Dangerous

by Minerva Spencer

  Mia dismissed the footman and turned to the valet. “What is your name?”

  “Sayer, my lady.”

  “Sayer, strip His Lordship and put him in bed. Knock on my door when you are finished.”

  Twin streaks of color darkened the man’s narrow, impassive face. “Ah, strip him? And dress him in his nightshirt?”

  “No, leave him naked.”

  His entire face reddened. “Yes, my lady.”

  By the time he knocked on her door a short time later Mia had washed her face, pulled back her hair, and was waiting with the small bottle of lavender oil.

  The marquess lay faceup on his enormous bed, the bedding pulled up to his chin. Mia smiled at the valet’s efforts to protect his master’s virtue.

  “Good night, Sayer.”

  The valet hesitated a fraction of a second. “Good night, my lady.”

  Mia waited until the door closed before pulling back the blanket to her husband’s waist, leaving the most intriguing part of him covered.

  “Oh my,” she muttered. This was going to be a true pleasure. She poured some oil into her hands and rubbed them together. First, she would study him at her leisure. It was unlikely she’d get another chance like this unless he drank to stupefaction every night. She shook that unpleasant thought away. He would not look so healthy if heavy drinking was a regular habit.

  His jaw muscles were relaxed in sleep and his lips slightly parted. Mia traced a finger over them, her featherlight touch causing him to brush at his face with one hand and turn his head to the side.

  His angular jaw and chin sprouted with his night beard, a striking black against the whiteness of his skin. Mia followed the beautifully chiseled jaw down to an elegant column of throat to sculpted shoulders. He was dusted with dark hair but not enough to hide the intriguing latticework of muscles that began at his chest and led to his narrow hips with a precision that was almost mathematical.

  Her eyes lingered on his small, pink nipples and her sex tightened. Her mouth watered to suck his nipples until he writhed in ecstasy.

  Instead, she pulled the covers back up to his chin.

  Mia had hoped to give him a massage while he slept, not violate him without his consent. That was what it would be if she massaged him while her body thrummed with so much pent-up desire.

  No, the massage would need to wait until some other time, if ever.

  She picked up the bottle of oil, extinguished the candle, and left her husband’s room through the connecting door. It appeared she would have to satisfy her body’s almost constant state of arousal without her new husband’s help.

  Chapter Twelve

  Somebody had driven a dagger into his skull; a large, dull, rusty dagger. Adam raised a hand to pull it out but found nothing other than his own pounding head. He opened his eyes and quickly shut them again. It was a miracle he didn’t cry out.

  He would just breathe for a while. An unusual, but not unpleasant, smell tickled his nostrils, something sharp, yet floral. Lavender? Adam braced himself and took another breath. Yes, it was lavender. He exhaled with great care but his head still ached. Right now, the slight fragrance was the only pleasant thing about his morning.

  He was experimenting with various methods of squeezing his head in a vise constructed of thumb and fingers when he heard the sound of a door opening.

  “Sayer?” he whispered.

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  Adam gritted his teeth. “Ah . . . not so loud, Sayer.”

  “I believe this may help, my lord.” A glass was pressed into his hand. Without thinking, Adam raised it to his mouth, swallowed, and then choked.

  “Good God, man,” he wheezed, thrusting the mostly full glass away before doubling over. He didn’t need to ask what was in it; he recalled it from the last time he’d tipped the barrel and made a fool of himself, his first year at Oxford.

  Memories of yesterday and last night came crashing down, causing his skull to throb even harder. Christ. He grimaced at both his behavior and the burning sensation the drink had left in his throat. The memory of last night was far, far worse.

  He held out his hand and Sayer placed the glass in it. He took a deep breath, placed the glass against his mouth, and tipped the rest of its contents down his throat. It took all his strength and gritting his teeth to keep from screaming as the noxious liquid made its way into his system.

  It may have been many years since his last bout with Sayer’s cure-all but the beverage had not gotten any better. The last time he’d asked Sayer what was in his concoction. He’d only recited charcoal, goat’s milk, raw egg, and port before Adam had begged him to stop.

  Adam gave his servant the empty glass and flopped onto his pillow, gasping. “Bath. Tea. Toast.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  He heard Sayer give instructions to a servant who must have been hovering nearby for just that purpose.

  “Sayer?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “What time did I . . . er . . . come to bed last night?”

  “It was after two-thirty, my lord.”

  Adam hesitated. “Did I come to bed?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “I see. Did you help me to bed, then?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Adam spent some time considering this mortifying fact. He had just about decided to leave off examining the matter any further when Sayer spoke.

  “Lady Exley had you brought to your room, my lord.”

  Adam’s eyes flew open in surprise, and a moan tore out of his raw throat. He tried to close them again, but they seemed to be stuck open. He looked at his servant through eyes that were on fire. He couldn’t focus on Sayer’s face, but he recognized the slight reprimand in his voice and knew he deserved it.

  * * *

  After a long soak and several pots of strong black tea, Adam’s body was much recovered. His pride, however, was sniveling and trying to hide in a dark corner. His conscience, which was both appalled and relentless, demanded he seek his wife immediately. And perhaps even apologize. Pride and conscience struggled while he bathed and poured tea down his throat, the battle ending in compromise.

  Adam entered the sunny breakfast room only a half hour after his usual time. He stopped in the doorway and stared. His wife was sipping a steaming cup of coffee and leafing through the Gazette.

  His copy of the Gazette, an affronted voice in his mind observed.

  Adam banished the voice. “Good morning, my lady.”

  “Good morning, my lord.” She smiled up at him, fresh as a new day. “I hope you do not mind that I am reading your paper.”

  Yes. Yes, I do bloody well mind.

  “Of course not,” he lied.

  He went to the sideboard and began filling his plate with food as he considered her discountenancing presence. It was his experience that ladies didn’t leave their rooms until after twelve. Veronica never had.

  What was his wife doing eating breakfast in the breakfast room at a quarter after nine? He suddenly recalled she had not spent the better part of their wedding night quaffing the contents of his cellar. He closed his eyes as yet another wave of embarrassment engulfed him. The truth was she had every right to be in his breakfast room—their breakfast room—reading his paper.

  He opened his eyes to find he’d heaped his plate with a stunning pile of food. He turned and went to the only other place that had been set, the seat across from her. Her eyes widened at the enormous heap of meat, eggs, and bread on his plate.

  “Have you anything planned for your afternoon?” He asked the question as much to distract her attention from his plate as anything else.

  “I’d thought I would visit Hatchards and purchase some books to take with me to Exham.”

  Adam chewed and swallowed before scalding his mouth with black coffee.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular?” he lisped, the scorched flesh of his mouth numb.

  “No, I’m merely looking for something enjoyabl
e and engaging.” She crumbled the corner of a piece of toast before looking up. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but my English skills are rather rusty. There were not many books where I lived.”

  Adam was a dunce. Of course life in a harem would provide few opportunities to expand one’s knowledge of literature. He forked more food into his burning mouth and glanced around the breakfast room. There were six footmen. The number seemed ... excessive. Were there always this many?

  It suddenly dawned on him that his servants’ curiosity about his exotic new wife probably accounted for the increase in breakfast service. No doubt it would reach even greater heights after word of his late-night drunk made the rounds. Adam grimaced. He’d made her position here bloody awkward and he’d also made an ass of himself. The shame that had been hovering just out of sight descended on him like a flock of starving crows.

  He put down his fork, no longer able to pretend he was hungry. He’d made a dreadful hash of things, beginning with taking a wife in the first place. That said, she was not Veronica and did not deserve to be treated as such.

  Adam signaled for the servants to leave and waited until the door closed behind the last one before turning back to his wife. “I would like to apologize for last night.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He waited for her to inquire as to the source of his wretched behavior, but she seemed determined to show him mercy. “Our library here is quite extensive. Hill purchases a great number of new books each year, including novels. If you like, I could familiarize you with the way the library is organized after breakfast.”

  She gave him a smile he did not deserve. “I would like that very much. I’m afraid I’ve had very little time to read these past months and my father’s library had very few works of fiction, in any case.”

  Adam nodded, unable to speak as the enormity of this woman’s life for the past few months—hell—for the prior two decades, crashed down on him. She’d been torn from her family, raped at fourteen, and abandoned in a bloody harem for seventeen years. And when she was able to return, her father auctioned her to the highest bidder before less than a quarter of a year had passed. And Adam—the weak reed on which she was forced to lean—had spent the few hours they’d shared baiting her, ignoring her, or getting drunk.

  “Would you care to go to the theater tonight?”

  She paused, a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. She put it back down without taking a bite. “I should love to go to the theater.” Her voice was even lower than usual.

  Adam raised his cooling coffee to his mouth, wishing the cup were larger so that he might hide behind it. Her obvious pleasure at his small kindness gutted him. He’d been such a bloody cad.

  He lowered his cup, spilling half in the saucer. “I’ve left it rather late, so don’t get your hopes up,” he said gruffly. He glanced at the pile of cooling food on his plate. “Shall I take you to the library and give you the general lay of the land before I set off?” He glanced at her plate. “After you’ve finished eating, of course.”

  “I am finished.” She stood and smoothed the front of her gown, the action drawing his eyes to her body. She was again garbed in green, her frilled costume flattering to her small, feminine form.

  “Do you ride?” The question escaped before his mind vetted it. It seemed he’d lost control of his mouth, along with everything else in his life.

  “I’ve not ridden much since I was a child. My brother and I rode in Hyde Park several mornings a week these past months but I don’t suppose it was greatly enjoyable for an experienced rider to accompany me.”

  Adam could read the truth without her speaking it. Nobody had done much of anything with her since she’d returned to England other than thrust her into the marriage mart.

  He opened the breakfast room door for her, once again taken by how tiny she was. Her head barely reached his shoulder, and he was not a tall man. She turned back when he didn’t immediately follow, her tilted green eyes putting him in mind of a cat.

  Adam followed her up the curving staircase without speaking and opened the library door, motioning her into the large book-lined room.

  “The books are organized by subject and then author.” He realized the thousands of titles might be overwhelming to a person unused to so many books. “Perhaps if you told me what type of book you enjoy reading, I could help you select a few?”

  “I would like something entertaining but not too difficult. As I mentioned, I didn’t have access to English books until I returned.”

  “You read Arabic?”

  “Yes, but most of the books that came into the—into my possession were in French.”

  Adam caught the hesitation. “There is no need to avoid mentioning your past around me. Indeed, I don’t see why you can’t tell the truth to whomever you please.” He strode across the room to the section he wanted.

  “You do not care if people know where I’ve been all these years?”

  “Why should I?” he asked, scanning the shelves.

  “My father was concerned the truth would destroy the family honor.” Her voice came from somewhere behind him. “Aren’t you worried, too?”

  Adam smiled bitterly. “No, I am not worried you will destroy the family honor. So the duke knew the truth about your past, did he?”

  “Some of it.”

  Adam turned to her. “How much?”

  “He knew I lived in Babba Hassan’s palace outside Oran. He never asked any questions about my life in the palace or . . . or whether I’d had any children.”

  The cowardly bastard. Adam turned back to the shelf, walking his fingers over the titles until he found the one he wanted. He plucked it from the shelf.

  “This was a great favorite of mine when I was a boy and I’ve seen the girls reading it at home.” He handed her the somewhat dog-eared book.

  “Gulliver’s Travels?” A small line formed between her auburn brows. “I may have read this when I was very young.” Her brow cleared. “Yes . . . I recall, Yahoos! This is an excellent choice. Thank you, my lord.” She reached out to touch his sleeve, as she’d done that day in the phaeton, but stopped herself.

  Adam grimaced. They’d been married less than a day and he’d already managed to suppress her natural, affectionate nature. He reached out and took her hand. She wasn’t wearing gloves and her skin was warm and soft, the bones delicate and fragile. He looked down into her flowerlike face but did not know what to say. Instead, he lifted her hand to his lips, allowing his mouth to linger. His entire body stiffened at the responsive curve of her lips.

  “I will instruct Hill to pull a selection that I think you will enjoy and we shall take them with us. The library at Exham is larger than this but it contains fewer works of fiction.” He released her hand and it fluttered back to her side like a pale butterfly.

  Gratitude glowed from her face and overwhelmed him. And filled him with shame.

  Adam turned away. “I had better be off if I’m to secure entertainment for this evening.”

  It is one night at the theater, he told himself a short time later, as he tooled the phaeton past an overloaded coach. It wasn’t as if he was courting her. It certainly wasn’t as if he believed that an evening spent in his company would make her happy.

  It was none of those things. It was common decency. The fact was, for better or for worse, he’d made the woman his wife. It was time for him to cease behaving like a clod and make the very simple arrangement work.

  It was his duty to bed her and get her with child as quickly as possible. She could not have the independence she craved until he’d performed his side of the bargain. Her part of the bargain was living free of him.

  This was not like his marriage to Veronica. There was no love involved, no feelings at stake.

  Adam would do well to remember that. This was not a real marriage; it was nothing more than a business agreement.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mia settled onto the soft leather seat and studied her husband
. He was immaculate in his evening garb, his expression less contemptuous than usual. He was looking at her, his eyes drifting across her gown. She’d had it made the week following their betrothal, when she no longer had to worry whether her father would approve.

  Mia reveled in the variety of shades and luxurious fabrics that were available in London. She’d chosen to offset the antique gold satin bodice and underskirt with yards of flowing cream silk chiffon.

  “You look stunning.” His words startled her.

  Mia couldn’t see his face as the carriage had entered the relative darkness that reigned between the streetlamps.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “There is a necklace and earrings among my mother’s jewels that are much the same shade as your gown—I believe it is topaz. They are not particularly valuable, but they are pretty and were one of her favorite sets. I shall have Hill fetch them from the vault for you.” His voice was detached, as if he were speaking of the weather rather than giving her his mother’s possessions.

  Mia’s hand sought the necklace at her throat and she fingered the square green stone that had once belonged to her own mother. Unlike the Carlisle emeralds, which were the property of the dukedom, this necklace was Mia’s. Her father had handed over all the jewels a few days before her wedding, counseling her to give them to Exley to keep in a vault.

  She’d decided to sell her mother’s jewels to finance her journey rather than use any money from the marquess. Especially after she’d learned that Exley had not asked for any part of her dowry but had instead been exceptionally generous with settlements, an action that had surprised her as much as it had the duke. No, she would not take money from him if she could help it.

  “I’m afraid you’ll find the theater a bit thin tonight.” His observation pulled her away from her uncomfortable thoughts.

  “I’ve never been to see a play before so I’m sure I won’t be a harsh critic.”

  The carriage approached the next lantern and she could see his eyebrows arch. “Your father did not take you to the theater?”