by Anna Bradley
“And I’m your husband, Lady Dare, but you didn’t seem to recall that when Lord Derrick’s lips were on your glove, did you?”
“He was offering his congratulations on our marriage, my lord. Nothing more—”
But Nick went on speaking, as if she hadn’t offered a word in her defense. “Well, my lady, don’t despair. You may yet have a chance to mend your shattered heart. Lord Derrick may tire of his new wife, and you’ll be rid of me soon enough.”
“Rid of you?” Violet pressed a hand to her stomach to ease the sudden sickening twist there. “What do you mean, I’ll be rid of you?”
He shrugged, but the despair in his eyes was at odds with the casual gesture. “Oh, did I forget to mention it? As surely as you used me, I also used you, Lady Dare. I needed a wife, you see, and you happened along at just the right time.”
Violet reached out a hand, but there was nothing to grasp, nothing to steady herself with. “You…used me?”
For one instant he seemed to flinch at the question, but then the hard mask descended again, and when he spoke it was with the same casual unconcern as before. “I’m afraid so. Not very gentlemanly of me, I confess, but then I’m a selfish rake, and one can’t expect much better from such a man. I’ve just acquired a new Italian mistress, you see, and I’d hardly had a chance to enjoy her before my aunt dragged me back to England and refused to let me return to the Continent until I’d found a wife. Most inconvenient timing, it not being the season. I’d reconciled myself to a long, dreary stay in London, but then I stumbled upon you, and once I determined you weren’t mad, I decided you’d do as well as any other lady.”
A tiny gasp of pain escaped Violet’s lips, but it was a faint, choked sound—too faint for a sound that felt as if it had been torn from her very soul. “You’re…leaving England? You intend to return to Italy at once?”
“As soon as I get an heir on you, yes. It won’t be as pleasant a task as we both might have hoped, but it’s another requirement of my aunt’s, you understand.”
Violet kept her gaze fixed on a point just over his shoulder.
Oh, God, I can’t look at him…
“We won’t attempt the business now, however—not when you look so…distressed. Fatigue, I daresay. Go to sleep, my lady. We leave for West Sussex early tomorrow morning.” He gave her a mocking bow, then he strode to the door without sparing her another glance, and closed it behind him.
Violet stood in the middle of the room after he’d gone, still and silent, her body numb, her mind a blank. What was she meant to do now? She didn’t know, couldn’t think…
Long, silent moments passed before the answer came to her, and when it did it brought no comfort.
There was nothing she could do. Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, when he’d calmed down, then she could explain, persuade him…
But the tiny flicker of hope stuttered and died before it could spark to life.
His eyes, when he’d looked at her…she’d never seen such coldness in his eyes before, like two frozen gray stones…
She pressed a hand against her mouth to smother the sob that rose to her lips and stumbled toward the bed, her movements stiff and mechanical as she discarded her clothing and donned the sheer white nightdress. She cringed as the silky fabric slid over her skin, but aside from the clothes she wore, it was all she had.
Sleep. She’d go to sleep, just as he’d bade her, and perhaps tomorrow it wouldn’t all seem so hopeless.
She was about to slip under the coverlet when she remembered her sketches were still scattered over the table. She dragged herself across the room to gather them together, but she didn’t linger over them—didn’t look at them at all. She simply shoved them into an untidy pile and stuffed them back into her portfolio.
Papers and ink, nothing more, just as Hyacinth had said. It seemed incredible to Violet she ever could have felt so passionate about them—that she could have ever believed they were so important. What was paper, compared to flesh and bone? Her book—the book she loved so dearly—had it ever been anything more than an excuse, a poor substitute for the only things in life that truly mattered?
She blew out the lamp, crawled between the cold sheets, and lay there for a long time in the silent darkness, trying not to think of Nick.
Where he’d gone, what he was doing, whether he was alone…
She didn’t realize she was crying until she felt the wetness on her face. She squeezed her eyes closed to keep the tears from falling, but they persisted, sliding under her closed lids, dampening her eyelashes and streaming down her cheeks until at last, weary from weeping, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
* * * *
Hours later, she awoke with a start. There’d been a noise, a soft click—the door opening?
There was a muted thud, then a second one, the sound of a pair of boots dropping to the floor, then a faint rustle of clothing, and unsteady footsteps approaching the bed.
Nick had returned.
Every muscle in Violet’s body drew taut as he stumbled across the room and paused by the bed. A glimmer of light shone under the crack in the door, but it was too dark to see his face. She heard him, though—each one of his deep, rasping breaths as he hesitated beside the bed.
What would he do? Would he crawl in beside her and turn away at once, or—
His hand dropped to the bed, and Violet held her breath as he lifted the edge of the coverlet and slid underneath.
She didn’t move—not so much as a twitch—but her heart was racing.
The bed was a large one, and he kept a respectable distance between them, but his body felt enormous next to hers. His side of the bed sagged under his muscular weight, and Violet found herself clinging to the edge of the mattress to keep from rolling into him.
He made no move to touch her. He lay as still as she did, but she could sense him in the dark, the rise and fall of his chest, and his scent, that hint of amber and wood seemed to surround her. Tonight there was something else as well, something rich and slightly sweet that made her want to inhale deeply…
Whiskey.
Had he been drinking all this time? He’d stumbled a bit when he’d crossed the room, and then he’d collapsed into the bed as if someone had shoved him from behind. He must be in his cups—
Violet froze as he shifted on the bed. He rolled onto his side, facing her, and a moment later a large, warm hand touched a lock of her hair. A low, husky sound rumbled from deep in his chest, and then he was stroking her loose hair, his long fingers sliding through the heavy locks, his touch careful, gentle.
He didn’t say a word, and Violet, who wouldn’t have known what to say even if she could have spoken, also remained silent. Perhaps he thought she was asleep, and wouldn’t have touched her at all if he knew she felt every movement of his fingers, heard every one of his heavy breaths rasp through his lungs.
He caressed her hair for a long time, until the rhythmic strokes of his hand had nearly lulled her back to sleep, but then she felt the back of his fingers slide across her cheek.
His breath caught, and his entire body went rigid beside hers.
Violet didn’t move, couldn’t breathe as he stroked his fingertips across the sensitive skin under her eye. As he touched her face, a low, broken sound tore from his chest.
That’s when Violet understood.
She’d been weeping in her sleep, and his fingers had come away wet.
“Don’t cry.” It was a whisper only, more of a breath than a sound, and slightly slurred from the whiskey, but that small, unexpected kindness made more tears sting her eyes.
He slid to the middle of the bed, draped his arm across her body, and buried his face in her neck. Violet tensed at once, uncertain what was happening. Had he forgiven her, and intended to consummate the marriage, or, dear God, had he not forgiven her, and intended to consummate it anyway? She was his wif
e, and it was his right to do so, but the thought of being so vulnerable to him even as she knew he despised her made a desperate whimper rise to her lips.
“Shhhh.” He nuzzled his lips against her ear and caressed her shoulder in long, soothing strokes. “Just want to touch you.”
His words were slurred, but his touch remained gentle despite his incoherence, and it felt so good to be held by him Violet let herself melt against him.
Once he felt her relax, Nick slid her nightdress off her shoulder and traced his fingertips over her bare skin. “So soft…”
Violet gasped a little when he leaned over her to press his open lips where his fingers had been, and his mouth grew greedy as he kissed and nipped the tender skin there. He dragged his lips lower, his hand cupping one of her breasts as he suckled at the pale skin just above the low neck of her nightdress.
Violet shifted under him, her hands clutching at his shoulders, but he eased her back down to the bed with a hand in the middle of her chest. “Lie back.”
He smoothed his palm over her stomach, then grasped a handful of her nightdress in his fist and raised it over her thighs. He paused to gaze at her after he’d bared her, and a low, hungry groan broke from his lips. His breath quickened and deepened as he slid his hand up the inside of her thigh, nudged her legs open, and brushed a fingertip over her curls.
Violet nearly rolled off the bed at the sensation, but Nick held her, his mouth closing over the tip of her breast as he stroked between her legs again, his thumb circling the tender flesh where she ached the most. His touch was light, but the combination of his hot mouth over her nipple and that slow, maddening finger made her body arch and tighten with anticipation in a way Violet had never felt before.
Whatever her body was doing, Nick seemed to approve of it, because he let out a long, hoarse groan and circled faster, his touch more insistent. When her hips began to arch against his hand he groaned again, and sank one long finger into her, moving it in and out in careful thrusts until something inside her gave way and pleasure rushed from between her legs and over her entire body, so intense she cried out as she twisted beneath him.
After it was over she lay there, dazed, a light sheen of sweat covering her body. Nick smoothed her nightdress down over her legs and drew the coverlet over her. Then he sighed, and something about the sound was so lonely, so hopeless, the tears swelled in Violet’s throat again, choking her, until at last she gave way to them, and her body shook with silent sobs.
Nick didn’t touch her again, and he never said another word.
When she woke the next morning, she was alone in the bed.
Nick was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
Nick’s head was throbbing, his eyes were gritty, and his neck was so sore from being jammed against the carriage window all night that if there’d been any blood to speak of, he would have sworn he’d been decapitated.
And yet despite all this pain and annoyance, his cock remained as hard as a slab of marble.
He ran a weary hand down his face. He didn’t recall everything that happened last night after he’d stormed out and left Violet alone in their bedchamber, but he did recall that the rest of the evening involved a great deal of whiskey, and he’d stumbled upstairs in a haze of liquor, vowing to fall into a drunken stupor before he could do any more damage.
Except he hadn’t fallen asleep. Instead, the moment he’d slipped between the sheets he’d been overwhelmed by his lust for his wife, and instead of resisting his baser instincts as he’d promised himself he would, like most sotted scoundrels, he’d yielded to temptation.
He’d touched her. Stroked and caressed and tasted her until she’d cried out, then come to a quivering release in his arms. The way she’d arched and squirmed under his fingers, her slick heat—
Christ. He’d been hard ever since, which seemed a fitting punishment for a man who’d reduced his new bride to solitary weeping on their wedding night. When he’d touched her face, and his hand had come away damp with her tears…
Had she been crying for him, or for herself? Or for Lord Derrick?
It shouldn’t matter. Her tears couldn’t make him forget what she’d done, yet those drops on his fingertips felt like a blow to the chest. His heart was still reeling from it.
He let his head fall back against the squabs and squeezed his lids closed over stinging, bloodshot eyes. He and Violet had been wed for less than one day. Already there were enough lies and betrayals between them to doom their marriage, and now there was the drunken, illicit touching, as well. To make matters worse, after he’d given her pleasure, he’d behaved like every other sotted rake who’s committed a debauchery—that is, he’d slunk off to sleep in his carriage.
He should have stayed away from her last night. He should have known as soon as he lay down next to her and inhaled her warm, seductive scent he wouldn’t be able to keep from touching her.
That there would be more touching was a foregone conclusion, of course, since touching was a necessary component of getting an heir upon one’s wife, and getting an heir upon his wife was a necessity if he was ever going to escape England. But that touching would be of the clinical, detached sort—the sort one engaged in only as a means to an end.
Purposeful, not passionate.
Last night he’d given in to the hungry, urgent sort of touching, but it wouldn’t happen again. There would be no more stroking her hair, or whispering in her ear—no more tenderness or passion. He’d be respectful of her, of course, but anything more than that would only encourage Violet to believe there was a chance they could overcome the obstacles between them.
There wasn’t.
Nick pressed a hand over his closed eyes, but it would take far more than his hand to erase the image of those sketches. They were burned into his brain like a brand, so deep even a scalpel wouldn’t excise them. He’d nearly drowned himself in whiskey last night, and even that hadn’t been enough to make him forget that drawing she’d done of him.
The Selfish Rake.
Christ, what a fool he was. That day they’d visited the Hunterian, when she’d wrapped her arms around his neck in his carriage afterwards and begged to touch him…
I want to. Not for a sketch. For you. Just for you.
He’d believed her, every word. She’d kissed him so sweetly, and he thought he’d felt truth in every stroke of her hands. He’d been out of his mind with desire for her that day, but his hopes had all disintegrated into smoldering ashes last night when he discovered what she really thought of him.
Just for you…
What had been moments of exquisite tenderness for him was likely nothing more than an experiment for her—a salacious chapter for the bluestockings.
How to Break a Rake’s Heart.
At least she hadn’t taken a sketch of him when he was shuddering to release beneath her. He supposed he should be grateful for that much. But then perhaps it hadn’t been about him at all. Perhaps she’d been thinking of Lord Derrick the entire time, imagining it was his hands stroking her, his lips tasting her skin…
Nick dug his fingers into his scalp, but there was no escaping it.
Violet had been in love with Lord Derrick. Perhaps she still was.
Lord Derrick had broken Violet’s heart when he married Lady Honora.
Perhaps it was still broken.
Lord Derrick. Graham’s best friend, and so like Graham one could hardly tell them apart when they were boys.
Lord Derrick. Such an ideal gentleman. So perfect in every way.
So much more like Graham than Nick had ever been.
Than he ever could be.
Whatever the state of his wife’s heart, it didn’t belong to him. She might feel affection for him, attraction even, but no lady who’d loved Lord Derrick could ever fall in love with him. It was absurd to even hope for it, as absurd as…
As imagining he could take Graham’s place.
He’d already tried, and he’d failed, and his father had never forgiven him for it. He’d learned to live with the burden of his father’s disappointment, but if the same were to happen with Violet, if he should fail her as he’d failed his father…
If?
A bitter laugh broke from his lips. There was no question he’d fail her. How could he not? He couldn’t be Lord Derrick, any more than he’d been able to be Graham.
Nick tapped his clenched fist against his forehead. Just thinking about Violet and Lord Derrick drove him mad. It made him want to hurt Violet as badly as she’d hurt him. Last night he’d succeeded, but her tears hadn’t made him feel any better.
They’d made him feel as if his heart were being ripped from his chest.
What a pity his father wasn’t still alive. The old earl would have been so gratified to find he’d been right all along—that Nick was no better a husband than he’d been a son.
There was no future for him and Violet now—no going forward from this. He’d been a fool to think a marriage that began with a lie would ever become anything other than that. He’d done as his aunt asked. He’d married, and he’d remain in England long enough to fulfill the rest of his promise to Lady Westcott, but after that he was leaving England, where it was cold and wet and he’d be forced to make peace with his new brother-in-law, the haughty Marquess of Huntington.
He’d return to Italy, where the sun bathed everything in its warm rays and he could lose himself in Catalina’s willing flesh. The sooner Violet accepted that, the better it would be for both of them.
They’d consummate the marriage and make a reasonable attempt at getting an heir, but he’d perform his duty to his title with his usual cool detachment. Surely he could bed his wife without falling into paroxysms of love for her?
He was a Selfish Rake, after all. He’d had plenty of practice.
