, she was unencumbered by the watchful tyranny of her father. During her season, Aunt Caroline had perpetuated the crime by proxy. But now, she was free.
Free to be herself. Whoever Daisy Vanreid was.
Strike that, she reminded herself again. Whoever Daisy Trent was. For she was married now. Daisy Vanreid had become the Duchess of Trent. Like it or not. Disappointing wedding night or no. They were bound forever. She would make do with the devil she had chosen rather than the devil she knew.
“Honesty,” he said slowly, as if it were a menace. “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been entirely honest with me, wife?”
No. She had not. She thought of Bridget. Thought of flirtations and meaningless kisses, all unwanted, enacted in a desperate ploy to escape the fate her father had chosen for her. Should they matter now when they never had? Somehow, everything she’d ever done returned to her conscience in that moment, mocking her. Her foolish betrothal, Padraig, young love that hadn’t been love at all.
“You are not the only man I contemplated entrapping in marriage,” she confessed, for she still wasn’t certain she ought to confide in him about her sister. “I kissed other men, as you know. I played the role of the flirt. I’ll not make excuses for my actions, save to say that I did everything I could to escape the fate consigned me.” She had said as much before, though not with such candor.
A growl tore from him, and then his hands were cupping her face, forcing her to gaze upon only him. As if her eyes would ever venture anywhere else. He was all she saw. All she wanted to see.
Forever.
“There are no others,” he told her ruthlessly, his hands hot and demanding upon her, “from this moment forward. The mere mentioning of them makes me want to tear them limb from limb.”
She wished his touch didn’t feel quite so delicious upon her. “Is that what bothers you, then? Is that why you left without word and drowned yourself in drink?”
His mouth hardened. “Nonsense. I know a great deal about you, Daisy. Far more than you think, I’d wager, and yet here I stand.”
He had been watching her, hadn’t he? How many times had their gazes snared? On how many occasions had he cleverly toppled a vase or trod on a creaking floorboard at just the right moment to keep her from ruin? There had been Wilford, and how many others?
An emotion, thick and dark and indefinable—something resembling suspicion—unfurled within her. “Why were you watching me? I had always assumed it was because you were interested in me yourself. That wasn’t why, though, was it?”
It had never occurred to her until now that he’d been the cause of each interruption that had spared her ruining. Like a protector. Or something else. Something troubling. Something very troubling indeed.
He met her gaze now, unflinching. “I watched you because I wanted you for myself.” His thumb traced the corner of her mouth. “You were correct in your assumption. So you see, my dear? I am not angry with you for entrapping me as I am the one who entrapped you. It was my guilty conscience that sent me from you last evening, and my guilty conscience that kept me away.”
“Your guilty conscience,” she repeated, for it was difficult indeed to make sense of anything when his thumb worshipped the bow of her upper lip, lingering with a delicate caress that made her heart race into a steady gallop. He thought he had entrapped her?
“Yes.” His gaze was fastened upon her mouth now, hungry and bright. But a hint of frown lingered between his dark brows. “My guilty conscience. Just when I thought I hadn’t one.”
His admission struck her, and she couldn’t help but feel it was the most candid he’d been since she met him. It only lasted for a flash, and then the practiced seducer had returned. His thumb followed the seam of her lips, once, twice.
She kissed the fleshy pad, allowed her tongue to dart out against his skin for a taste. Salty and delicious and Sebastian. She wanted more. But she also wanted a conversation. Some idea of who they were and where they were headed.
“It would seem, then, that neither of us ought to bear the weight of a guilty conscience any longer,” she observed, allowing herself to touch him for the first time since their awkward interview had begun. Her hands slid inside his coat, across the silk of his waistcoat, the firm, muscled flesh rippling beneath his layers of civility. He felt, in a word, divine.
So good that she couldn’t keep herself from slipping the whole way around his taut abdomen until she reached his back. Here, he was rigid. Warmth blazed from him. She pressed her palms to the hollow just above his hips. Forced them higher, gliding along muscle and bone, the starch in his bearing, absorbing him, learning him, marking him as hers.
Such freedom, the ability to touch him as she wished. To admire the solid masculinity of him, so different from her soft curves. She was lush where he was spare, and he was strong and strapping where she was small. What a delectable dichotomy was man and woman.
It had never occurred to her before this moment
how incredibly perfect it was, how she fit to him and he to her. But now, she felt it, and it was… incredible. His breathing went harsh, matching hers. His mouth was very near. She tried not to stare at those perfectly chiseled lips in longing. Tried not to want him.
But she failed miserably.
“Daisy.” One word—her name—torn from him. He sounded as if he were in pain.
Perhaps he was. His beautiful face was all rigid lines when she wrenched her eyes from his mouth. She didn’t know what to say in this moment of intense possibility, desire humming in the air like a current. Her mind raced, tangling itself in knots, and all she could think was it was wrong to feel such sweeping emotion for a man she scarcely knew.
She wanted to know him. All of him. Wanted to know what his laugh sounded like, how his skin would smell if she pressed her nose to the bristle-shaded angle of his jaw. “I don’t know anything about you.” She tried to understand the effect he had upon her. “It makes no sense that I should feel the way I do for you.”
He stroked her cheek with a tenderness that belied the scorching heat of his stare. “Nothing makes sense, buttercup. Not you, not me, not what we’re doing here or how we found ourselves where we are. Tell me, what do you feel? For me?”
For some reason, her overburdened mind thought first of physicality: his deceptive strength, corded muscle, not a hint of spare flesh over bone. He was larger than she’d even realized at such proximity. Capable of doing her harm if he wished. And yet, she didn’t fear him. He lowered his head, bringing their lips ever closer. Near enough that she could rock forward, take his mouth.
“Longing,” she whispered. “I long… and I ache. No one has ever made me feel as you do, Your Grace.”
“Sebastian.” With one hand, he cupped her face, positioning her as though she awaited his kiss. His other hand roamed. His fingers traveled down her throat, lingering for a beat at the hollow where her pulse pounded. “That is gratifying to hear, considering I’m your husband.”
Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3) Page 10
