Chapter Sixteen
Anthony left the library before he could do something foolish.
The door closed quietly behind him, yet the sound seemed unnaturally loud in the silence of the corridor. For several moments, he stood motionless, staring at the dark wood panelling opposite him while attempting to regain control of his thoughts.
This is not working.
With a muttered curse, he turned and made his way toward his chambers.
The house was largely asleep. Most of the servants had retired for the evening, and only a few lamps remained lit along the corridors. Their soft glow stretched across polished floors and framed portraits of long-dead Hawthornes whose painted eyes seemed to follow him as he passed.
Ordinarily, Anthony welcomed the quiet. But tonight, it merely left him alone with his troublesome thoughts.
By the time he reached his bedchamber, he was no closer to understanding himself than he had been in the library.
He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over a chair before crossing to the sideboard. A decanter of brandy waited there.
Normally, a glass at the end of a long day helped settle his mind.
Tonight, it did nothing of the sort.
He poured a measure anyway and carried it toward the fire.
The flames had burned low, casting the room in warm shadows. Anthony lowered himself into a chair and stared into the hearth.
He took a sip of brandy, but it did not help.
What unsettled him most was not the near disaster at the end of the evening. It was everything that had come before it.
The conversation and the ease between them. The simple pleasure of spending time in her company.
Why did he find himself looking forward to hearing her opinions? Why had her praise affected him so deeply?
Anthony leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees.
The answer was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Because it had ceased to be a mere physical attraction some time ago.
He admired her intelligence, her compassion, and her stubborn determination.
He respected the way she treated people, whether they were servants, tenants, or titled aristocrats.
He admired her courage. Even when that courage manifested itself in catastrophically poor decisions involving brothels and disguises.
The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself, but the smile faded. Because another thought followed immediately behind the first.
He wanted her trust and her companionship. He wanted to hear about the books she loved and the poems she had hidden away to read as a girl, and to see her expression when she became passionate about some new charitable project.
He wanted her approval.
The thought landed with startling force.
Anthony stared into the fire. That was the truth of it: her approval mattered to him. Far more than it should have and far more than was wise.
He drained the rest of the brandy and set the glass aside. The room felt suddenly too warm.
Restless, he rose and crossed toward the bookshelf near the window. He selected a volume almost at random and attempted to read.
After several minutes, he realised he had absorbed none of the words.
His attention kept wandering.
He closed the book with a sigh.
What had possessed him to stop? The answer came immediately.
It was fear.
Not of her, but of himself.
Because when she had looked up at him, there had been no calculation in her expression. No strategy. No expectation born from their agreement.
Only hope.
And for one reckless moment, Anthony had wanted to forget every reason he had ever given himself for remaining distant.
He set the book aside and crossed to the window.
Outside, moonlight silvered the gardens below. Beyond them stretched the dark expanse of the estate, peaceful beneath the night sky.
But there would be no peace for him, not until he could speak with Evangeline and explain his behaviour.
Moments later, Anthony pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway.
He made his way towards her room. When he arrived, he reached for the handle of her door; the brass was cold beneath his palm.
He turned it and pushed the door inward just enough to silently slip through, closing it behind him without a sound.
Moonlight, stark and silver, poured through the mullioned windows, painting the room in shades of grey and pearl.
And there she was. A tangle of white sheets and blonde hair on the vast bed, her body outlined by the lunar glow.
He opened his mouth to speak her name, but the sound died in his throat.
Anthony quietly walked around the side of her bed. As he did, he saw that her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. One hand was lost beneath the sheet, the fabric moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm over her body.
Her hips gave a subtle, undulating roll, a silent plea to the darkness, and the sight struck him with the force of a physical blow.
This was not the raw, public spectacle of the brothel; this was private, secret, an intimacy he had never been privy to, never even imagined she possessed.
He was frozen, a voyeur in his own marriage bed, his heart hammering against his ribs.
A soft sigh escaped her lips, a breathy exhalation that made his own body tighten.
Then, a whisper, so faint he thought he might have imagined it.
“Anthony…”
His name. It was his name she gasped into the moonlit room as she pleasured herself.
The last thread of his restraint, the fragile filament of his intention to merely talk, didn’t just snap. It disappeared like smoke, and his surprise gave way to a surge of possessive, primal heat so potent it made him dizzy.
He took a step forward, his boot sinking silently into the plush rug.
As if sensing his presence, her eyes flew open.
They were wide pools of shock and horror as they locked onto his.
A small, strangled sound escaped her throat, and she scrambled up, yanking the sheet to her chin as if to erase the scene, to hide the evidence of her desire from his sight.
Her entire body radiated mortification, a frantic, panicked energy.
“Don’t.” His voice was a low rasp, rougher than he intended.
He moved to the side of the bed, his shadow falling over her. He didn’t touch her, not yet. He simply stood there, a silent, commanding presence.
“Don’t hide from me, Evangeline.”
She flinched, her knuckles white where she gripped the linen. “I… you weren’t supposed to…”
Without a word, he reached down, his movements slow and deliberate, and gently wrapped his fingers around her wrist.
He could feel the frantic pulse of her heart beating against his thumb. He applied the slightest pressure, a silent command, and slowly, reluctantly, she uncurled her fingers from the sheet.
He brought her hand up into the moonlight.
The scent of her, clean and musky and utterly intoxicating, rose to meet him.
Anthony did not hesitate as lowered his head and pressed his lips to her fingertips, tasting her.
A soft gasp came from her. He could feel the tension in her arm begin to release, replaced by a trembling that had nothing to do with fear.
“Evangeline,” he murmured against her skin. “What are you doing to me?"
He released her hand and instead cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin.
Looking down into her eyes, he saw the war there, the remnants of her embarrassment fighting with the desire he had just stoked to a roaring fire.
“I am going to finish what you started,” he stated.
She swallowed, her throat working.
“Anthony…” she whispered, his name a benediction and a surrender.
“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his thumb stilling on her cheek. “Tell me you want me.”
Her gaze was locked with his, and she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. “Yes.”
“Are you certain?” His voice was low, serious.
This was the last gate. Once he passed it, there was no returning to the cold, formal marriage they had known.
Her answer was a breath, but it was the clearest thing he had ever heard. “Yes.”
He moved then, shedding his coat and letting it fall to the floor.
He knelt on the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight, and reached for the sheet. He drew it away, slowly, revealing her naked body.
Her skin was pale in the moonlight, her breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath, her legs slightly parted in an unconscious invitation.
He covered her body with his own, his clothes forming a rough, exciting friction against her bare skin.
Anthony's mouth found the sensitive hollow of her throat, his teeth grazing her pulse point.
He would not kiss her lips. That rule, that one final barrier, remained. It was a line of exquisite torture, a denial that made every other touch infinitely more potent.
His hands roamed her body, learning her curves, her dips, the places that made her gasp and arch against him.
He palmed the weight of her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples until they were tight, pebbled points. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her body writhing beneath his.
Anthony shifted, his knee pressing between her thighs, forcing them wider.
He fumbled with the fall of his breeches, his fingers clumsy with urgency, freeing his cock.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his dick nudging against her slick, swollen folds.
He paused, looking down at her. Her eyes were closed again, her head thrown back, her lips parted. He wanted to see her face when he entered her, to watch the moment he became her first.
“Evangeline,” he murmured, and her eyes fluttered open.
He held her gaze as he pushed forward, sinking slowly, inch by inch, into her tight, wet heat.
A choked cry escaped her, a sound of pain and overwhelming pleasure.
He felt her hymen give way, a brief, sharp resistance that he sheathed himself through.
He was buried deep inside his wife, where no man had ever been.
The sensation was staggering, a perfect, clenching heat that threatened to undo him completely.
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that stole the breath from her lungs.
Each thrust was a possession, a claim. He watched her face contort with pleasure, saw the way her hands fisted in the sheets beside her head.
Anthony angled his hips, grinding against her clit, and her body bowed off the bed, a silent cry on her lips.
He could feel her inner muscles begin to flutter, to tighten around him.
His own release was building as he felt her start to peak, and just as the first wave of her orgasm was about to crash over her, he stilled.
He held himself deep inside her, his body rigid, and lowered his mouth to her ear.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She moaned, opening her eyes to look at him, and their gazes locked.
Anthony drove himself into her again, and as he did, she arched her back in pleasure, her breath catching as the waves rolled over her.
He thrust again and groaned as he came, releasing himself inside of her.
For a moment there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing and the scent of sweat and sex.
Then Anthony pulled out of her and lay down on the mattress beside her.
Neither of them spoke.
It was done, their duty; they had consummated their marriage. And yet, lying there, Anthony did not feel the satisfaction of a job done. Instead, he felt a very different kind of satisfaction. One he never would have imagined in a million years.