Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Once again, Cedric was gone from the house by dawn, and Mrs. Tulley informed her that her monogrammed stationery, cards, papers, and her seal had been delivered to his study.
Taking the box back to her drawing room, she eyed the stack of letters on her desk before setting the delivery down. She began to flick through them and found a letter at the near bottom, the flowy, feminine handwriting catching her eye.
After a moment, she set down the book and picked up the note. The paper was premium stock, cream colored and thick; a cold chill ran up the back of her neck just as her nose wrinkled at the scent of cloying perfume the note was doused in.
She did not know all the tricks of the trade mistresses used, but she knew this was one of them.
The letter was simply addressed to Cedric with no return address.
Turning it over, she found a plain red wax seal, and the chill on her neck spread down to her insides, her fingers curling around the sealed note.
It was a private note, one that she had no right to open—but this felt like a slap in the face. She broke the seal and, unfolding the paper, she read the short lines;
My dearest Cerdric,
It has been weeks since you came by. Know that I’ve been thinking of you and mourning your loss. And I hope that I shall see you on our usual Friday evening. I have the champagne you like, and I have the gift you sent me. The silks are exquisite.
Yours fondly,
M.
It felt like something split her chest open and compressed her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. She stared at the note in disbelief, wondering if she was asleep and this was a horrible nightmare.
Was this proof of her husband’s infidelity? Was it an innocent note that she was taking out of context?
Swiftly, she pulled a drawer open and dropped the note inside, closing it tightly before she managed to suck a breath over her burning lungs.
It could be entirely innocent— but who doused a harmless, friendly note with gauche perfume?
She could not focus for the rest of the morning, and for the first time, felt relieved that Cedric had scheduled rest time for her, so she went to bed.
Her head hurt, and uncertainty twisted through her heart as thickly as the blood that ran through her veins. She sank to the pillow with a sudden wave of exhaustion.
It was dusk when Cedric stepped through the door; a needling feel of guilt was tight in his stomach. He had missed the breakfast he and Ariadne had agreed to share for fourteen days straight, and he wanted to make it up to her.
“Have a bath sent up, and dinner sent up in half an hour.” He told Mrs. Tully as he headed to his room, craving the hot comfort of a bath. His body felt stiff after hours of long travel and the frustrations of debating stubborn old codgers at Westminster.
His eyes flickered to the door that separated his and Ariadne’s room, and striding to the door, pulled it in a few fractions.
The angle of the door cut off the rest of her body on the bed, but watching her sleep now, her lashes dark fans against her cheeks; Cedric felt an unwelcome stirring of possessiveness.
She looked so damned feminine and small curled up in a corner, her braided head resting against the pale sheets. Physically, she was without comparison to any other lady and so, so delicate.
I told her so, and I wonder if she believes me?
He stepped into his bathing room and flickered a look over the walls and floor tiled with marble from Italy and a coal pit under the copper tub that kept the bath steamy even if wind and rain blustered outside the window.
Here in his sanctuary, he was protected from the winter storm… but not from his own inner tempest.
Is it too hard to give her what she wants?
Bedding Ariadne didn’t seem like a hardship; the hardship came from giving over his trust to another woman.
Silas’s words did echo in his ear, but as he had long found out, logic and emotions clashed like oil and water.
When the water was delivered, he gingerly lay in the warm water and let out a groan when the heat permeated his tight muscles. After another minute, he sank back into the hot, sudsy water, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the back lip of the tub.
Ariadne…
He could not forget that moment he had lifted her off the horse, the softness of the skin beneath his palm but a moment ago, the delicate uncorseted waist he had circled with an arm, and the plush, rounded hips made for a man could fill his hands with.
Her soft perfume of lily water was subtle, feminine musk, and a potent aphrodisiac. Beneath the water, he went hard—but he ignored it.
Reaching for the bar of olive oil soap, he soaped his damp chest, the scarred skin and injured muscles twitching at the slippery sensation.
Perhaps his self-imposed celibacy was feeding into his inappropriate desire for Ariadne. Since ending his last relationship years ago, he hadn’t bedded anyone. Hadn’t wanted to.
Back then, being alone had seemed right somehow. His focus had been on work, success— carving his life back in a semblance of order. Marriage had been struck off his list of life desires permanently for any and all reasons.
Being a duke, he had a buffer against societal pressure; he had no need for a ravishing socialite with men panting after her like dogs, nor did he need her suitable dowry or her political connections.
Now, all he felt was desire.
The fantasy he’d fought to suppress rose in his mind’s eye, and, this time, he let himself dream. Closing his eyes, he imagined himself tucking his face into Ariadne’s neck and inhaling the fragrant aroma on her skin.
He wanted to see her as he sucked a spot of red on her neck and see how her feminine passion. He wanted to kiss her lips red, and he craved to see her when passion overtook her face. He wanted to swallow the breathless cries of her climax as she came apart in his hands.
He was so thick and hard on his thigh that he felt tempted to take himself in hand and satisfy the urge.
Finally, he grasped himself and stroked his thickening flesh.
His climax was nearing; he needed just a bit more to tip the scale— yet a rustling sound tore him from his fantasy.
His eyes snapped open, gaze shooting to the doorway.
Through the haze of steam, Ariadne was standing there, small and prim, staring at him with enormous eyes. She wetted her plump coral lips, before she turned around and slammed the door behind her.
Devil and damn, how long has she been watching?
“It’s been five minutes,” Cedric said as he swirled his wine. He’d called Ariadne for supper, but not once had she looked at him. “Will you look at me?”
A footman appeared with the supper tray, and silently he placed the plates on the small table in his study.
“Your Graces.” He bowed, “Is there anything else you need?”
“Not at the moment,” Cedric dismissed him. Ariadne gave the footman a subtle but firm shake of the head, and he left the room.
She finally lifted her eyes and looked at him, but he still felt on edge, his grip on his equilibrium tenuous. Setting the glass down, and even while his neck burned, he asked, “Was that your first time seeing a man?”
“Yes,” she said firmly.
He lifted his glass, draining the remnants. “Did I disappoint?” he said silkily.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you teasing me?”
“I’m amused how bashful you are, yet you want to consummate the marriage in that god-awful nightgown,” Cedric said.
She puffed out a breath. “From what my mother told me, or well, glossed over by using euphemisms, that it was something to be done after one married.”
“There is no rush,” he said. “Take a while to get comfortable in your own skin first.”
Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
He reached over the table and caged her chin in a forefinger and thumb. “Do you really know what you say you want? If you want me, you cannot be running from me, Ariadne.”
“I was in shock,” she said. “It’s like having a veil ripped from my eyes.”
After holding her gaze, he pulled away. “I think the best way for you to get comfortable with what you want is not to leap into bed at once. I think you need to get comfortable with your desire and understand that it is not some de rigueur act just because of marriage.”
She blinked, “It’s not?”
“No,” he reached for his knife and fork. “It’s not.”
Looking at her plate, she asked. “What do you suggest I sample?”
“The pheasant.” He said, “It's soft and succulent, the way I like it.”
She went red as she began to eat, and as the soft silence descended on them, he was acutely aware of the charged energy between them. Burnished by the scones on the wall, her hair was an intriguing mix of rich mahogany and russet.
Some of the thick tresses had escaped their pins, the thin, wispy tendrils framing her face. It was the kind of seductive bedroom air that ladies spent hours trying to achieve.
She seemed utterly unaware of her natural appeal: the undone locks made her look as if she’d just risen from a roll in the bed. Only God knew why she’d chosen to disguise her assets behind the dowdiest dress he’d ever seen, but that felt aligned with her circus-tent nightgown.
“Did you rest today?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “And thank you for writing those periods in. I’ve found that they really help, especially on certain days.”
“Good,” he closed his utensils and leaned back to sip his water.
When she slid those tines between her lips, he dryly noted that if she had been a flirt, her mouth alone would have secured her fortune; coral shade and deliciously plump, he pictured how prettily they would wrap around another part of his anatomy.
Ariadne closed her utensils and reached for her water while his eyes dropped to her plate. She had eaten just over half of her servings.
“Did you eat much today?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I just cannot eat much with you staring at me this way.”
“Which way am I staring at you?” he asked.
Her eyes dropped to the bones on his plate. “As if I were your last serving of pheasant and you want to suck the last piece of meat off me.”
Throwing his head back, he laughed, deep and guttural; to his surprise, though, Ariadne did not look abashed. She was staring at him with dry humor, and when he’d stopped his crowing, she asked. “Was I wrong in that assessment?”
“No,” he said. “You have an intruding mix of naivete, unintentional sensuality, and refreshing honesty.”
“Why, thank you,” she replied.
Holding her eyes, he said. “I want to kiss you.”
Ariadne blinked and blinked once more. “Here?”
He pushed from his seat and nodded to the couch. “Over there.”
She looked over and shimmied from the table to stand; it did not take her long to cross over to the couch, where Cedric was already seated. Looking to his side, she asked, “There?”
“No—” he grasped her hand and pulled her onto his lap. “Here.”
Her lips opened once again, but he swallowed any word she was about to say in a deep, lingering kiss. With the softest, sweetest moans, she melted into his hold; lacing her arms around his neck, she held him close.
Pleasure rushed through his veins like a blustering bonfire, and a ragged groan left his throat. He tugged her closer, cradling her on the softness of his thighs.
“Are you not afraid I’ll ravish you?” Cedric pressed a soft kiss to the tiny pulse flickering wildly above her collarbone, then nipped that tender bit of flesh.
She tasted sweet. Ariadne shivered violently, and a soft moan of want slipped from her.
“Perhaps I shan’t mind if you do ravish me,” came her breathless reply.
In a moment, her back was on the flat of the couch, and Cedric gentled his touch, cupping her cheek with one hand while bracing above her on his elbow.
He’d never kissed her with such a desperate, hungry passion before, always mindful of her sensibilities and his honor. Now her eyes glowed with innocence and the bloom of uncertainty.
“Consider this lesson one on finding out of the thing you want are the things you want,” he said. “Do you want to stay?”