Chapter 20
Thalia sat in bed with her hands cupping the hot cocoa her maid had brought her. Jane bustled about the room, opening curtains and pouring hot water from a jug so Thalia could wash.
The bed beside her was cold. Once again, for the sixth time this week, Maxwell had not slept with her. He had not approached her, kissed her, or said anything other than the bare necessities to her. It was as though he was doing his best to pretend she did not exist.
For the past week, she had been feeling hurt and sad, as though Maxwell’s behavior were her fault. But if it was, he ought to have done something to tell her, so she might rectify things.
No, the time for being sad was over. Now it was time to be angry.
“I’m ready to dress,” she informed Jane. “The gold one, if you please.”
“The silk?”
“Yes.”
Jane frowned, saying nothing more but fetching the gown in question. It was not a morning gown, not one ordinarily meant for being around the house and receiving callers, but Thalia had had enough of pretending nothing was going on.
She was going to speak to Maxwell, and she was going to do so while looking her best. If he were going to ignore her, he would ignore all of her.
She took more time over her appearance than normal, getting Jane to curl her hair and thread pearls through the curls as though she were attending a ball.
For good luck, she wore the diamond Maxwell had gifted her on their return to London—the one she had worn to their first outing together—and the golden band on her wedding ring sat on her third finger.
She held it up to the light for a moment, thinking, then nodded and rose.
“Where is His Grace?” she asked.
“I expect he is still in the breakfast room,” Jane said. “Would you like me to see for you?”
“No, it’s quite all right.” Thalia crossed the room in a swirl of skirts and perfume, knowing she looked her best and every inch the duchess she now was. “I will find him myself.”
She descended the stairs and spied him heading into his study. “Maxwell,” she called, her voice demanding. He stopped, freezing as though he had been caught in the act of doing something nefarious. When he turned, shock crossed his face at the sight of her.
Good.
“Thalia.” He eyed her with the uncertainty that told him he knew not to trust whatever mood she was in. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is we’re going to have a little talk.” She took his arm, leading him to his beloved study. What better place for them to have their confrontation? Her pretty diamond earrings swung against her jaw.
As soon as the door closed behind them, she twisted to face him, bracing her hands against his desk. “Explain,” she said shortly.
Maxwell folded his arms. “Explain what?”
“If you don’t know what, then you ought to.
” She raised her chin, looking him in the eye.
“If you regret this match, then tell me now so we can do something about it. If I have done something to offend you, then you may as well let me know, so I might address matters. If not, then explain to me why you think it is suddenly appropriate to behave in this way. And I will explain to you why it’s unacceptable. ”
His brows drew together. “You think you have the right to tell me that my behavior is unacceptable?”
“Yes, Maxwell. I am your wife; that is the deal you made when we married. If you did not want such an arrangement, then you ought never to have offered for my hand.”
His jaw clenched, and he looked away. “Perhaps not.”
The words stung, but she refused to let them. “Explain it to me. Why are you boxing again?”
Surprise slid across his face before he could stop himself. “You know?”
“Of course I know. Did you think I am stupid? No, never mind. Of course you did, or you would never have presumed I could be so ignorant.” She sucked a breath through her teeth. “What is it? What have I done?”
“Nothing, Thalia.”
“Then why?”
“Because you want a proper marriage!” he exploded.
“You want a man who can offer you everything, but I cannot. I will not love you—I cannot love you—and I don’t want you to have false hope about what this is going to be.
” He slashed a hand between them. “You and I will never be more than this. All I have to offer you is pleasure.”
Thalia stared at Maxwell, the hurt seeping in so thoroughly she could do nothing to hide it from her face.
“All this,” she whispered, “because you thought I wanted more from you?”
“We both know you do. It’s what every woman wants from her husband.”
He was right: she did want his love. In an ideal world, she would have his heart and his body and his mind. But this was not an ideal world. And this was not the perfect marriage.
“Do not presume to tell me what I want and don’t want.” She strode forward, prodding his chest with her finger. He caught her wrist, holding her tight, frustration alive on his face. “Perhaps this is as much a marriage of convenience for me as it is for you.”
“Liar.”
“What would you know if you never spoke to me?” she shot back.
He tugged her, drawing her closer. “So, you intended to seduce me into telling you the truth in this gown.” His gaze passed over it. “Remind me of what I’m missing?”
“For a man only interested in pleasure, it seemed like the right approach.” She took a deep breath, knowing it made her breasts press against the low material of her bodice.
The silk gleamed in the light, and she knew she appeared like one of her golden statues.
“You do not get to make decisions for me. If you wish to avoid me, then you will speak to me first, Maxwell. I am not a shy, retiring little miss, content to be your smiling wife on your arm and never to be in your bed. If that is what you wanted, then—”
“If that was what I wanted,” he growled, “then I damn well would have married one.”
He yanked her closer and kissed her as though he could not help himself.
And damn her, she kissed him back. Hard, demanding, with everything she had left in her. Heat shot through her—it had been a week since they had last come together, and she had missed the feel of his skin against hers.
His hands were vicious as they shoved her skirts up on her legs. She widened her thighs to allow him access, and he hissed in mingled pleasure and relief when he discovered her slickness.
“You’re so wet for me, Thalia.”
She was, and she didn’t know if she was ashamed or vindicated.
All she knew was that she wanted him more than she needed to breathe. At the first press of his fingers inside her—first one, then two—it was as though a light had lit once again in her soul.
When it came to Maxwell, she would always need more. More of him.
He would not give her more, but this was something, and although it felt pathetic to accept the scraps of himself that he offered her, she would rather be pathetic and know this pleasure than be miserable and celibate without it.
He brought a hand to her neck and squeezed lightly, giving her the sensation that he controlled her every breath. Perhaps she ought to have hated it, but instead, as though she couldn’t quite help herself, her internal muscles contracted.
Maxwell groaned and reached for his breeches, undoing the falls with one hand as the other held her in place.
She was braced against the desk, and he urged her to perch on the edge, legs wide as he stood between them.
He slid inside her in one smooth motion, filling her instantly.
She groaned, lost in him, knowing it was going to ruin her but not caring.
If this was all that existed, all that she would ever get, then she could be happy with it.
She clung to him as he withdrew and thrust again, kissing him hungrily.
He drove them both pitilessly to the edge, then over it.
His fingers teased her climax from her, and she shuddered around him as he pulsed once inside her.
All was not lost if she could feel like this, his arms around her and his mouth so close to hers, inside hers. There was hope, so long as there could be pleasure like this.
Not hope, perhaps, that he could love her, but hope that at least she could come to be happy with this intimacy and no more.
It was the next morning when disaster fell. As always, when Maxwell read the newspaper, Thalia took the scandal sheets for herself, scanning them for any juicy gossip that might finally supersede her marriage with Maxwell.
What she saw, however, made her stomach drop.
Dear Reader,
It has come to our attention that the new Duchess of Marrowhurst, the very same who married the Duke in a rather abrupt marriage—and we are aflutter, wondering what brought such an event about after he had already neglected to marry her once—is none other than the famed Alessandro Rossi.
All those who purchased the elusive Italian’s sculptures may wish to reconsider their boasting; you have been duped!
Can one really expect a young lady of Quality to produce work worth the purchase?
Or are we to presume the lady in question is not indeed of Quality?
“Thalia?” Maxwell had put his newspaper down and was looking at her. After yesterday, things had not gone back to normal, but they were on their way to being bearable.
Or at least, they had been. Thalia couldn’t be certain he would weather this scandal as easily as he had weathered that of marrying her.
Now he had not just married a woman he had—for all intents and purposes—scorned years ago; he was marrying a woman who masqueraded as a famous sculptor.
Who had, indeed, deceived half of London into believing Alessandro Rossi existed.
“Thalia?” His voice was closer now, and when she looked up, room blurring, it was to see him standing right before her. “What’s the matter?”
Wordlessly, she handed him the scandal sheets. He would find out sooner or later, anyway. The question was, what would he do with her when he did? He didn’t love her; she had no doubt his biggest obligation was to his name and reputation.