Chapter 2 #3
How had he ever been fool enough to imagine he could survive marrying an innocent and not wanting to bed her at once like the depraved monster he was?
“No, angel,” he said gently. “You cannot. Did you consider what would have happened had my valet been within?”
Pink crept over her cheeks, giving him his answer before she spoke.
“No, I didn’t.”
“It wouldn’t do for Hutchens to see you en dishabille.”
“Does he linger in your room? I confess, I haven’t any experience in such matters.
” A shadow passed over her features as she paused for a moment.
“That is to say, I don’t believe I have any experience in such matters.
I daresay I ought not to have. But there are holes in my recollections that do leave me wondering. ”
There it was, the reminder she had lost parts of her memory. That, unbeknownst to her, she had inexplicably replaced the man she had once loved in her mind with King instead.
He didn’t want to think of that now. Perhaps not ever. If she never recalled the pieces of her past that had been lost, then he would never have to explain himself. She could live in contented ignorance, and he could carry on pretending he was worthy of her.
“I am certain you haven’t any experience,” he reassured her, crossing the room to distract himself by splashing some water on his face.
Although he had requested heated water to be ready for him, the water in the basin had long since grown cold. It was a shock to his senses, but a much-needed one as he cupped his hands and lifted the liquid to his face.
The cooled water, unfortunately, did nothing to quell his swiftly rising ardor.
It was an endless taunt in his mind. Verity was here in his bed.
Naked. She was his wife. It was his right—his duty, even—to bed her.
To take what she was offering and sink inside her welcoming heat.
To pleasure her until she came and then pleasure her some more.
“I’ve displeased you,” she said from somewhere over his shoulder, the bedclothes rustling. “That wasn’t my intention. I merely wanted to surprise you.”
And surprise him she most definitely had. The last thing he had expected was a naked, sleeping, soft, sweet-scented Verity awaiting him in his bed.
“You don’t displease me,” he reassured her, for he had heard a note of hurt in her voice, and he couldn’t bear to be the source of her discontent.
Not for a moment.
Blotting his face on a towel that Hutchens had left conveniently placed by the bowl for him, King turned back to her.
Lowering the towel proved an instant mistake.
Because Verity was no longer in his bed. Her creamy curves were not hidden beneath coverlets and sheets, tempting but indistinct. No, indeed. Now, she was standing barefoot and nude on the Axminster, every inch of her glorious feminine form on display for him.
He should look away.
If he were a gentleman, he would.
But he wasn’t, so he couldn’t.
All he could do was stare. His hungry eyes drank in the sight of her.
Firm, high breasts tipped with pale-pink nipples that matched her mouth.
A wonderfully curved waist that led to the flare of her hips, the beauty of her legs.
And between them, the paradise he longed to claim.
Her thighs were pressed together, keeping much of her from him when all he longed for was glistening pink folds.
If he dropped to his knees before her, he could hook one leg over his shoulder, and she would be exposed. Open for him like a summer blossom. His to sample and savor. Every part of him screamed with the need to taste her.
“Verity,” he managed, his voice hoarse. “You aren’t wearing a nightgown.”
“I’ve been waiting for tonight for the last two months,” she murmured, her countenance shy. “I thought you were as well.”
Sweet God, he was persuaded he had been waiting for all his life to see Verity naked in his bedroom, his for the taking.
A thunderous crash of raw desire swept over him, so ferocious he swore she must have heard it.
So potent he had to clench his fists at his sides, fingernails biting into his palms, to keep from touching her.
“I am. I was. Yes.” He shook his head, aware that he was babbling, which was ridiculous.
He was the Duke of Kingham, dedicated rake, arbiter of fashion, aloof and untouchable, always with a barbed remark at the ready. Immune to embarrassment, guilt, or anything as plebian as human emotion. Since when did a beautiful woman and a luscious pair of breasts turn him into a stammering fool?
Since her.
If he weren’t so busy admiring her, he might have resented Verity for the weakness she caused in him. For the way she rattled him, slipping past his guards, bringing him low.
“But I don’t want to be hasty,” he added, grasping at the customary sangfroid that had abandoned him the instant he had seen her in his bed. “You’ve been through a great deal.”
“I am healed,” she protested, smiling shyly.
She certainly looked healed. His gaze swept over her again of its own accord.
She was beyond lovely. Perhaps the most singularly gorgeous woman in his admittedly vast acquaintance.
Her body showed scars from the trials she had faced—some pink, healing skin on her wrists and arms. All proof of how fearless and selfless she had been that day.
Her mind, however, was a different matter, not nearly as well healed.
It was a matter he didn’t dare broach for what it would mean for himself, not since her words earlier at dinner. But he didn’t want to think about the possibility of her memory returning. He’d been hiding from the prospect all night long.
“You’ve endured much,” he protested, thinking it astounding she could stand there before him wearing nary a stitch, no hint of shyness or trepidation.
She was deliciously at home in her skin, and he liked the confidence with which she carried herself.
Be a gentleman, he cautioned himself.
Take your time.
Seduce her slowly.
Difficult advice to heed when he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, carry her to the bed, and sink his cock so deep inside her that it would be a miracle if he ever emerged.
They had the rest of their lives for him to show her passion and pleasure.
He was a selfish bastard, and he had thought this through.
He wasn’t just exercising restraint for her sake, but for his own, too.
He liked nothing more than prolonging pleasure, heightening it, drawing it out until he could scarcely bear it.
That was what he intended to do with Verity.
To woo her, seduce her, slowly, painstakingly, and with great care.
She moved toward him, closing the distance, her hands coming to rest lightly on his chest like a pair of butterflies, only infinitely more beautiful and dangerous. Her chin tipped up, her heart-shaped face tilted toward his in invitation.
“I may have endured a bit of pain, but it is nothing compared to what the poor orphans faced, not to mention Mr. Gritton, who perished in the fire.”
Ah, there was something to wilt his rampant cock.
News of death.
Except, it wasn’t seeming to have an effect.
“You are an angel among us,” he said, taking her arms in a light but firm grip and leading her toward the door adjoining their chambers. “But a good night’s rest is what you require after such a long and trying day.”
Her brow was furrowed once more. “Trying? How was it so?”
Roses and bergamot invaded his senses. Why did she have to smell so bloody good?
“A lengthy wedding,” he said sternly. “The breakfast that followed. Was that not trying?”
“It was thrilling.”
There was no feigning her exuberance. How was she so perpetually filled with cheer? He couldn’t begin to guess. Her heart was impossibly pure.
“I am gratified you found it so. Most ladies in your position might find it taxing, in addition to thrilling, however.”
“Would they? Then I daresay they weren’t marrying the man they loved.”
Damn. If only she would cease referring to love and to him being the recipient and cause.
He disliked that quite a bit. Romantic love didn’t exist. It was a delusion.
And Verity had been living in it for a decade, convincing herself that she loved a ghost, and that she must remain true to him, even to her own detriment.
Clearly, King had done her a favor, poor sweet angel.
“You are a paragon of bridely perfection,” he praised, meaning the words.
Until her strange flights of fancy following the fire, he’d never considered wedding anyone.
But he knew to his marrow that there was not any other woman he would rather have at his side and in his bed in her stead.
Verity would be faithful, loyal. She would revere him without question, turning away from all his faults.
Unless she remembered.
She beamed at him. “Do you think so?”
King didn’t hesitate. “I know so.”
Verity rose on her toes suddenly, pressing her mouth to his with such enthusiasm he stumbled backward beneath her onslaught.
It took him a moment to steady himself and keep from falling on his arse.
He held her to him, his hands on skin that was softer than silk, lush and perfumed and warm and enticing.
So damned tempting that he couldn’t resist.
His hands slid lower, cupping her bottom. Twin palms full of Verity’s derriere, her mouth on his. He wanted nothing more than to turn and walk the few paces to the wall, pin her there with his body, ravish her lips with his, stake his claim.
He shouldn’t.
But there was that damned devil again, perched on his shoulder.
And there were her lips, soft and full and maddening, clinging to his as if she were starved for him.
She wasn’t exceptionally skilled at kissing; he reckoned she hadn’t much experience, given her decade-long devotion to the departed Lord Leopold.
But that didn’t matter. She more than made up for her lack of skill with her enthusiasm.
King shouldn’t be so roused by an innocent who was all ardor and no finesse, but the instant her tongue demanded entrance to his mouth, he groaned and deepened the kiss. She was inquisitive and bold, and he couldn’t get his fill of her. He knew instinctively that he never would.
There was something about Verity that had drawn him to her that day in the alcove.
It had been her devotion, the tears swimming in her ice-blue eyes, the steadfast love she had shown for a man who was long gone.
But it had also been her determination to pass through life according to her own rules.
It had been her willingness to be vulnerable, to weep instead of waltz.
And that had only compounded when he understood the depth of her affection for the orphans at the Children’s Foundling Hospital.
She was a good woman, pure of heart and soul. The sort of woman he didn’t deserve.
But that didn’t matter any longer.
Because she was his wife now, and she was kissing him so pleasingly that he knew he couldn’t entirely resist. His restraint was aflame. All he wanted was her. Every plan he had made these last two months was destroyed.
He gripped her bottom and angled her against him, letting her feel the effect she had on him, even through the barrier of his clothes. She gasped into his mouth, head tipping back to break the kiss, her eyes wide pools of luminous longing.
Breathtaking. How had this exquisite woman been within his reach for so long without his realizing sooner?
“As you can observe,” she murmured softly, her lips the color of crushed summer berries, “I am very well healed and not at all weary from the excitement of the day.”
Who was he to decline such a decadent invitation?
“I can see that, angel.”
“Do you still wish for me to go to my own bed?”
Only a madman would.
And King was no madman, even if he wasn’t entirely sane.
“No, love. You may stay with me. But I do insist that you pay some attention to your modesty. If you remain thus, I can’t promise I’ll be a gentleman this evening and show you the care you deserve.” He gave her delightful rump a caressing squeeze to underscore his warning.
The minx gave him an impish smile. “I’ll fetch my robe de chambre.”