Chapter Eleven #3
“Do”—she hesitated, her breath catching—“do you wish to annul the marriage? I can speak to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“No. I couldn’t bear the shame.”
“Can you bear the shame of being married to a doxy?”
He cringed.
“Are you squeamish, Lord Bedford?” she said. “Nobody outside this building knows my true identity.”
“What about your family?”
She closed her eyes and shuddered, as if reliving a memory. Then she opened them again and shook her head. “I never knew my parents. My only living relative was my guardian—my uncle—and he…” She paused, her forehead creasing in pain. “He’s dead.”
Suppressing the urge to take her in his arms and ease her pain, James clasped his hands together.
“Can you guarantee that you will not be recognized if I take you to Bedford Hall?”
“If?”
“I’ll not have my sisters tainted by association with a doxy. It was, after all, for their benefit that I came here to find a bride.”
“I thought you intended to court a Society lady,” she said. “I never thought you’d seek a wife here.”
“I have no talent for courtship,” he replied.
“What? With the gallantry you have bestowed on me tonight?” she said, in mock surprise. “I’m astounded. The ladies of Society are at a loss, bereft, as they are, of your skills at courtship.”
“Ah, but you’re no lady, are you?”
He regretted the words as soon as he’d spoken them—a childish riposte for which his nanny would have struck him with her cane.
“Forgive me, I meant no offense,” he said.
“You spoke the truth, Lord Bedford,” she replied. “But if you’re disappointed with your purchase, I’m sure Mrs. Dove-Lyon can find you another bride.”
“I rather think I’m the commodity being purchased.”
Devil’s toes—why could he not stop himself? But rather than wither under her insult, she met his gaze, wrinkled her nose, and regarded him as one might regard a pile of horseshit.
His manhood, which had throbbed since he’d withdrawn from her body, now surged forward again, twitching with desire. Ye gods—with her eyes blazing with thinly veiled anger, she was the most beautiful creature he’d seen.
And, despite everything, she was his. All his. The other men who’d taken her could go to the devil.
And he’d fight any of them to the death if they touched her again.
“Then,” she said, her voice even, “if you’re the commodity, it’s up to me to ask Mrs. Dove-Lyon if I could have a refund in lieu of returning my purchase.”
“No!” he growled. “You’ll do no such thing.”
Her nostrils flared and he caught the rich scent of her once more—the scent she’d told him signified female arousal.
She wanted him.
And—God save his soul—he wanted her. He’d be damned if he let her leave the chamber without satisfying the need that gripped his body and hardened his manhood. If it sealed their union, then so be it.
“Lie back,” he said. “I want to make you mine.”
“James, I—”
“That’s it,” he said. “Say my name. I want to hear you scream it. I want my name to be the only name you cry each night, every night, until you draw your last breath. Now do as your husband says, lie back, and part your thighs.”
Her eyes widened but she obeyed. He climbed over her, and as her thighs parted, he thrust forward and buried himself inside her.
Sweet heaven! Was there anything more glorious than this?
Her welcoming heat enveloped him as if they were made for each other.
He withdrew and plunged in again, and she cried out as her body squeezed and rippled around him, sending shock waves of pure ecstasy through his bones.
Bursting with life inside her, he threw back his head and roared out his release.
“James!” she cried as he plunged into her one final time and fell forward.
She pulled him into her arms, then lifted her legs and wrapped them around him, holding him inside her—almost as if she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
His breath coming in short, sharp puffs, he rolled onto his side, still inside her, and tugged at the bedsheet, drawing it over their sticky, sweat-glistened bodies.
After his breathing eased, James opened his eyes.
She lay beside him, eyes closed. A tear had beaded on her cheek and he placed his hand on her face to wipe it away. She gave a low whimper and her forehead creased in pain.
“Hush,” he soothed, caressing her skin, unable to resist the urge to ease whatever pained her. She reached for his wrist, as if to move his hand away, but he remained firm. “You’re my wife in every sense of the word, now,” he said.
Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at him.
“Tonight, Cordelia, you shall sleep in my arms—as my wife.”
She opened her mouth as if to reply, then nodded. But her body seemed to relax, growing warm and pliant in his arms. When her breathing steadied, he placed a kiss on her forehead.
“Oh, Dahlia,” he said, sighing. “What a fool I was in asking whether it might be possible for you to begin to love me. Did you not tell me once that doxies cannot afford to fall in love?”
He held his breath, praying to the Almighty that she might reply—for a sign that she could love him. But she remained silent.