Chapter Eight #2
She saw him swallow hard, his gaze dropping once more to her exposed skin before jerking away with visible effort. “We will discuss this at home.”
“I look forward to it.” She returned her attention to the stage, though she couldn’t have said what was happening in the performance. All her awareness was focused on Raven beside her—his barely controlled tension, the heat radiating from his body, the way his breath had quickened.
This was working. Finally, finally, she’d broken through his careful control.
During the interval, Fane rose to fetch refreshments, and Claire excused herself to visit friends in another box, leaving Ashley and Raven momentarily alone.
“Why?” Raven’s voice was strained. “Why would you wear something so…so provocative?”
“Because I wanted to.” Ashley turned to face him fully, noting how his eyes immediately dropped to her neckline before he forced them back to her face.
“Because I’m tired of being treated like a piece of porcelain that you’re afraid to touch.
Because I’m your wife, Raven, and I want you to see me as one. ”
“I see you,” he said roughly. “God help me, I see you. But this—” He gestured vaguely at her gown. “This is not appropriate. Every man in this opera house is looking at you.”
“No.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Every man in this opera house is looking at what belongs to you. And you’re the only one who seems determined to ignore that fact.”
His breath hitched. “Ashley—”
“You promised me honesty,” she interrupted. “You promised we would talk about what we both want from this marriage. Well, I’m being honest right now. I want to be desired by my husband. I want to be more than just an obligation you’re too honorable to shirk.”
“You think I don’t desire you?” The words came out harsh, almost angry. “You think I haven’t spent three months fighting the urge to—” He stopped abruptly, seeming to realize what he was about to admit.
“To what?” Ashley pressed, her heart racing. “Tell me, Raven. What have you been fighting?”
But Fane’s return with champagne cut off any response, and Raven retreated back into rigid formality, though his eyes kept betraying him, returning again and again to the scandalous display of her gown.
The second half of the opera passed in a haze of tension.
Ashley could feel Raven’s awareness of her like a physical touch, could see the muscle jumping in his jaw as he maintained his careful control.
Fane, perceptive despite his reputation for frivolity, kept up a steady stream of entertaining commentary that required minimal response, giving them both space to manage their emotions.
When the performance finally ended and the lights rose, Raven was on his feet immediately. “Your cloak,” he said tersely, retrieving it from the attendant and draping it over her shoulders himself, his hands lingering just a moment too long.
“So soon?” Fane said with obvious amusement. “I thought we might all get supper—”
“Not tonight.” Raven’s tone brooked no argument. “Ashley and I have matters to discuss. At home.”
Claire caught Ashley’s eye and winked. “Of course. Another time, perhaps. It was lovely to see you both.”
The carriage ride home was silent and charged with unspoken tension.
Raven sat across from her rather than beside her, as if maintaining physical distance might help him regain control.
But his eyes kept returning to her, visible even through the heavy cloak, and Ashley could see desire warring with anger and something else—fear, perhaps, of losing the careful control he’d maintained for so long.
When they arrived home, Raven handed her down with stiff formality, then dismissed the servants with a curt word. Alone in the entrance hall, he finally turned to face her fully.
“What were you trying to accomplish tonight?” His voice was quiet but intense. “Was it simply to embarrass me? To prove you could make me lose control?”
“No.” Ashley unfastened her cloak, letting it pool at her feet. “I was trying to make you see me. Really see me, not as an obligation or a duty, but as a woman. As your wife.”
His eyes blazed as he looked at her, taking in the full effect of the gown without the crowds and darkness of the opera house to provide cover. “I see you, Ashley. That’s precisely the problem. I see you too clearly, want you too much, and I’m terrified of what will happen if I stop fighting it.”
“Then stop fighting,” she whispered. “Just for tonight, stop fighting and tell me the truth. Tell me what you want.”
For a long moment, Raven simply stared at her, desire and fear and something darker warring in his expression. Then he stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, see the rapid pulse at his throat.
“What I want,” he said roughly, “would shock you. What I want would change everything between us. What I want—” He stopped, his jaw clenching with the effort of restraint.
“Try me,” Ashley said, her voice steadier than she felt. “You promised honesty, Raven. So be honest. What do you want?”
His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. “You,” he said simply. “But not in any way a proper duchess should be wanted. And that’s why I’ve been keeping my distance, Ashley.”
Ashley’s breath caught at his confession. “Then don’t go back,” she whispered. “Touch me, Raven. Show me what you want.”
His eyes darkened, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of green remained.
For one suspended moment, he simply looked at her—at her parted lips, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the flush spreading across her skin.
Then, with a sound that was half growl, half surrender, his mouth crashed down on hers.
This was nothing like their desperate kiss in the garden three months ago.
That had been born of grief and alcohol and mutual loneliness.
This was deliberate, hungry, controlled despite its intensity.
His lips demanded rather than asked, and Ashley responded with equal fervor, her hands coming up to grip his lapels.
He tasted of champagne and something darker, something uniquely him that made her head spin. His free hand slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she gasped at the solid heat of his body, at the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing against her.
The sound seemed to unleash something in him. His kiss grew more demanding, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her knees weaken. His hand at her waist moved lower, spanning the curve of her hip through the thin silk of her gown, and she felt him tremble with the effort of restraint.
“Ashley,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice rough with need. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“Then show me,” she breathed back, emboldened by the evidence that he wanted her as desperately as she wanted him.
His response was to deepen the kiss, to angle her head with the hand still cupping her face while the other slid up her ribcage, stopping just beneath the swell of her breast. The touch was deliberate, controlled—a question asked with his hand.
She arched into him in answer and felt his sharp intake of breath against her lips.
But then his hand moved higher, thumb grazing the exposed skin above her scandalous neckline, and something seemed to snap in him. Not his control giving way, but something else—something that made him go rigid.
He broke the kiss abruptly, his breathing harsh and ragged. For a moment, he simply stared at her, his expression tortured, his hand still warm against her skin. Then he stepped back so suddenly, she stumbled.
“No.” The word came out harsh, almost angry. “No, I can’t. Not like this.”
Ashley reached for him, confused and aching from the abrupt loss of contact. “Raven, what—”
“Go to bed, Ashley.” He turned away from her, one hand bracing against the wall as if he needed the support. His shoulders were rigid with tension, his breathing still uneven. “Please. Just go to bed.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said.” His voice was raw. “And that’s precisely why you need to go. Now. Before I do something we’ll both regret.”
The rejection stung worse than if he’d never touched her at all. Ashley felt tears prick her eyes but refused to let them fall. “You can’t keep doing this. You can’t kiss me like that and then push me away.”
“I can and I must.” He still wouldn’t look at her, his hand clenched into a fist against the wall. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for, Ashley. What I want from you. It’s not…it’s not what a husband should want from his wife.”
“Then tell me what it is,” she pleaded. “Make me understand.”
“No.” The word was final. “Not tonight. Not when I’m barely holding onto control. Go to bed, Ashley. Please.”
The ‘please’ broke her. It was spoken with such desperate restraint that she realized pushing further would be cruel. Whatever internal battle he was fighting, she’d brought him to the edge of something that terrified him.
So, she gathered what remained of her dignity, retrieved her discarded cloak, and walked toward the stairs. At the bottom step, she paused and looked back.
Raven hadn’t moved. He stood frozen in the entrance hall, a man at war with himself, his entire body radiating tension and unfulfilled desire.
“One day,” she said quietly, “you’re going to have to trust me enough to be honest. Completely honest. And I hope when that day comes, you’ll find I’m stronger than you think.”
Then she climbed the stairs alone, her lips still burning from his kiss, her body aching with frustrated need, and her heart breaking just a little at the realization that desire alone might never be enough to bridge the distance between them.