Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(37)

He threw back his head and laughed again, the sound rich and uncontained. The dimple had returned in full force and she couldn’t tear her eyes away. “You may not be adept at silence, sweet, but you have a knack for a proper setdown.”

She would never have dared to speak with such abandon before. Life under her father’s strict rule had taught her to hold her tongue and eradicate any hint of audacity or opinion. But she was not beneath her father’s thumb any longer, and she was beginning to appreciate that fact in new ways.

She found herself smiling back at her too-handsome husband. “I was exercising logic, Your Grace. Make of it what you will.”

He sobered, his gaze becoming intense, his expression one of unguarded hunger. “I believe we’ve finished with the fish course,” he announced to the servants without even glancing in their directions. “Bring the next in twenty minutes. Anyone who disturbs us before that time has passed shall be sacked without reference.” His gaze held hers, molten and hungry, rife with meaning.

Daisy felt the full force of that look, beginning with a pulse of need between her thighs and radiating throughout her entire body. Her already hard nipples tightened even more, and she felt a sudden urgency to once again have his mouth upon her there. Sucking. Nipping, perhaps even.

Good heavens. His stare was doing wicked things to her senses and mind both. She tore her gaze away to watch as the servants dutifully departed, closing the door behind them with judicious grace.

They were alone, with twenty minutes to call their own. Perhaps she should have been embarrassed that he had delivered such a blatant edict to the servants. Twenty minutes alone, between courses. His motivation would be obvious to them, of course. One didn’t stop a dinner in medias res. Not unless one’s intentions were scandalous. Impure. Dangerous. Another adjective rattled to the forefront of her mind as she swung her eyes back to her husband in time to watch him unfold his tall, muscled length from his chair.

Delicious.

“Why have you stopped the dinner, Your Grace?” she asked, breathless despite her best intentions. Hadn’t he just shamed her before his servants? Strike that. Before their servants? “I thought your hunger was the reason for your earlier pique with me over my tardiness.”

He moved to her with the cagey grace of a predatory cat. A big, predatory cat. A tiger, she thought, before thinking better of the choice. No, he was a lion. Proud and strong and savage. And handsome. Yes, he was undeniably that.

“I appreciate punctuality,” he said, as if that explained his behavior. “And it’s Sebastian, buttercup, as I’ve already told you. No more formality between us. I don’t like it.”

He skirted the table, never taking his eyes from her. No lord she had ever seen dignifying London’s ballrooms had been anything like him. It was as if he were a breed of his own, even if she couldn’t quite determine just what it was that set him so apart from all the rest. Wealth and titles had never meant anything to her. Kindness did. Compassion as well—two things she’d seen precious little of thus far, whether at home or here in England.

But that wasn’t it. Anyone could be compassionate. Anyone could be kind if he chose. The duke—Sebastian, she must think of him as now—had been both to her at times. And still, there was something else about him that marked him as different. The mystery, the shadows in his eyes, the potent strength, the way he doled out parts of himself in such tiny increments that she was sure she’d only gotten to know the equivalent of a thimble-full… it was all those things and more. He was like a summer storm: aggressive, sudden, and beautiful in his harsh, powerful way.

He didn’t stop until he stood behind her. She sat frozen, waiting, her heart pounding faster than a spooked horse’s hooves on a road. Every part of her clamored for his touch. At last, his hands, large and warm, settled on her bare shoulders, just above the layered sleeves of her evening gown. Just a touch, his skin on hers, and yet it felt unbearably intimate. Desire ricocheted through her.

His breath was hot, his lips brushing over her ear as he spoke. “A true gentleman should never stand in the presence of a lady while she remains seated.”

She knew as much, of course. She had been trained, after all. Her father had done his utmost to see that she would be wedded to the husband of his choice. A titled, born-in-the-purple aristocrat. Perhaps she should have stood when he had, for the sake of manners. But she had been too preoccupied by watching him to take note of anything else.

Breathe, she chided herself, breathe. And she did, inhaling slowly, refusing to give in to the temptation of turning her head and meeting his mouth with hers. They were courting, after all, were they not? Moreover, he remained a man she little knew, despite the fact that they were now husband and wife.

“Are you not a true gentleman, then?” she forced herself to ask as his thumbs began to run a lazy pattern of circles over her collarbone.

“Would a gentleman follow a lady into the moonlight, intent on her seduction?” Something hot and wet and firm—his tongue, she realized, traced the ridges of her ear.

She trembled, though it wasn’t with fear. It was with something else, something far more authoritative. Her own need. Her hands remained in her lap, but now she grabbed fistfuls of fabric, clenching the brocade to keep herself from touching him.

“Would a lady lead a gentleman into the moonlight?” She injected a lightness into her tone that she hardly felt. After all, she wasn’t blameless in the situation in which they now found themselves mired. She hadn’t forgiven herself yet, even if it seemed that he had.