The Husband List

by Victoria Alexander

  “Oh dear,” Emma murmured.

  Your intentions scarcely matter.” Gillian planted her hands on her hips. “She is one-and-twenty and there is not a great deal you can say about it.”

  Richard glared back. “There most certainly is. As long as she enjoys my protection—”

  “Perhaps, but at the moment one could make the argument that she is not precisely enjoying your protection, as she is living under my roof.” Gillian smirked.

  “It is rather late after all,” Emma said, inching toward the door.

  “And since she is under my roof, my approval is the only thing she needs to concern herself with. At the moment, I see nothing wrong with allowing her to see whomever she wishes and do as she pleases.”

  “Your approval?” Richard sputtered. “I scarcely think you are any judge of character when it comes to scoundrels like Weston.”

  “I’m an excellent judge of character.” Indignation washed through her.

  “Hah!”

  “I should probably be going,” Emma said uneasily.

  Gillian crossed her arms over her chest and stepped toward him. “ ‘Hah’? What do you mean by ‘hah’?”

  “Only that your so-called ability to judge character remains to be seen,” he said with a lofty air.

  “By whom?” Her voice rose with ire.

  “By me.” His tone was firm, as if this was the end of the discussion. She resisted the immediate impulse to scream in frustration. Or smack him.

  “I chose you, didn’t I? Was that a mistake?” Her voice rang with challenge.

  “That too remains to be seen,” he said smugly.

  “It does indeed.” Her gaze locked with his.

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t use your positioning of me at the top of your list as an example of your excellent assessment of a man’s nature.” He glowered down at her.

  “What list?” Emma said curiously.

  “So far, I’d say your behavior has been damnably proper.” She stared up at him. “So apparently I was right.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted? What you selected? A man who behaves properly, honorably, respectably.” His eyes narrowed. “A man who doesn’t want anything more from you than your bloody inheritance?”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I got, was it?” She was losing control, and right now, she didn’t really care. The man was infuriating. “What I got was a beast who wants more than my money. He wants me in his bed. He wants—”

  “What?” Richard roared. “What do you think I want from you?”

  “I should definitely retire.” Emma fled from the room, flinging the doors closed behind her.

  Gillian refused to pull her gaze from Richard’s. “Look at what you’ve done now, you’ve scared her.”

  “The way I scare you?”

  “You don’t scare me,” she snapped. It was true.

  She was far too angry to be scared.

  “Something does.”

  Irritation swept away caution, and she spoke without thinking. “Why haven’t you kissed me?”

  “What?” Confusion colored his face. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.” She stared up at him. “You haven’t even tried to kiss me. For a man who claims to be trying to seduce—”

  “Court,” he murmured.

  “Seduce! Although I scarcely think nuzzling my hand on occasion can be considered seduction. Why, you’ve not put any real effort into this seduction of yours.”

  “Indeed I have.” His tone was wounded, as if she’d maligned his manhood.

  She snorted.

  “I didn’t think you especially wanted me to kiss you or anything else,” he replied. “Every time I’d so much as hold your hand …” He shook his head. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a man look quite so puzzled. “I thought … well, the way you—”

  “Kiss me, Richard.” She wasn’t the least bit afraid, and she had to know what, if anything, she’d feel when he did. Would it be fear? Passion? Love? Or nothing at all? This was obviously the right moment to find out. “Now.”

  His eyes flashed. Was he too angry to kiss her?

  “Are you certain this is what you want?”

  “Yes, yes.” She gestured impatiently. “Do go on.” The corners of his lips twitched. Or was he amused? “If you insist.”

  He lowered his head, and she closed her eyes. His lips met hers, warm and gentle, and heat flashed through her. It was an excellent beginning. She strained upward, and without warning, he was gone.

  She snapped her eyes open. He raised a brow.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?” Disbelief sounded in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. Surely that wasn’t the best he could do? Her heart sank.

  “Well, how was it?”

  “It was …” Brief, short, diminutive. Not that she could possibly tell him that. She forced a weak smile. “Pleasant.”

  “Respectable.” He nodded solemnly.

  “Yes, I suppose.” It was, in fact, scarcely worth mentioning. What if it was the best he could do?

  “Then you’re disappointed?”

  “Not at all,” she said quickly. “At any rate, I’m scarcely a judge of such things. I can’t recall the last time I asked a man to kiss me.” Still, she had an excellent memory and a fairly good idea of what to expect. Disappointed was as appropriate a word as any. Good Lord, his perfunctory peck barely counted as a kiss. “I did expect … something … well …”

  “Not quite as restrained?”

  “Perhaps. You do have a reputation, after all.”

  “I did have a reputation, remember,” he said pointedly. “I have reformed. That’s why I head your list.”

  “Pity,” she said under her breath. What if he’d reformed too well? What was she to do now? This so-called kiss of his hadn’t proved anything at all. It had been far too reserved, too proper, and entirely too short.

  “Now then, if there’s nothing else, I shall take my leave.” He nodded, turned, and strode toward the door. Very formal, quite correct, and yet …

  Damn it all, she had seen it in his eyes: he was amused!

  “Richard!” He stopped in his tracks. His shoulders shook. “Are you laughing?”

  “Nothing of the sort.” His voice had an odd inflection. Like a man about to choke or struggling to hold himself in check.

  “There isn’t anything to laugh about.”

  He turned to face her, biting on his bottom lip so hard that she wondered he didn’t draw blood.

  “There isn’t?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” He nodded slowly and crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose there isn’t anything remotely comical in our situation?”

  “I see nothing to so much as draw a smile.”

  “You don’t think it’s even mildly amusing that you, a well-respected lady, would propose marriage to me, someone you have considered far beneath your notice, for the sole purpose of acquiring your legacy?”

  “No,” she huffed. “It was a necessity and I resent your saying that I considered you beneath my notice.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Perhaps, once, but that was years ago.”

  “Forgive me then. Time and circumstances have changed us both.” He stepped closer, his teasing manner gone. “However, to continue, you don’t believe my refusal to agree to the kind of marriage you want and your subsequent suggestion that we spend the time until your birthday getting acquainted well enough for you to concede to share my bed to be the least bit humorous?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “It doesn’t strike you as rather farcical that I have played your game in a perfectly proper manner? That I have done everything within my power to set you at ease?” His voice hardened. “That I have racked my brains trying to determine why you look like a frightened rabbit whenever I come near you?”

  “No.” She drew the word out slowly. He was rather near h
er now, close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough for him to pull her into his arms. She wasn’t afraid, although her insides were churning in a distinctly uncomfortable manner.

  “Why do you want me to kiss you?” he said abruptly, his tone heavy with unasked questions.

  She stared up at him, a hundred responses flying through her head. Not one of which came to her lips.

  “When I kiss you, Gillian, really kiss you, if I kiss you, it shall be at a time of my own choosing.” His gaze bored into hers. Anger flared in his eyes. “For my own purposes and not because you need to prove anything. To me or to yourself.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “I don’t need—”

  “You do,” he said sharply. “I can see it in your eyes. Whether you need to prove that you can be my wife without sharing the kind of affection you shared with your husband—”

  “I can,” she snapped. “I can be the wife you want, in every way you want, and I’ve decided I will. We shall be married at once.”

  “Shall we?” Sarcasm dripped from his words. “And thereby secure your inheritance of six hundred thousand pounds, eight ships, and a great deal of land in America. Do you realize, my lady, what the word is for a woman who gives herself to a man for money? Even so great a fortune as this?”

  Shock shot through her. Her head snapped backward as if she’d been slapped. Without thinking, she drew her hand back and let it fly.

  He caught it with a firm grasp just inches from his face and twisted it behind her, pulling her hard against him.

  “Release me at once!” Her chest heaved, and she couldn’t catch her breath.

  “No!” He held her tighter against him and stared into her eyes, remorse on his face. “I am sorry, Gillian. I never meant—” “Don’t!”

  The word was little more than a sob, and she hated the weakness of the sound. She tried to wrench free, but he held her tight. She drew a deep breath and forced a cold tone to her voice. “Don’t waste your apology. I don’t want it and I won’t accept it. You as much as called me a wh—”

  “Don’t say it! I was angry and—”

  “And now I’m angry.” Her chin jerked up, and she glared.

  “—and frustrated as well, and, I don’t know, tired perhaps of not knowing what you wanted of me.” His gaze searched her face. “And, I suppose, even hurt.” He released her hand but kept his arms around her. “Forgive me, Gillian.”

  The tone in his voice called to something deep inside her, and she stilled.

  “Please.” He drew her closer and brushed his lips across her forehead, holding her silently for long moments.

  She knew she should pull away. He deserved as much. But she couldn’t seem to move, to leave his embrace. “Hurt? What do you mean?”

  “It’s not easy to know a woman wants you for nothing more than your name. I daresay it’s nothing more than my own damnable pride and it didn’t seem to matter as much at first, but I don’t want to be only your means to a fortune.” His lips whispered along the side of her face to the line of her jaw.

  “You don’t?” His touch was soothing and sensual, and her anger faded to something altogether different.

  “I want more from you than that.” His lips moved lower on her neck.

  Reason vanished, and she wanted more. She tilted her head back, the sensation of his mouth against her skin intoxicating. His caress was assured yet light and teasing, and delight shivered through her. Her eyes drifted closed. She could focus on nothing but his touch.

  “Do you?” Her hands crept up his arms and she gripped the fabric of his coat.

  “I do.” His tongue dipped into the hollow at the base of her neck and lower, to the valley between her breasts. One hand splayed across her back, strong and possessive. The other trailed lower across her derriere and up her side. Slowly, inevitably, until his fingertips grazed her breast through the fabric of her gown.

  “What do you want from me, Richard?” she murmured

  His thumb rubbed across her nipple, and she gasped. She felt her bodice slip downward and cool air on her bare breasts. He cupped one in his hand, his mouth moving to claim it. Teeth and tongue teased and toyed. A sweet, awful ache gripped her, and she dug her nails into his arms, if only to keep herself standing on legs threatening to buckle beneath her. He turned his attention to her other breast and suckled until her mind fogged with desire.

  “I want you to want me.”

  He pushed her dress lower, gown and petticoat falling to puddle on the floor at her feet, and he sank to his knees before her. His lips never left her skin, and everywhere his mouth touched her flesh burned and her blood pounded and she yearned for more. His hands skimmed down her legs, over her stockings, and in some still lucid section of her mind, she noted how odd she must look in her slippers and stockings and nothing more. His hands moved up her legs to her inner thighs, long, slow caresses, and she held her breath, waiting for him to reach the throbbing between her legs. Wondering if she would die of longing before he did. Or of joy when he did.

  He shifted, wrapping an arm around her, his fingers trailing up and down her buttocks. His tongue continued its exploration of the sensitive skin on her stomach. His other hand slid upwards. She was afraid to move. Afraid he’d stop. Afraid he wouldn’t.

  He reached the curls between her legs, and his fingers slipped past, over her, slick and hot. She moaned with pleasure. He rubbed back and forth, to and fro with a gentle, easy pressure until she thought she’d swoon from the sheer bliss of it. His fingers slipped inside her, and she tensed at the invasion and the exquisite sensations.

  She gazed down at his dark head and tunneled her fingers through his hair.

  “I do want you.” She could barely whisper the words, her voice so low she didn’t know if he could hear. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to. And didn’t care.

  He drew back and stared up at her. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” She nodded and slid to her knees in front of him. Her gaze locked with his. She pushed his jacket over his shoulders, and he shrugged it off. “I am.” She yanked impatiently at his cravat. His hands cupped her bottom and drew her toward him. She struggled to pull his shirt free until he released her and jerked it over his head. “Quite certain.” His chest was broad, his muscles defined, emphasized by a smattering of dark hair that drifted lower to disappear in his trousers.

  She splayed her hands across his chest and reveled in the look of him and the feel of his bare skin beneath her fingers. He sucked in a shocked breath and grabbed her hand, pulling it to his lips. Her gaze met and locked with his.

  Perhaps it was a moment of utter clarity. Perhaps complete insanity. Or it might have been his gesture, simple yet touching, but something inside her, long held in check or merely ignored, shattered. At once her arms were around him and she rained kisses on his neck, his throat, his shoulders. He tasted of heat and spice and aching desire. He pulled her tighter against him, and they tumbled down onto the carpet. She ran her fingers over the sleek, smooth planes of his back, and lower, sliding her hands beneath the fabric of his trousers. She needed to touch every part of him, taste every bit of him. And needed his touch in return.

  He rolled away to discard his trousers. Irrational loss gripped her, and she started to sit up. Then he was back, gathering her into his arms, and she knew at this moment that she wanted nothing more than to mold her body to his, merge her heat with his and welcome him into her. His erection pushed hard against her stomach. She entwined her legs with his, and they rolled together until she lay on top of him.

  He slid her down along the stretch of his body until her legs straddled his and the hot, solid length of him nudged between her legs.

  His touch broke through her haze of desire, and she hesitated.

  “Gillian?”

  She pushed herself up and stared down into his eyes, glazed with passion and touched with concern. “Richard, I … well, I’m not sure how to say this, but I … that is I haven’t …”

 
“Since your husband,” he said quietly.

  She nodded.

  “Do you want to stop?”

  A warm glow that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with her heart flooded through her. She smiled slowly. “The last thing I want to do is stop. I just wanted you to know. It’s been rather a long time, and I’m not terribly experienced and—”

  He laughed. “I do appreciate the warning.”

  “I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

  He pulled her against him and rolled over, reversing their positions. His eyes burned with desire, and he gazed into hers as if he was looking for something elusive. A question unspoken. An answer unknown. “I could never be disappointed with you.”

  He guided himself into her with a care that caught at her heart. She was tight but wet and wanting. He slid slowly, firmly into her, his gaze never leaving hers. His body joined with hers as if they were made each with the other in mind. Merged with hers as if they were half of the same whole. Filled hers as if she were empty and waiting for him alone.

  And still his gaze locked with hers.

  He started to move, a gentle rhythm, undemanding. She tightened around him, matched her movements to his, and wrapped her legs around his waist. He plunged deeper, and she met his thrusts with her own, and they moved as one. Hot tension curled within her, urging her on. The muscles of his back strained under her hands, and she clung to him as though holding on for her very life. Her very soul.

  Faster and harder they moved, and she knew nothing of the world surrounding them save the feel of him inside her and the spiraling ache that encompassed her very being. She marveled that she would know such pleasure and endure and still want more. Need more. And when she knew she would surely die from sheer rapture, a taut flame of bliss within her exploded. She cried out, and her body jerked beneath his and shook in waves of delicious release. He buried his head in the crook of her neck and groaned, his body shuddering in unison with her own.

  Minutes passed, or maybe hours, and they lay still, wrapped in each other’s arms, savoring what had passed between them. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to lose the shelter of his embrace. She could feel his heart thudding in his chest next to hers and her own beating in harmony.