Chapter Eleven
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Lydia lay in bed, staring at the carved canopy above her, the silk coverlet twisted at her waist. She hadn’t closed her eyes once. Sleep had hovered for a while, both soft and uncertain. However, it quickly vanished the moment she thought of her husband’s mouth on hers.
The kiss in the pavilion had been meant as a performance. That’s what he’d said.
But it hadn’t felt like one.
Not when he pressed her against the iron frame or when his hand found her waist like he already knew the shape of it. Not when she parted her lips and he answered like he’d been waiting to taste her since the moment they met.
She rolled onto her side with a soft, frustrated sound. The clock on the mantel chimed once. Half past midnight.
To hell with sleep, she thought.
She slid from bed and pulled on her dressing gown, tying it tight at the waist. Her slippers whispered softly against the carpet as she crossed the room and slipped out into the dim corridor, candle in hand.
Downstairs, the halls were hushed. It was the kind of silence that wrapped around you like a shawl, still and solemn. She padded toward the kitchen in search of warm milk, anything to anchor her nerves.
But as she passed the study, she slowed.
A faint golden glow flickered beneath the door, and she heard the faint rustle of fabric.
She hesitated a moment as she considered walking away.
Then she heard something else. The sharp sound of paper crumpling. Followed by a soft curse and then a deep exhale.
Her hand moved before her brain could stop it.
She pushed the door open.
The room was dimly lit by the fire, casting long shadows across the shelves. Nicholas sat behind the desk, half-slumped over it, a letter clutched tightly in one hand. He looked up sharply.
His expression shifted the moment he saw her, not surprised, not angry, just guarded.
He crumpled the letter in his fist instinctively, as if to make it vanish. But not before Lydia saw the letterhead, and something in her stomach tightened uncomfortably.
“I didn’t knock,” she said, stepping into the room. “Sorry.”
“Clearly,” he muttered, straightening.
“What was that?” she asked, tilting her head to the crumbled letter in his hand.
“Nothing,” he said, a little too quickly.
“You’re lying.”
He stood abruptly, moving to the decanter like he needed a drink or a distraction, maybe both. The brandy sloshed as he poured, his movements too sharp.
“I said it’s nothing.”
Her gaze flicked to the crumpled paper in his hand. “I saw the letterhead.”
He froze.
“Marlow,” she said, voice low. “That’s from one of my father’s old contacts. He kept notes on everyone.”
Nicholas’s jaw ticked.
“Is someone threatening you?” she asked, stepping closer. “Is it about debt?”
He turned. His voice was cold. “It’s none of your concern.”
“The hell it isn’t,” she snapped.
He blinked, caught off guard.
“We’re married. We made a deal. You don’t get to keep secrets and expect me to play duchess while your world burns down around us.”
“I’m protecting you,” he bit out.
“No, you’re avoiding me. Again.”
“I’m shielding you from things you can’t begin to understand.”
She stepped closer, eyes bright. “Don’t patronize me.”
His brow lifted. “You’re out of your depth, Lydia. You think a few ledgers and a clever smile are enough to navigate this world?”
“I think you’re afraid of me.”
He stilled.
“You can’t control me, and it terrifies you,” she said. “Because if I’m not your ornament, or your charity case, or your mistake—then what am I?”
“Enough.”
“No. I deserve the truth. I deserve to know what I married into. You think I’m delicate? I survived more than you know.”
He snapped.
In two strides, he was across the room.
He gripped her waist and pulled her to him—hard.
The kiss was brutal. Hot. Hungry. His mouth slanted over hers with force, and she met it with every ounce of anger and want that had been building between them for weeks.
Her fingers fisted in his shirt as his hands slid up her ribs, greedy, possessive.
Then, he cupped her breast through the thin cotton of her nightdress.
She gasped, and he swallowed it, his palm stroking slowly, reverently, like he needed to feel all of her or go mad trying.
She moaned softly into his mouth.
He pulled her tighter. One hand slipping behind her neck, holding her there, devouring her. His tongue teased hers, coaxed, then commanded.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t tender. It was all the things they couldn’t say, expressed in heat and pressure and the unbearable ache of restraint falling apart.
He walked her backward until her hips met the edge of the desk. She gripped the wood behind her, anchoring herself as his mouth traced hot, open kisses down the side of her throat.
Then, he stopped.
Abruptly.
He pulled back, eyes dark with something wounded and dangerous.
She stood breathless, chest heaving, lips kissed raw. Why has he stopped? Had she done something wrong?
“You should go,” he said roughly.
She stared at him. “What?”
“I said go.”
“Why?”
He stepped back, fists clenched.
“Because you’re not ready for me, Lydia. I’m not gentle. I’m not safe. And you—” he cut himself off, pacing away from her like he couldn’t bear the space and couldn’t bear the closeness, either. “You’re too delicate for the things I want.”
She blinked.
Heat flushed up her chest, not from arousal now, but rage. And shame.
“You’re wrong,” she said quietly.
“Am I?” His back was still to her.
She swallowed hard. Then lifted her chin.
“Next time you want to kiss someone like that,” she said coldly, “make sure they’re not too delicate to survive it.”
He turned toward her, but she was already at the door.
She didn’t look back as she left the room, her hands shaking as she closed it behind her.
But the moment she was alone in the corridor, her composure cracked.
She leaned against the wall, heart pounding, lips still swollen from his kiss. The memory of it crashed over her all at once, his body pinning hers to the bookcase, the heat of his breath at her ear, the way his hands had gripped her like he couldn’t get close enough.
She hated him. Hated how easily he could ignite her. How quickly she went from furious to breathless.
And yet…God help her, part of her wanted to go back into that room and tell him to prove her wrong.
She closed her eyes and drew in a long, trembling breath.
This wasn’t just desire. It was dangerous. She’d promised herself this would be a partnership. Nothing more. She’d built her whole life on control, and now that control felt like it was slipping through her fingers every time he looked at her like that.
She wasn’t just furious.
She was scared.
Not of him, but of herself. Of what she might let him do if he ever really asked. Of what it meant to want something this badly from a man who didn’t believe she could take it.
But I can, she thought fiercely. I can take anything he gives me.
The worst part wasn’t the kiss.
It was how badly she wanted another.