by Tanya Wilde
Dear lord, he was giving her a way out of their wedding night. And he truly thought she would seize the chance. Willow glimpsed it there, in the amusement of his features, his flashing eyes.
“So?” he pressed.
Wicked scoundrel! Challenge wove through the threads of his words. He must want this marriage badly. She made a mental note to demand answers later.
At present, however, it seemed she loved battling with him as much as she loved looking at him. Indeed, she found herself wanting to explore their wedding night more than anything in that moment. Thus, Willow gave him something better than her word.
She turned and gave him her back. “Unlace me.”
Her boldness amazed her. Empowered her. Then she felt the caress of his hand brushing her neck followed by the soft graze of his lips against her skin. Her lashes drifted shut.
“Are you certain?” His velvety voice whispered in her ear.
Heat pooled in her belly. Breathless, she answered, “Yes.”
Three heartbeats later, her dress pooled around her feet. Seconds later, her petticoat, chemise and stays followed.
She heard him suck in his breath.
Emboldened by his response, and seeing no point in holding onto modesty, Willow turned and brazenly met her husband’s gaze. The impact was so strong the air rushed from her lungs. His eyes were intense. More intense than usual. And the way he was staring at her singed skin.
Her tongue darted over her lower lip. He reached for her, drawing her against the hard ridges of his body and then he was kissing her again. All at once, she was lifted up into his arms.
Willow barely had time to soak up the delightful heat of his skin. Dropping her on the bed, his eyes were warm as they searched hers.
She liked his eyes this way—warm, expressive—and wondered what it would take to keep them so.
“Earlier, when you were running for the door . . . you wanted to escape me.” His voice was low. Seductive. He stretched over her, covering her with his entire masculine length. “Did you not?”
“I’ll admit to no such thing,” Willow muttered, her wits scrambled. It was hard to draw a thought with him this close.
His chest rumbled with laughter and he pinned her with ruthless, glowing eyes. His face could have been etched in stone at that moment. The breath in her lungs burned. But the answer he sought was there in her eyes—she never once thought she could escape him.
The look of sheer male satisfaction that crossed his features ought to have raised the hairs on her neck but his lips lowered to slide over her collarbone, skimming breasts, her belly, burning through her annoyance. Nowhere was off limits. Fire spread through her.
The hard contrast of his muscles against her softness made Willow’s head spin. Without warning, his hand settled at the junction of her legs and she yelped, not expecting his dexterous fingers to make such a play.
“Relax,” he murmured before his fingers continued their exploration. His eyes locked on hers as sensations rocked through her, radiating out from her core. “Did you not think about this when you chose to walk down the church?”
No, absolutely not had she thought about what his hands might do.
“Or this?” His finger disappeared, only to be replaced by his mouth.
Lud no, she had not imagined that either.
When his tongue flicked over the folds of her core, Willow whimpered. It was just so wicked. She may die from delight. Or embarrassment. Or something. Yet he seemed not at all ashamed by what he was doing.
He continued until she thought she might explode. She writhed beneath him wildly, impatient. With a quiet laugh, he lifted himself up and surrounded her with his body, his hands and mouth on her breasts, her neck, his throbbing member pushing at her entrance.
“This may hurt,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Hurt?
Nothing could ever hurt again. It seemed most ridiculous for him to say that. She was riding in a haze of pleasure.
He surged forward, driving past her innocence.
“Dear lord,” she cried out, nearly bulking from the bed at the unexpected pain. “You could have warned me.”
“I did,” he bit out but sounded amused.
She writhed beneath him and he groaned, noting his clenched jaw. “Is it painful for you, too?”
He shook his head.
“Then why have you stopped?”
His eyes bore into hers. “To give you time to adjust to me.”
Oh!
She tested another wiggle. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
His lips descended on hers and he began to thrust into her, low, firm movements that set fire to her insides. This time, Willow did not hold back. She stroked her tongue alongside his, tasting, feasting. She felt wild inside, and gave herself over to her husband’s attention, his thrusts, to the flames licking up her spine. This was so much more than she had ever expected.
If this was part of what it meant to be a wife, Willow thought, she’d happily do this as often as possible.
Lifting her hips to meet each of his thrusts, his name slipped from her lips. There was something precious happening between them, something magical.
His movements gained more purpose, and she arched her back, pleasure exploding inside her like a thousand stars bursting into stardust. Moments later, he shuddered his own release, his body a delightful weight pressing into her.
“That was marvelous,” Willow said once she caught her breath.
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Indeed,” he agreed, rolling onto his back.
“I had no idea that it could be so . . .” her voice trailed off at a loss for words. Her imagination had not prepared her for the emotions his touch provoked. The ethereal feeling that her body no longer belonged to her.
He turned his head to her. “How did it feel?”
“Earth-shattering,” she said, meeting his gaze.
“That’s good,” he said. “Perhaps tomorrow you can read through the rules I have—”
“I’m not reading your rules,” Willow cut him off, bolting upright to glare at him.
His eyes hardened. “Wives do as they are told.”
“Not this wife,” she declared, indignant.
“Then you will not feel that earth-shattering pleasure again.”
Willow gasped. Ice water could not have been more effective. She scrambled away from him, grabbing the sheets to cover herself. Furious and pained all at once.
“Was this all a trap? Seduce me so I’ll be more biddable?”
“No,” he said, sitting up. “I gave you a choice to consummate this marriage or give me your word it will not be annulled.”
Dear lord, he was right. She had wanted this, all of it. But she hadn’t expected he’d introduce her to such exquisite passion and then threaten to take it away.
“That’s . . . that’s . . . deplorable!” Willow exploded. “How can you threaten me like this after what we shared?”
His eyes were once again frosty. “Oh, I can, my sweet wife. You should understand I am not a man to attach any romantic ideals to.”
He’d ruined this marvelous night over toast? Well, not actual toast, but rather a metaphor for his obnoxious rules and her refusal to follow them.
“And what if I seek pleasure elsewhere?” Willow challenged, her temper rising at the utter audacity of the man. She wouldn’t, but she was furious that he’d crushed a spectacular moment, that he’d reverted them back to their battle of wills. Of course, she’d planned to do the same thing in the morning, but not now.
“I would not test me that way if I were you.” Black eyes darkened to resemble a thunderstorm. “Not if you do not wish to be locked away in a remote castle on abandoned moors for the rest of your life.”
“You wouldn’t!”
He only smiled.
Willow watched, crippled with astonishment, as he rose from the bed and padded over to his room with no modesty whatsoever, turning the key in the lock to unlock the door. He did not
so much as spare her a second glance!
Glaring at his back, she tossed a pillow at him, but it connected with the wall. The devil with him and his threats so nonchalantly declared! The man was a beast. An appealing beast, but a beast all the same.
And she was just the woman to tame him.
Ambrose cursed a string of foul oaths as he slammed the adjoining door shut. He was supposed to remain detached and stoic. He was supposed to be a master at it. What the hell, then, had happened? Where had all the years of control gone?
In the short time he’d spent with his wife, he’d felt desire, fury, possession, protectiveness, jealously, pleasure, and even—he couldn’t comprehend it—affection. He hadn’t actually thought she’d go through with the wedding night. He had gone to her chamber fully intending to disrobe and fully expecting her swift word that the marriage would not be annulled.
He wasn’t even sure why he had given her the choice, only that it seemed right. And yes, while he had meant for the marriage to be one of convenience, there had been nothing convenient about what had just happened. His world had been pushed over a ravine and was now careening down into some unknown abyss.
Never had he known such raw hunger for a woman. The anger that had burned inside him all day had transformed into wild lust the moment his wife faced him, eyes flashing with defiance, and declared she refused to follow his rules. And then she turned and asked him to unlace her.
The memory still burned against his skull.
With a groan, he fell back on the mattress, staring at the canopy of his bed. He had planned on treating his wife with detachment and distance. But tonight his control had snapped. Just snapped. As if it was nothing more than a thin piece of centuries old rope.
The thought rightly terrified him.
Ambrose needed the ever-present constant of what control provided in his life. Predictability. Routine. Not bloody surprises lurking around each corner. Or underneath petticoats.
He rose to his feet and sauntered over to the window, pulling another robe over his shoulders. The moon had slid behind a cloud, casting gloomy darkness over Mayfair. He lifted a trembling hand—trembling, for Christ’s sake—watching the moonlight play over his fingers with a scowl. If he had been in a mood to summon up any form of humor, he’d have laughed for being so unsettled over a woman.
Denial, however, was a waste of his time. Tonight had disturbed him. His wife disturbed him.
But he could not help his mind returning to the memory of how she’d come undone in his arms.
Confusion swamped him.
Why hadn’t that been enough? Didn’t that make a point about who was in charge?
It should’ve, but it hadn’t.
He hadn’t felt in control in the slightest. It was as if, on hearing her pleasure, on seeing her satisfaction, he panicked. And in his panic, he slammed his mask on and tossed out a challenge—said anything to prevent her from looking at him with affection, with hope.
And it had worked. Fury and shock had overtaken her softer emotions instantly.
But bloody hell. What was he getting himself into? He’d incited a war. War was not detached.
A movement drew his attention to the shadows where a slight contour flitted over the garden. His eyes narrowed on the silhouette, certain he was hallucinating. But sure enough, a slender figure dashed over the lawn and down the street.
Everything inside him ceased to function.
His gaze ripped away from the window to his wife’s chamber and before he could even blink, he threw open the adjoining door. Rage exploded in him, throbbed at his temples. The bed was empty, as was the chamber.
His gaze swept to the open window. Anger choked him. Had the bloody woman been idiotic enough to climb down the window?
It was two stories up!
This, this, right here was why he required control in his life. Because once control slipped and the woman in your life ran rampant, nightmarish things happened. God only knows what she was up to—though he suspected it had to do with Holly Middleton. God knew whether she would be safe. He didn’t even know where she might have gone. He was powerless to protect her should trouble happen upon her.
How the hell was he supposed to manage an unmanageable wife?
Reason? Threaten? Command? Beg?
He stomped back into his room and sank down onto the bed to wait. His mind raced, considering what to do about his wife. Kissing her had been a huge mistake, and he could not repeat it. He had to keep his distance, remain detached. Detachment allowed him the best control.
So Ambrose waited and waited until he heard the tell-tale sound of the floorboards creaking, signaling her return. Only then did he let loose a breath and climb into bed, still no wiser as to how to handle the new Duchess of St. Ives.
Chapter 7
Willow scaled down the side of her new home with little effort—it was a skill she and her sisters perfected when they were twelve years old. Her new home was built in much the same way their country house was, and the distance from this chamber to the ground was not at all different from her chamber in Derbyshire.
The only real difference in this particular house was that it housed a most suspicious, arrogant, misguided male, who would try to stop her. So for that reason, she tried to keep her grunts and heaving to a minimum.
She dropped to the ground with an easy thud, her chin lifting to gaze back up to her window. She wouldn’t be able to make it back up again. And there was no tree near her window she could climb. She would have to find another way inside or slip in when the servants woke.
If her husband learned of it, he’d be furious.
Willow shrugged.
Oh well.
What would he next threaten to deny her if he learned about this? The sour cur!
Well, he’d learn. She could live without that pleasure. In fact, she could live without a great deal many things if his seed had taken root. Indeed, if tonight had accomplished her goal, then she’d be the one to withhold rocking his world.
See how he enjoys that!
One thing she was not about to do was give up all her dignity and let him plow away for his own pleasure. She wasn’t that desperate. If she was not with child . . . Then she would wait until she and Ambrose were on more agreeable terms.
Nevertheless, she was curious to see just how serious he was about his declaration. She needed to take stock of his word, push the boundaries, and discover what sort of character her husband possessed and work from there.
With a resolved nod, she dashed across the lawn.
The thudding of her boots against the cold cobblestones kept her on high alert. It had been less challenging to slip out than she first thought. Right before her sister had departed, Poppy mentioned that the duke planned on stationing footman at her door, or so it was rumored, and Willow hadn’t wanted to take the chance to slip out that way. But even in choosing to go out the window, part of her had expected to be caught in the garden.
Keeping her head low and her cloak tightly wound, she spied Warton’s carriage in the distance. The footman spotted her and jumped from his perch to open the door.
She gave a curt nod in acknowledgment.
“Milady,” he nodded back, ushering her inside—all very cloak and dagger.
Willow found herself peeking through the window every two seconds, half expecting her husband to give chase on the back of a fire breathing dragon. Or God forbid, follow from a discreet distance and catch her in the act of meeting with Holly.
Luckily, the ride to Warton’s residence did not take long.
But it wasn’t until Willow stood across from Holly in Warton’s drawing room that her heart settled back into a steady rhythm.
“Holly?” Willow murmured, her voice cracking just a bit.
Then her sister was in her arms, drawing her into a tight embrace.
Tears gathered in Willow’s eyes as she fought to regain some control over her emotions, which appeared to be scattered all over the British Isles. The wei
ght of the day’s events bore down hard on her heart, as did the fear that her sister may be angry with her and even feel betrayed by her actions.
“I thought I wouldn’t see you before we left,” Holly murmured.
“Nothing could keep me away,” Willow said, drawing back to take a good look at her sister. “However, my husband made it slightly more difficult when he supposedly stationed two footmen outside my bedchamber. To keep me in or to keep you out, who is to say? It seems he does not believe I would risk scaling down the side of a house to see you.”
“Forgive me, Willow. If I’d known you would do something so insane in an attempt to correct my imprudence, I would never have left you alone in that room. Was he furious with you?”
“Oh, he was quite beyond that, but nothing I couldn’t manage. The Dragon Duchess, as you so suitably named her, on the other hand . . .” Willow shuddered. “That woman’s wailing almost drove me through the walls. Her incessant caterwauling gave me head pains. She needs to take to the waters of Bath.”
“I am so sorry.”
Her sister appeared truly torn up by the events, as though she was to blame. When in fact, the choice had been Willow’s. And she did not regret it. Well, maybe a tiny bit after tonight. Clearly, she hadn’t understood what she was marrying into or she might have run faster than Holly had. Maybe. But she was in this marriage now and had to make the most of it. Middletons did not give up.
“Oh, hush, I would never have allowed you to marry that beast, not after what you told me. Besides, I have my own motivation for wedding the man.”
“You wanted to marry St. Ives?”
“Of course not. My reasons have nothing to do with the duke himself.”
“I am confused. The reason you married him has nothing to do with him?”
“Yes,” Willow said with a slow nod, her heart jumping into her throat.
“But the man is a beast,” Holly pointed out, a worried look flittering across her face.
“He is something, all right,” Willow murmured, giving her a soft, reassuring smile. And while it was certainly an infuriating something most of the time, Willow also had to admit that the “something” also included a peculiar presence. An aura surrounded the duke that Willow felt drawn to—and she was certainly attracted to the man given their most recent interaction.
