Viscount in Love (Accidental Brides #1)

Chapter 24

Dominic had had every intention of seducing his wife—until he saw Torie’s white, weary face. He might be a bastard in the

eyes of most of the cultivated, refined guests who clustered at their wedding breakfast like pigs at a trough, but he tried

not to be cruel.

Though he couldn’t stop himself from desiring her.

Torie’s nightgown would have tempted an octogenarian bridegroom. The entire bodice was made of pure lace, flirting with pale

nipples that he craved to touch.

They sat silently for five minutes before she drowsily told him to close his door on the way out. When she fell asleep, he

drew her gently toward him until her head rested on his shoulder.

She was less formidable with her eyes closed. In fact, she looked sweet and delicate, although when awake, she was far from

fragile. He liked that. She wasn’t afraid of him. In fact, she was stubbornly fighting for dominance in their marriage. He

couldn’t allow it, but he respected it.

It even occurred to him that he’d never had a better-matched opponent. Her scathing looks felt as if they searched the bottom

of his soul—and found it lacking. Perhaps they could be partners, though he’d never imagined such a marriage.

A few minutes later, he guided her head to the pillow. His blood was literally sparking in his veins, imploring him to wake

her with a kiss.

He should leave.

They hadn’t had an honest conversation—or rather, an honest conversation in which he didn’t lose his temper—but there was time for that tomorrow. Hell, they had a lifetime together. The thought eased the tightness in his chest that had come on the moment she snapped at him about Vauxhall and remained, even after she promised in front of God and man to become his wife.

He couldn’t get over the fact that he had humiliated her more than her father had. He had sworn always to protect her, and then irrationally, carelessly, injured

her.

Taking a deep breath, he stood up, tossing his robe to the side, and slipped under the sheet beside her.

He couldn’t sleep, so he lay awake and picked through the problems keeping them apart. There was Gianna and the question of

mistresses. Other wives barred their husbands from the bedchamber after a child or two, but why should that apply to Torie?

Nothing he knew of “ladies” as a species seemed to apply to her. Her dislike of his “cold, self-absorbed, and serious” personality

was more difficult to overcome.

Then there was his temper. Her temper.

His mouth eased into one of the smiles she prized as he thought about their arguments. Conflicts in the House of Lords left

him feeling enervated and full of bile. He would go to White’s, his club, and then leave directly because he couldn’t bear

to be in the room with his peers. At least, not those with whom he disagreed.

Arguments with Torie just made him want to get closer to her. When color rose in her cheeks, he wanted to lick her stubborn lips, steal the air she was using to shout at him. He had fantasies about tupping her in every one of the places they argued: his study, her studio, the dining table... hell, even the theater box. If he caught her hand and drew her to the very back, they could slip behind the velvet curtain.

In the last weeks, it hadn’t mattered how often he took himself in hand to quell his lust. He was never satisfied. It had

become something of a routine: argue with his fiancée, return home, hurtle into the water closet, lean against the wall with

a groan escaping his lips... finish.

Only to visualize her lips and find an erection bobbing against his belly again.

At last he picked up her left hand, the one that wasn’t tucked under her cheek, kissed her palm, and curled her fingers over

the kiss.

Dominic woke hours later to find shocked blue eyes staring at him. Thankfully he had turned on his side in his sleep, which

hid his morning erection.

Behind Torie, morning sunlight was pouring in, tinting her rumpled curls the milky color of opals. Somewhere close by, a swallow

was fretfully singing like a child playing with a pianoforte.

He pushed himself up on his elbow. He considered kissing his wife good morning, but decided he’d better wait.

“Dom!” Torie hissed. “This is taking verisimilitude too far!”

He thought for a moment about the fact that her vocabulary was better than most of his acquaintances’. “Do you remember every

word you hear?”

“No.” She sat up. “I can’t ring the bell for my maid while you’re here. In my bed.” She poked him. “You’d best be gone now.

I need tea.”

“So do I,” Dominic said, leaning over to pull the rope hanging by his side of the bed. “Married people have tea in bed together.”

She chewed on her lower lip, looking unconvinced.

Every time she moved, her breasts shifted unsteadily, setting his blood on fire. He glanced down: his personal clothespin

had tented the bed, though Torie apparently hadn’t noticed.

Leaving it to fate, he crossed his arms behind his head, ridiculously pleased by the way his wedding ring looked on her finger.

“Why is it so light in here?” Torie asked crossly, avoiding his eyes.

“No maid drew the curtains, since we were supposed to be engaged in the all-important activity of validating our marriage

with bodily union.” Dominic felt awash in affection for his wife, which was a good start to a marriage—especially combined

with the undertow of desire that nearly crippled him whenever he was in her presence.

A gentle knock on the door signaled the entrance of an upstairs maid, carrying a tray with a teapot and a bunch of bluebells.

The trays he’d been sent up till now had no flowers, so presumably they were a delicate recognition of his married state.

“Good morning, my lady, my lord,” the girl murmured, placing the tray on Torie’s side.

“She never looked at the bed,” Torie observed after the door closed. “My maid, Emily, could never have been so circumspect.”

She cleared her throat. “Emily would have been scandalized.”

So she had noticed the clothespin.

“Flitwick’s staff is excellently trained,” Dominic said. “May I have a cup of black tea?”

When Torie turned to pick up the teapot, the delicate silk of her nightgown pulled against her breasts. His erection throbbed against the sheet. He felt like a boy again: any moment he’d start to doodle nipples the way they used to. Breasts and nipples in endless variation.

“They’ve marmaladed our toast,” Torie said, handing him a thick linen napkin, followed by a cup of tea and a plate with two

pieces of bread.

He spread the napkin over his crotch, pressing downwards in a silent reminder to his body that he was a grown man and fully

in charge. “That’s the way I like it, but you can ask for plain butter tomorrow.”

“Don’t you think this is going a bit far in convincing the household that our marriage has been consummated?” she burst out

once she sat back against the headboard, tea in hand.

“I’ve never shared a breakfast tray with a woman before, but now I look forward to marmalade toast with you for the next eighty

years.” Dominic couldn’t help his cheerfulness. Even though they needed to have a serious conversation, and he had to apologize

again , he was happy.

Full of happiness as a cistern after a rainstorm, though that wasn’t a poetic phrase.

His wife’s eyes flashed at him, and he could almost see her building up a “head of steam,” as the Duchess of Huntington had

said of her engine.

“How interesting! I would have imagined you and the lovely Gianna sharing many such meals, given her famous propensity for

drinking pink champagne for breakfast.”

“Never with me,” he said, taking a bite of toast. Then he added, “Gianna enjoys embroidering the facts, and apparently she

sees reporters as fair game.”

“Let me explicate something for you, Dominic,” Torie said. “I do not want to know anything about your mistress, not a detail, not a word. I am merely your nanny at the moment. We will not sleep together again until you—”

“She’s gone,” he interrupted.

Torie blinked. “No— What? Gone?”

“Has been gone,” he said, not smugly, because he should have told her the moment the subject came up yesterday.

“After our conversation?”

“No. Months ago, she sold the house I bought her and moved back to Italy.”

Torie choked on her tea. “What?”

“Before you ask, I did not replace her.”

No one— no one —greeted his statements with such an expression of incredulity. His opponents hated his passionate arguments, but they respected

the facts he brought forward. They didn’t question that he offered the truth.

Perversely, Torie’s skepticism and her temper-filled eyes aroused him even more than the sight of her erotically clad in lace.

“Here’s the kicker,” he said, a trace of satisfaction leaking into his voice. “She’s newly married to an Italian conte. A

count.”

“Right.” Her tone was laden with skepticism. “What were you doing at Vauxhall with a newly married contessa?”

“The gossips apparently didn’t notice that Gianna and I shared the box with a dapper Italian,” he said, taking a bite of toast. “The newlyweds were in London on their honeymoon, touring its attractions, which included Vauxhall. She asked me to join them there, and I stupidly—I can never apologize enough, Torie—I stupidly agreed. The reporters who stalked us ignored her husband.”

Dominic had spent the last months reading Torie’s expressions more closely than he ever did a legal document. Sea-blue eyes

darkening to navy? She was curious, even bewildered. Well, the truth was confusing.

“The diamond necklace was a wedding present from the conte, who was so jealous, by the way, that when they arrived in London,

he demanded to meet the viscount who had supported his dear wife for several years, this kindness being entirely due to said

viscount’s childhood friendship with Gianna’s dead brother.”

“That’s... that’s mad,” Torie stammered.

“Gianna takes a flexible approach to the truth, never more so than when she wove the story of how a storm of fraternal kindness

led me to give her a house in London. I must have loved her brother dearly.” He took another bite of toast.

“The conte cannot have believed her!”

Dominic finished his tea and put it to the side. “All signs were that he did. The brother, by the way, may or may not have

existed. I never got around to asking. Gianna simply gave me my script and demanded I join them at Vauxhall.”

“That story is almost mad enough that I believe it,” Torie breathed. Then: “You bought her a house ?”

He raised one shoulder. “We were together for five years.”

She eyed him over her toast. “Is that normal? I’m sure that my father hasn’t bought anyone a house. He’s lucky to have inherited

the one I grew up in.”

“The only person I’ve ever spoken to on the subject was my father,” Dominic said. He heard amusement fall from his voice. “The late viscount was miserly in thought and deed. Consequently, I have made a rule of generosity.”

Torie glanced at him. “That explains your willingness to throw pounds at problems, but I don’t know whether I believe you

about the contessa. The story is too incredible.”

“We could drop by the newlyweds’ palazzo in Florence during the honeymoon that the twins are planning for the four of us.

After I paid for several bottles of champagne, mostly consumed by the conte, his lordship issued an invitation to me and my

future bride. You do know that the twins plan to join us in Italy, don’t you?”

Torie ignored that digression. “Just to summarize: you went to Vauxhall two days before your wedding because your former mistress

asked you to convince her new husband that you had never been more than a generous friend of her brother, who may or may not

be fictional.”

“It didn’t take any skill on my part to act completely indifferent toward Gianna,” Dominic said. “By the end of the evening,

the conte was probably grateful to escape my soliloquy about your paintings of rabbits, your sense of humor, your opinions

of classical texts, your kindness to my orphaned niece and nephew, and your overall perfection.”

He eyed her. “I told him that you were the most beautiful woman in London. Gianna scowled, but she could hardly complain,

given the tissue of lies she’d told him.”

“You could have told me this before we married,” Torie said hoarsely. “You let me think that you had been kissing me—and then

going to her bed!”

Dominic nodded. They’d reached the sticky part. “I was furious.”

“Because I had the temerity to ask you to be faithful to your wedding vows?”

“Because of this .” He plucked the last bite of her toast from her fingers and threw it on the tray before he rolled on top of her, bracing

himself on his elbows. His heart was hammering in his chest.

It was all so disconcerting. Why was he feeling scorching desire for a woman whom he’d hardly noticed a year ago?

Torie stared up at him, her eyes defiant. But she wasn’t saying no. She wasn’t keeping him at a distance or shouting at him.

It was just the two of them in a silent bedchamber smelling of marmalade and buttered toast.

“I likely wouldn’t have gone to Vauxhall, but the only thing I could think about was going to bed with you. I lost my train

of thought talking about the farm bill in Lords and had to sit down in disgrace.”

He dropped a small kiss on the corner of her voluptuous mouth. Then, as her lips eased open, he nibbled on her lower lip.

Finally their tongues met in a sensual dance that sent hunger raging down to his groin.

She tasted like sweet, sticky, jammy woman—like every idle dream he ever had about making love. He suspected Torie didn’t

even like him, and she certainly didn’t approve of him, yet she was kissing him back with a burning intensity that matched

his own.

They were matched in lust, he thought dimly.

She pulled away. “Not yet,” she said breathlessly. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t just tell me the other day that

you weren’t with Gianna at Vaux hall? Why didn’t you just say that she hadn’t been your mistress for—for how long?”

“Since the fifteenth of February.”

“It would have been so easy.”

Dominic rolled over on his back and repeated, “I was infuriated.”

Her silence did a good job of conveying incredulity.

“I don’t take ultimatums well,” he admitted. “My father was dictatorial, and I find it very difficult to obey commands.”

“I deliberately did not issue an ultimatum,” Torie said.

He tried again. “I have a temper.”

She snorted, reminding him of the Duchess of Huntington. “More people know of your temper than your former mistress—and she

is known throughout polite society.”

“When I feel my temper slipping, I leave the room. It’s a hard and fast rule.”

She cast him a skeptical look. “May I remind you that you’re famous for bellowing insults in the House of Lords?”

“That doesn’t count. I must catch their attention, or they just wallow in complacency or fall asleep, especially after lunch.

They serve too much port in the Lords dining room.”

Torie came up on her elbow. “You could have come back to me that evening, after you’d calmed down, and explained. Did you

want me to jilt you?”

He glanced over and found her eyes narrowed. “No!”

“Poppycock. You did, didn’t you? Why didn’t you simply break the engagement?” Her eyes took on a bruised pansy color that

he’d never seen before.

“I did want to marry you!”

She rolled to her back. “You should have been honest, Dom. You’re stuck with me now. I could be married to a duke, and you courting a docile lady.”

Fuck.

“I was afraid,” he said, the words coming roughly from his throat.

She didn’t look at him, but her lips shaped the word poppycock .

“I didn’t want you to jilt me, but I thought you had the right.” The words came deep and rough from his chest. “I was horrified

to think that you were humiliated by my being with Gianna. That I had inflicted that pain. I’m not used to being wrong .”

She propped herself on her side again, close enough to him so that her legs almost touched his. “Hmmm.”

“I know you’ve been thinking about jilting me ever since you put that emerald on your finger. Half the time you don’t even

wear it. Why do you think I paid the Duke of Queensberry to leave London? I wouldn’t have bothered if I wanted you to jilt

me, would I?”

“Once again: Why not just tell me the truth?”

“I was about to tell you, but you interrupted me by announcing that you cheerfully would take a lover. After you left, I decided

you had the right to jilt me at the altar. Your father’s wager seemed proof that you planned to.”

“Did you care?”

“God, yes.” The word was fierce. “I had made an ass of myself at Vauxhall, and I would have deserved it if you fled before

the wedding or left me at the altar. But make no mistake, Torie: I would have come after you. Even before that night, I got

rid of Queensberry to give myself time to persuade you.”

He paused, and then added for the sake of honesty, “Or seduce you, whatever it took.”

A knee nudged his leg. “You truly don’t have a mistress? Any mistress?”

“No. No one.” He took a deep breath. “I dismissed Gianna the night after we first spoke about her. I didn’t think twice about

having a mistress when I spoke to Leonora about it.” He turned his head and met her eyes. “Then you told me that you would

have kicked me out, and it made me rethink the kind of marriage I wanted. I gave Gianna enough money to return to Italy in

style, which allowed her to snag the conte.”

A smile touched her lips. “I like that.”

“I thought you would.”

“You still should have told me earlier.”

“I felt trapped, and I never behave my best in that situation.” He cleared his throat. “I shall try, but we both have tempers.”

“We do, don’t we? Do you know what I think of this, viscount?”

He shook his head.

“I think the conditions of my ultimatum have been met.”

Dominic couldn’t suppress his smile. “I thought you didn’t offer an ultimatum?”

“Well, it might have been something in that genre. The Kelbourne dimples have made an appearance,” Torie said with dramatic

emphasis. “Have I told you how much I like your smile?”

He shook his head.

“So... smiling husband.”

“Yes?”

“Shall we consummate this marriage?”