Chapter Eight #2
Maura had maintained her stance near the armoire, her shoulders squared. Alec eyed her with shrewd consideration. “You availed yourself of me that night,” he reminded her smoothly. “Am I not entitled to the same enjoyment? Am I not allowed to avail myself of you?”
“I would remind you, your grace, you already have.”
Alec sat on the side of the bed and patted the space beside him.
“But I remember so little of our night in bed together! I apologize most heartily for that. Never again will I drink to such excess. Now, Duchess, do you see why I find the prospect of a night with you so…invigorating? I am eager to make amends for my lack of appreciation that night. Did I give you pleasure?” He allowed no chance for reply.
“Given your virgin state, I pray that I did. If my performance was clumsy, I am determined to make amends. To please you. To embrace my role of husband to the fullest extent, particularly in the arena of conjugal relations. Given the haste of our wedding, I admit that I never gave it much thought, but I believe husband and wife should share equal enjoyment in the marriage bed. I do hope you agree. Now, come sit beside your husband.”
Their eyes collided. Maura’s lips compressed. A taut silence stretched out.
Alec’s tone was very soft. “Come, Duchess, or I’ll come get you.”
Something blazed in those beautiful green eyes.
Still she remained where she was. Either she was full of reckless daring or a fool to believe he wouldn’t follow through.
Despite his previous decision to the contrary, he was just about to do exactly as he promised—proceed to the bedding of his wife—when she walked stiffly around the end of the bed and sat.
A full three feet away from him.
He would allow her that, he decided. For the moment, at least.
A tense silence cropped up again.
Alec studied her profile in silent speculation, navigating his next move, aware of a storm of feelings building inside him. Throughout the mounting silence, Maura maintained that air of distant coolness.
A battle of wills? he wondered. Or a battle of wits?
He considered. She’d been a virgin, but that hadn’t stopped her from acting the seductress, and the certainty served to fire his temper…as well as his desire. All at once he was determined to make her want him so much she could taste it. Crave him with a heat that met his own.
Because one thing had not changed. Despite his feelings of betrayal, he burned for her as much as he had the night of the masquerade.
Dislike it, he did. Deny it, he could not.
Her hair was down, a curtain of thick black waves around her shoulders.
She stirred him. Stirred him unbelievably.
Stirred him as no other woman had ever done.
She also spurned him as no other woman had ever done.
Which was not wise. Not wise at all. Didn’t she realize it posed a challenge to any man?
An affront? A purely primeval call to prove otherwise?
Her youth was no excuse. She didn’t realize what she did to a man.
Her flirtation…and his reaction to her the night of the masquerade merely confirmed it.
Alec’s move was quick and decisive. He glimpsed a fleeting alarm as he banded one arm around her waist and caught her chin between thumb and forefinger.
“You cannot deny me, Irish. And I will neither deny nor curtail my desire—our mutual desire. Or have you forgotten so quickly? You surrendered your virginity to me. Don’t you remember?”
“I…A vague remembrance, perhaps. It’s just as I told my uncle. I had far too much wine. We—We both did!”
“And prior to that point, you gave no sign you found me distasteful. Quite the contrary. You flirted quite outrageously with me. You were most eager in the garden. Or will you plead ignorance there, too?”
Her lower lip thrust out. A rather delicious pout that made him want to cover her lips with his and tug it into his mouth.
Raw desire slipped over him, surging heavy and thick between his thighs, swelling his shaft until he was granite hard, uncomfortably granite hard.
If she placed her hand on that stretch of his leg, she would feel it.
He had the urge to do exactly that simply to glean her reaction.
“You lead me to conclude you are amorous only when you imbibe. Perhaps I should ply you with spirits again one night—we make an excellent whiskey here at Gleneden—and resurrect the seductress I met that night.”
Her eyes flew wide, but her tongue was as acerbic as ever. “I’ve no taste for whiskey. And at the moment, no taste for you, Scotsman.”
“You are young, Irish, but quite old enough to know exactly what you were doing—enticing a man, luring him on. And you excel at it, by the way.”
As he spoke, he deftly unknotted the knot of her robe and pushed it from her shoulder, baring white, silken flesh. He heard her sudden intake of breath.
“What happened to the woman I met at the masquerade?” He trailed his fingertips back and forth, tracing the neckline of her nightgown. “Where has she gone? You played the bold pirate, Irish. Now play the loving wife.”
“How can I play the loving wife when I am not the loving wife? Any more than you are a loving husband.”
There was a flash of something in her eyes, something that made him want to challenge her. To tame her, while wanting to taste her and savor her all at the same time. He’d been right about her. She possessed a will of iron.
But so did he. And he was not to be dissuaded. He would not be dismissed like a green young boy!
“I think you need a reminder,” he said suddenly. “Perhaps it will jog your memory of our first encounter and rekindle your desire. Perhaps it will jog my memory of our union.”
She started to shake her head.