Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“You’re being rude tonight,” Cressida said, her voice pitched low enough that nearby couples wouldn’t hear the reproach, yet sharp enough to cut.
Theodore’s grip on her waist tightened in response. “I’m not the one who spent the evening laughing with another gentleman.”
The violins swelled, their melody at odds with the tension crackling between them. Cressida could map every point of contact—his palm burning through emerald silk at her waist, his fingers wrapped around hers with enough force to leave her hand aching.
“Lord Prampton was being pleasant. A quality you might consider cultivating.”
“Pleasant.” Theodore’s jaw could have been carved from granite. “Is that what you call a man courting my wife’s attention?”
“I wasn’t aware polite conversation constituted courtship.”
“You belong to me, Cressida.” His eyes blazed with possessive fury barely restrained. “No other man has the right to touch you, or make you smile… or stand that close.”
Heat flooded through her—anger and something far more dangerous.
“How fascinating. And yet I distinctly recall you telling me to do as I please during our journey to London,” she snapped.
“Not with other men.” The words emerged as a growl. “You’re mine.”
The declaration hung between them, raw and unequivocal. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with an intensity that made Cressida’s pulse hammer in her throat.
Around them, other couples continued dancing, oblivious to the storm brewing in their midst.
“I’m your wife,” Cressida said slowly, each word deliberate. “Which you seem to remember only when another man dares speak to me. The rest of the time, you treat me like a stranger you can scarcely tolerate.”
“That’s not—”
The waltz ended on a note that rang through the ballroom like judgment.
Cressida wrenched herself from Theodore’s grip before he could release her, lifting her skirts and fleeing toward the terrace doors. Behind her, she heard someone say his name—Lord Bartley, perhaps, or another gentleman seeking his attention—but she didn’t look back.
The corridor beyond the ballroom stretched empty and blessedly cool. She pressed one hand against the wall and the other against her racing heart, trying to steady her breathing.
“You’re mine.”
The possessive declaration echoed in her mind, sending heat spiraling through her despite the fury burning alongside it.
How dare he? How dare he drag her onto the dance floor like chattel, announce his ownership for all to hear, make her pulse race and her knees weaken with nothing more than a rough growl?
Footsteps sounded behind her, quick, purposeful, unmistakably his.
“Cressida.”
She spun to face him, pressing her back against the damask wallpaper. “Don’t.”
Theodore stalked toward her with predatory focus, his expression dark and dangerous. The Duke of Ashmere, all cold control and rigid propriety, had vanished. In his place stood a man who looked capable of violence, desire, anything except the careful distance he’d maintained for weeks.
“Don’t what?” He stopped mere inches away, close enough that she could smell sandalwood and something uniquely him. “Don’t remind you that you’re my wife? Don’t object when other men touch what’s mine?”
“Lord Prampton was being polite—”
“Lord Prampton was looking at you like you were his next conquest.” Theodore braced one hand against the wall beside her head, caging her. “And you were laughing at his jests as though you’d forgotten you have a husband.”
“Perhaps I had.” The words emerged sharper than she’d intended, edged with weeks of frustration and hurt. “After all, my husband has made it abundantly clear he wants nothing to do with me. Separate lives, remember? You told me I was free to do as I pleased.”
His free hand caught her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “Not with other men.”
“You’re being absurd.” Her voice had gone breathless, betraying the effect his proximity had on her. “I wasn’t doing anything improper.”
“You were smiling at him. Laughing with him.” His voice was sensuously low, thumb brushing across her lower lip. “Do you have any idea what that does to me? Watching you give another man even a fraction of the warmth you’ve shown me?”
“What warmth?” Cressida demanded, anger flooding back to combat the desire pooling low in her belly.
“You avoid me at every opportunity. You flee to London rather than dine with me. You commission beautiful gowns while maintaining your precious distance.” Her hands pressed against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath fine wool.
“I’m tired of your games, Duke. One moment, you kiss me senseless; the next, you can barely stand to be in the same room with me.
Then you buy me thoughtful gifts and tell the entire ballroom I belong to you, as though I’m some prized mare in your stables. ”
Theodore’s expression shifted, pain flickering across his features before being swallowed by hunger. “You think this is a game?”
“What else would you call it?” Her voice broke despite her determination to remain composed.
“You make me feel things I’ve never felt, then disappear for days.
You touch me as though I’m precious, then treat me like I’m a stranger.
I can’t—” She drew a ragged breath. “I can’t do this anymore, Theodore.
I can’t keep pretending your hot and cold attitude doesn’t affect me.
That I don’t lie awake wondering what I did wrong to make you push me away. ”
For a long moment, he simply stared at her, his jaw working as though fighting some internal battle. Then, with a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, he pinned her fully against the wall.
“You want to know what you did wrong?” His voice had gone rough, dark, devastating. “Nothing. You did absolutely nothing wrong, and that’s the problem.”
Confusion swam in her mind. “I don’t understand—”
“You drive me mad.” The confession tore from him like it cost him everything.
“Every thought, every moment you’re there.
I see you in the morning light streaming through my study windows.
I hear your voice when I read poetry. I taste you in my wine.
” His forehead dropped to rest against hers, his breathing ragged.
“I’ve spent seventeen years perfecting control, building walls, maintaining distance.
With you, all of it crumbles. One smile, and I forget every lesson I learned. One touch, and I’m undone.”
Cressida felt her anger softening despite herself, melting into something more dangerous. “You speak as though that’s a terrible thing.”
“It is.” His free hand found her waist, gripping it hard enough that she felt the heat of his palm through silk and stays. “I’ve seen what happens when control is lost. I’ve watched passion destroy everything it touches. I swore I’d never—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“Never what?” she pressed. “Never feel? Never want? Never live?”
“Never become the man who destroyed his family.” The words emerged as though dragged from somewhere deep and wounded. “Never let desire override honor. Never choose selfishness over duty.”
“I’m not asking you to destroy anything,” Cressida said quietly. “I’m asking you to let yourself feel what’s already there.”
His hands trembled against her. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Don’t I?” She reached up to cup his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I’m asking you to stop punishing yourself for sins you didn’t commit. I’m asking you to believe that wanting your own wife isn’t a moral failing.” Her thumbs stroked across his cheekbones. “I’m asking you to let go.”
“What?”
“Let go,” she repeated, meeting his gaze with all the courage she possessed. “Stop fighting it. Stop fighting me. Stop carrying burdens that were never yours to carry. Just… let go.”
Theodore made a sound low in his throat, a sound between surrender and damnation. Then his mouth crashed onto hers.
This kiss had absolutely no hesitation, no careful exploration, nothing measured or controlled behind it. It was need stripped raw, hunger given permission, seventeen years of iron discipline shattering in an instant.
Cressida kissed him back with equal desperation, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer despite the impossibility of eliminating the space between them.
She tasted his groan, felt it vibrate through her chest as his hand slid from her face to her throat, his thumb pressing against her racing pulse.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped when he tore his mouth away to trace kisses along her jaw. “Theodore, please don’t stop this time.”
His teeth grazed her earlobe.
“Oh, I won’t. I doubt I can,” he groaned.
Then he was moving, pulling her with him down the corridor with barely contained urgency.
Cressida stumbled, her emerald skirts tangling around her legs, but Theodore’s arm locked around her waist, keeping her upright as he guided her past closed doors and shadowed alcoves.
He stopped at a small parlor, shoving the door open and pulling her inside before locking it behind them with decisive finality. The click of the lock sounded impossibly loud in the sudden quiet.
Moonlight filtered through tall windows, painting silver across furniture draped in holland covers. The room smelled faintly of beeswax and disuse.
Perfect.
Theodore turned her to face him, his hands framing her face with unexpected gentleness that contrasted sharply with the wildness in his eyes, and kissed her again, softer this time, thoroughly, his mouth moving against hers with devastating skill.
She melted into him, her hands sliding beneath his coat to feel the heat of his body.
He walked her backward until her legs hit something. A chaise, she realized as he lowered her onto the cushions with careful control that seemed at odds with the hunger oozing off him.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he observed, his voice rough as his fingers found the fastenings of her gown.