Chapter Four
Raven barely made it upstairs. With every breath his mind was screaming to go back to the dining room and tie her to the table, strip her gown from her delectable body, and feast on her soft flesh, beauty and warmth.
But it had been so long since he’d been with a woman, he was scared he’d not be able to control himself.
He should take another mistress. He still had the house he’d purchased for Kitty. He should use it or sell it. Why hadn’t he sold it?
Raven closed the door to his bedchamber and leaned against it, his heart still pounding from dinner.
The evening had been torture of the sweetest kind—Ashley’s laugh, the way candlelight had played across her skin, how she’d leaned close enough that her perfume had surrounded him like a sensual fog.
That damned moment when she’d offered him dessert from her own fork, her lips parted, eyes dark with something that looked remarkably like invitation.
He’d wanted to devour her right there at the table.
The realization sent heat coursing through his body even now, followed immediately by a wave of self-loathing so profound, it nearly buckled his knees.
What kind of husband was he, lusting after his own wife while Kitty lay cold in her grave?
What kind of man looked at his duchess and imagined all the deliciously wicked things he wanted to do to her?
Because that was the crux of his torment.
It wasn’t simply desire he felt for Ashley—it was a specific, dark hunger that had nothing to do with tender marital relations and everything to do with control, restraint, and surrender.
He wanted to tie her to his bedhead, blindfold her and use his new crop…
Raven pushed away from the door and moved to the sideboard, pouring himself a generous measure of brandy. His hand trembled slightly as he raised the glass to his lips. Three months of carefully maintained distance, shattered by a single evening of her undivided attention.
She’d been magnificent tonight. Engaged, curious, playful in a way that had caught him completely off guard.
The Ashley he’d married had been subdued, accepting of their arrangement with quiet dignity.
But the woman at dinner had been vibrant, alive, deliberately seductive in subtle ways that had driven him to distraction.
And that was precisely the problem.
He could manage desire. He’d spent years learning to control his baser urges, to channel them appropriately with women who understood his needs and welcomed them.
Kitty had been perfect in that regard—unshockable, eager, creative.
She’d reveled in his darker preferences, had trusted him completely when he’d bound her wrists with silk scarves, blindfolded her, made her wait trembling with anticipation before finally giving her what they both craved.
The memory sent another wave of heat through him, followed by crushing guilt. He shouldn’t be thinking of Kitty while his cock hardened at thoughts of Ashley. But how could he separate them? His desire for one, his grief for the other—all tangled together in an impossible knot.
Raven drained his brandy and poured another.
The problem was simple, really. Ashley was a lady—refined, proper, raised to believe marital relations were a duty to be endured in darkness and silence.
How could he possibly approach such a woman with his particular requirements?
How could he explain that the thought of simply mounting her in conventional fashion held no appeal, that what he truly wanted was to see her bound and blindfolded in his bed, to hear her gasp as he took complete control of her pleasure?
She would be horrified. Disgusted. The scandal that had already tainted her would seem like nothing compared to being married to a man with such perverse tastes.
And yet…tonight, he’d seen something in her eyes.
A flicker of heat, of curiosity, of something that might have been reciprocal desire.
When she’d touched his arm, let her gaze linger on his mouth, offered him that bite of dessert with such deliberate intimacy—surely that meant something? She was, after all, not an innocent.
No. He was fooling himself, seeing what he wanted to see because three months of celibacy and proximity to a beautiful woman was making him desperate.
Ashley was simply being a good wife, trying to forge some connection in their convenient arrangement.
She had no idea what kind of monster lurked beneath his careful civility.
Raven moved to the window, staring out at the darkened garden where this had all begun. That kiss, born of grief and brandy and mutual loneliness, had sealed both their fates. He’d offered marriage to save her reputation, never considering that tying himself to her might be its own special torment.
Because the more time he spent with her, the more he wanted her. And not in any way she would accept.
Perhaps the solution was obvious. He still had the house he’d purchased for Kitty—that elegant little townhouse in Chelsea where they’d spent stolen afternoons lost in each other.
He hadn’t been able to bring himself to sell it, some maudlin sentimentality keeping him from disposing of the last physical reminder of what they’d shared.
But he could use it again. Find another woman like Kitty, someone experienced and willing to cater to his needs without judgment. Someone who understood that what happened in the bedroom had nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with physical release.
Then he could maintain his edge and simply bed Ashley and get her with child.
The thought should have brought relief. Instead, it made him feel hollow.
Because he didn’t want another Kitty. The realization struck him with uncomfortable clarity. What he wanted was Ashley—Ashley bound in silk, Ashley gasping his name, Ashley surrendering control and trusting him to push her to heights of pleasure she’d never imagined.
But he could never have that. Could never risk exposing her to his darker nature, never chance seeing fear or revulsion replace the warmth in her eyes.
So, he would continue as they were. Keep his distance, maintain his control, satisfy his needs elsewhere if necessary. It was the only honorable course, the only way to protect her from the worst parts of himself.
Even if it meant denying them both what they so clearly wanted.
Raven finished his second brandy and began preparing for bed, trying not to think about Ashley doing the same just down the hall. Trying not to imagine what she looked like with her hair loose around her shoulders, what sounds she might make if he—
No. He couldn’t allow himself to go down that path.
Tomorrow he would visit the Chelsea house. See about making it habitable again. Perhaps put out discreet inquiries about suitable…companions. Women who understood men like him, who wouldn’t ask questions or expect more than he could give.
It was the practical solution. The safe solution.
The fact that it made him feel like he was betraying both his dead lover and his living wife was something he would simply have to learn to live with.
Because the alternative—revealing his true nature to Ashley and watching her recoil in horror—was unthinkable. Better to keep his darkness locked away where it belonged, even if it meant living half a life.
Even if it meant never knowing what it might be like to have all of her, body and soul, bound to him in every sense of the word.
*
Raven entered White’s the following afternoon with the deliberate intention of losing himself in cards and brandy—anything to stop replaying last night’s dinner in his mind. The familiar scent of leather, tobacco, and privilege enveloped him as he handed his coat to the attendant.
“Blackstone!”
He turned to find Rockwell striding toward him, Wolf at his side. Both men wore expressions that immediately put Raven on guard—the peculiar mix of protectiveness and curiosity that brothers-in-law seemed to perfect.
“Rockwell. Wolf.” He nodded to each in turn, noting how Wolf’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing. “Gentlemen.”
“Join us for a drink?” Rockwell gestured toward a quiet corner of the club, away from the busier card rooms. Not an invitation, then. An interrogation.
Raven’s jaw tightened, but he followed. Refusing would only make them more suspicious, and he had nothing to hide. Nothing they needed to know about, at any rate.
They settled into leather chairs, and a servant appeared almost instantly with brandy. Raven accepted his glass, waiting for the inevitable questions.
Wolf didn’t disappoint. “How’s married life treating you?”
“Well enough.” Raven kept his tone neutral, taking a measured sip. “Ashley seems to be settling in nicely. She’s made several improvements to the house.”
“Has she?” Wolf’s tone was carefully neutral, but something flickered in his eyes. “I’m glad to hear she’s keeping busy. Farah mentioned to Rockwell that she visited last week.”
“Yes, they had tea.” Raven shifted in his chair, unsure where this was leading.
“Farah said Ashley seemed…subdued.” Rockwell swirled his brandy, studying the amber liquid with apparent fascination. “Not unhappy, precisely. Just…quiet. Distant.”
“Ashley has always been somewhat reserved in company,” Raven said, though unease was beginning to prickle along his spine.
“With others, perhaps.” Wolf leaned forward, his expression serious. “But not with family. Not with people she trusts. And yet Farah said she barely spoke of you at all. Wouldn’t be drawn out about how she was adjusting to married life.”
Raven took another sip of brandy, buying time. “We’ve both been busy. The shipping venture has required considerable attention, and Ashley has been occupied with the household—”