Chapter 25 #2
"No," she murmured aloud, pushing herself to her feet. "I refuse to spend my first night as a wife wondering."
Her chin lifted with growing determination. If the Duke of Wexford intended to avoid her, he could at least explain himself.
She stepped into the silent corridor. The manor had settled into the peaceful hush that came long after the wedding guests had retired.
She searched his bed chamber first, but it was empty; then she tried the study, and that too was empty.
The ledger upon his desk abandoned beside a half-finished glass of brandy. She frowned.
"Where have you disappeared to?" she whispered to herself.
The corridor beyond was lit only by moonlight spilling through tall windows. She rounded the corner quickly. Straight into someone. Strong hands caught her before she stumbled.
"What," came Damien's deep voice, edged with astonishment, "do you imagine you are doing?"
Seraphine looked up.
There he stood, still dressed in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his dark hair slightly untidy as though he had been running frustrated hands through it. His green eyes traveled over her appearance, widening ever so slightly before hardening into something unreadable.
His jaw tightened.
"Seraphine," he said quietly, "why are you wandering the house dressed like this?"
She folded her arms despite the warmth rising into her cheeks.
"I was searching for my husband."
His expression remained unreadable.
"My husband…" she repeated, lifting her chin. "...the gentleman who appears to have vanished entirely on our wedding night."
Damien released a slow breath and glanced down the length of the corridor.
"If one of the servants sees you…"
"They already have," she said.
His eyes closed briefly. "Good Lord."
She frowned. "I fail to see why you are more concerned with the servants than with the wife you left waiting."
Before she realized what he intended, Damien bent, slipped one arm beneath her knees and another behind her back, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms.
A startled gasp escaped her. "Damien!"
"You are impossible," he muttered, beginning to stride back towards her chamber.
"I am impossible?" she protested, one hand instinctively catching his shoulder to steady herself. "You abandoned your bride!"
"I did no such thing," he said, his brows drawing together as he looked down at her.
"You most certainly did," she shot back, folding her arms and lifting her chin.
"I removed myself," he corrected calmly, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him, "because I was attempting to behave like a gentleman."
She stared at him, utterly unconvinced, her mouth parting in disbelief.
"A gentleman?" she echoed.
"Yes," he said, as though the answer ought to have been obvious.
"I married you," she reminded him, her voice sharpening with indignation.
"I am aware," he replied, his gaze fixed on hers with maddening composure.
"Then kindly explain how abandoning one's wife qualifies as gentlemanly behavior."
A corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. "You ask exceedingly difficult questions."
"I thought you enjoyed difficult questions."
"I usually do." His voice had softened enough for her to notice.
He pushed open her bedchamber door with one shoulder and carried her inside before setting her upon the bed. He pressed his body on top of hers. His hands held her wrists down as he issued her orders.
"You are not," he said firmly, "to wander Wexford Manor in your nightclothes again."
She blinked. She liked feeling him restraining her. They were alone. She could feel him, all of him, though the thin fabric of the nightdress. Still, her pride would not let her concede to his.
"That is your greatest concern?" she asked, tilting her head as she studied him.
"It is tonight," he replied, his gaze flicking to her mouth.
"What if I refuse?" she challenged, lifting her chin with a spark of defiance.
"I shall carry you back every single time," he said. "And bind you to this bed with my own hands."
She gasped. She could not help it. The thought of him holding her firm into the mattress every night made her pulse quicken.
"There," she said triumphantly, her eyes dancing with mischief. "You admitted it."
He looked wary, one brow lifting as he regarded her with careful suspicion.
"Admitted what?" he asked, his voice low and measured.
"You would come after me," she said softly.
"I should hope so," he replied, and the quiet certainty in his tone made her pulse flutter.
"You would not simply let me go."
Silence settled comfortably between them. Damien looked at her for a long moment. His stern expression gradually softened. Seraphine's heart beat faster beneath his steady gaze.
There it was again, that warmth she always felt whenever he looked at her with hunger.
"You should be asleep," he murmured, his gaze lingering on her face.
"I could not sleep," she replied.
"I noticed," he said, one brow lifting faintly.
A faint smile touched her lips as she tilted her head.
"So you knew I was looking for you?" she asked.
"I heard from three startled footmen," Damien said, one brow lifting as a faint, reluctant amusement touched his mouth, "that the Duchess of Wexford was marching through the corridors with remarkable determination."
Her cheeks flushed crimson. She stared at him in horror. "They said that?"
"They did." Something in his expression changed. "And I will have no other man looking at what is mine."
He reached down hesitantly and brushed an escaped curl back from her face. His fingertips lingered for the briefest moment against her temple.
The gentle touch stole her breath.
"You truly frightened me," he admitted quietly. "Do not do that again."
Her heart softened. "I only wanted to find my husband."
"And you have."
Their eyes met. The distance between them disappeared without thought as Damien leaned forward. He paused just long enough to give her every opportunity to pull away.
She did not. Instead her lips parted with invitation.
Seraphine scarcely knew what to do with herself as Damien remained on top of her.
The flickering firelight danced across his strong jaw, whilst his attention rested entirely upon her.
She had never before been the sole focus of a gentleman's quiet care, and certainly never a husband's.
The intimacy of such a moment somehow unsettled her far more than any grand declaration ever could.
"You will drive me mad," Damien said, looking at her.
His voice was calm, though his eyes betrayed a desire she had rarely seen.
Seraphine swallowed before answering. "I will?" she asked with a shy smile.
His lips curved faintly. "I want to touch you, Duchess of Wexford. I want to taste you."
She gasped. "Then do it."
His hand moved with measured care, down the side of her body onto her leg and pulled the fabric up inch by inch. Every movement remained slow, caressing, never hurried.
Seraphine felt an unexpected heat spread through her, not merely where he touched her, but somewhere much deeper. A throbbing between her thighs.
She drew a slow breath. It astonished her how such a simple gesture could awaken feelings she had never known before.
Her pulse fluttered in quiet confusion, and she found herself studying the dark strands of his hair as he concentrated upon what he was doing.
There was strength in his hands, certainly, but also remarkable restraint.
He treated her as though she was something precious that might break if handled carelessly.
With a sudden movement he began to kiss her hungrily, devouring her. She arched up to meet that kiss. He groaned into her mouth.
She felt the peaks of her breast pressing against the night dress. One hand rubbed up and down her bare thigh, while the other held his weight above her.