Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(34)
She was being dismissed. A chill ran through her. Uncrushable, but she had her pride. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. Undoubtedly, there are any number of things I must see to as well.”
Yes, she was sure there were. She had a household to manage. A house and domestics to familiarize herself with. Somewhere, there was a library brimming with books she might read. And yet, what she wanted more than any of those things was to remain here, basking in the Duke of Trent’s presence. How confounding he was.
Perhaps this was how marriage was handled amongst the aristocracy. Having spent most of her life in New York without a mother, Daisy hardly knew what to expect. No one had prepared her. Aunt Caroline had told her some nonsense about always being a dutiful wife, heeding her husband’s every whim. Never voicing a contradictory opinion.
She turned to go, realizing she stood there staring at him like a green country girl gazing upon the first handsome man she’d ever seen. She knew when her presence was no longer desired, and she had no wish to linger where she wasn’t wanted. Had she made a mistake in marrying the duke? Trapped by circumstance, she may have been. Foolish, she was not. It would seem that only time could decide.
Daisy’s hand was on the intricate knob to his study door when he called out to her.
“Daisy.”
She spun to face him. He stood where she had left him, standing before his desk, so handsome her heart gave a pang in her breast. “Yes?”
“Your dress.” He waved a hand to encompass it, from her head to her hem. “You look stunning in it, but one cannot help but notice it is a repeat of yesterday’s. Ironic coming from the woman who berated me for a similar crime.”
She pursed her lips. “The crime was not similar in all senses. Moreover, the plain truth is that I only arrived here yesterday with this gown and not a stitch else. I’m not certain my father will even allow me to return to retrieve my wardrobe.”
“You’ll not return there,” he ordered with the air of a man well-accustomed to issuing commands. He was a duke, after all. “Send an intermediary, and if Mr. Vanreid is unwilling to allow you to have your possessions, commission new dresses. Dresses that button all the way to the throat. I’m told that’s the rage these days.”
He had noticed after all.
“Thank you, Sebastian.” She turned to leave again with one thought foremost in her mind.
How odd that he should pay special attention to lady’s fashion. Particularly when high-necked bodices were decidedly de trop. Yes, that was very odd indeed.
he was late.
Sebastian paced as he waited for Daisy to join him for dinner. He pulled out his watch to find that only a bloody minute had passed since he’d last checked. Damn it, she had him in an uproar. His mind was as jumbled as a field after battle and every bit as dark and desolate.
Her tardiness was not the only sin he could lay at her door. She was making him go mad, goddamn it. Mad with guilt, mad with frustration, mad with self-disgust, and worst of all, mad with lust.
His need for her was like a pulsing, raging beast inside him that wanted to spring free of its cage and devour her in a single, voracious bite. What was it about Daisy Vanreid that made him want to lick and kiss and nibble, to plunder and grind and fuck until he filled her with his seed?
The thought was enough to make him stiff as a fire log, even dressed for dinner and irritated, stalking the polished parquet as he awaited her. He willed his lust to cool. Counted his steps. One, two… ten… fifteen. Stared at the portrait of the Third Duke of Trent, sometime Lord Privy Seal. Thought about how much of a blessing it was that men were no longer required to wear wigs in the name of fashion. Recalled what Paris had looked like after the siege, its citizens reduced to eating rats, buildings turned to rubble, dead bodies everywhere.
Twenty-two… twenty-nine… thirty-four.
It wasn’t working, goddamn it.
Nothing could distract him from her. From what he’d done. From what he wanted to do and what he’d almost done. Jesus, he’d nearly taken her. On his desk. In his study. Knowing she was suspected of treason. Knowing Carlisle intended to see her cast into a prison. Everything in him had been calling for him to turn her around, lift her skirts, and slide home. It was appalling to realize just how well and truly depraved he’d become over his years serving the Crown.
What the hell was the matter with him?
And Daisy? She’d been kind. Sweet, actually. Genuine, too. Like him, she wore many roles and showed a host of different faces to the people around her. But she had been giving and true. He’d heard too clearly the unadulterated sympathy in her voice when he’d revealed he had no living family remaining save himself. Had felt the comfort in her gentle hands, her embrace.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Sympathy was the last thing he wanted from her. What he wanted more than anything was her body beneath his. Taking him, shuddering against him, relishing his claim upon her. He did not want to like her. Did not want to be troubled by the fact that for a woman who had suffered brutal abuse at the hands of her father, she was quick with compassion and concern. That he was manipulating her, deceiving her, and she could be an innocent. That nothing—no amount of conscience or reasoning—lessened how much he wanted to claim her. Even if it was wrong. Even if it was pretense. Even if everything between them was a lie carefully crafted to betray her and make her vulnerable.