One Dance with a Duke (Stud Club #1)(38)

“Specifically, I want to know my husband is not a murderer. But to that general purpose, I’d like to understand why this horse is worth so much to you. Why you would happily ruin my brother’s hopes in pursuit of it, but you’d draw the line at killing Leo. I want to know why you became ill at the ball—and you were ill, don’t try to deny it. Why did you insist we marry so quickly, so quietly? Why are you hustling me off to the country, away from all my family and friends? Was your youth truly as wild and uncivilized as they say? And on that subject, what’s this mysterious history with Lord Ashworth?”

He blinked. “That’s a very long list of questions.”

“Yes. Precisely my point.”

“Very well,” he said, his voice dark and intense. “Then here are mine. I’d like to know whether that freckle on your left breast is a solitary mark, or part of a vast constellation. I’d like to know if your ni**les are the same coral-pink as your lips, or a darker, tawny shade. I want to know if you’ve touched yourself, learned how to give yourself pleasure. And”—he leaned forward, and her heart leapt into her throat—“I have a deep, desperate need to hear the little noises you make when you come. Specifically.”

Oh my. Amelia quietly reeled. The idea of a man—this man—entertaining such lascivious thoughts about her …

Her? Her.

He raised a brow. “Well?”

Amelia prayed her voice would not tremble as violently as her thighs. “You first.”

He swore and turned away, clearly exasperated. “We reached an agreement. I’m giving you security; you’re giving me an heir. Your body was part of the bargain. An inquisition into my life’s history was not. I’m not in the habit of explaining myself, to anyone.”

“Not even to a wife?”

“Especially not to a wife.” He poked at the fire. “God damn it, Amelia. When I offered to marry you, it was because I expected things between us to be easy.”

His words made her wilt inside. Yes, of course. He wanted her because she was easy. Convenient. Desperate. A woman he needn’t take trouble to court or woo. A wife he wouldn’t find it a chore to bed. A vessel for his seed. But did he honestly believe she should surrender her body to him, when he couldn’t be bothered to secure her faith in his basic human decency? If he had the right to question her about her private activities under the coverlet on lonely nights, surely she had the right to be assured he was not a murderer.

She said, “Yes, well. No doubt you’ll think me a foolish, deluded spinster for it, but I’ve decided I’m worth a modicum of effort.”

“Effort? Do you suppose it an easy task, to arrange our wedding and departure from Town in the space of a single day?”

“For a man of your means and influence? Yes.” When he did not respond, she hugged herself and added, “We seem to be at an impasse.”

“An impasse,” he repeated. “Allow me to be absolutely certain I understand you. You refuse to consummate the marriage until you’re convinced of my innocence? Bellamy’s investigation should unearth that proof soon enough. It had better, considering the funds I’ve provided him.”

“Well, then. Is it so inconceivable to request a few days’ delay?” She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. It took no small amount of courage, to set him a hurdle like this. But if she did not assert herself now, she knew she would never have a chance. “Leo’s death, our betrothal, now the wedding—it’s all happened so fast. Too fast for my comfort. I see it angers you, that I cannot take you at your word. It disappoints me, too. A wife should be able to trust her husband implicitly. If you gave me some time, allowed me to understand you better …” She bit her lip. “Maybe tonight, we could simply talk.”

“Talk,” he echoed.

“Yes. You know, chat.”

“Chat.” From the disdain in his voice, one would think she’d suggested they quilt, or polish silver. For heaven’s sake, what was so revolutionary about the concept?

Perhaps it was just a matter of choosing the right topic. Even Michael, the quietest of the d’Orsay men, could go on about celestial navigation until the stars faded at dawn. “To begin with, why don’t we talk about horses? Why is owning Osiris so important to you?”

“I don’t want to talk.” He relocked the box of tokens and shoved it aside. “I don’t want to chat. About horses, or murder, or anything else. I want to bed my wife and then get some sleep.”

Leaning forward, he prowled across the cushions that separated them until he had her body caged between his broad, muscled arms. With a swift tug, he robbed her of the blanket she clutched. His long fingers roughly encircled her thigh, branding her flesh through the thin chemise. “As your husband, I am entitled to certain rights.”

“Yes.” Her pulse pounded in her throat, and she swallowed hard around it. “And it would certainly tell me something of your character, if you mean to take them by force.”

“The same way I ‘forced’ you to embrace me in Beauvale’s study?”

His grip on her leg went slack, but he didn’t release her. Rather, he began dragging teasing arcs with his thumb, caressing her inner thigh. Her skin burned beneath his touch.

When he spoke, his voice was firm but husky. Deeply arousing. “Do you truly want to know me, Amelia?”