Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(47)

One answer belonged to that question, and one answer only.

No.

He pulled his robe together and knotted the belt. Then, he seized the bowl he ordinarily used for shaving and filled it with warm water, still cursing himself. He took up two small towels before turning back toward the chamber where he’d left Daisy, thoroughly deflowered. He lowered all the lights save one.

Carlisle was going to have his head. Married for the span of one day, and he’d consummated. Had more than consummated. He’d spent inside her. Jesus Christ, his stupidity and raging lust now meant that there was the chance that Daisy could bear his child.

The notion didn’t curdle his blood as it ought. Instead, an odd, foreign surge of warmth flooded his chest. What in the name of all that was holy? Ruthlessly, he forced the sensation to go the hell away. She wasn’t meant to be his duchess. He still didn’t know which side of the damn fence she stood on. He had deceived her, had dishonored her, and under no circumstance should the thought of Daisy growing heavy with his child and bearing him a daughter with sprightly golden curls and green eyes make him feel anything other than revulsion.

When he strode back into her chamber, determination and self-control firmly once more at the reins, a pang of some indefinable emotion nevertheless stabbed through him. She lay where he’d left her, the long, beautiful strands of her hair in disarray, her robe closed, hands laced together in a protective gesture. Her expression wary, her cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink as she made eye contact with him.

She looked so small and alone, delicate and frighteningly lovely all at once, that his hands trembled, sending some of the water splashing from the sides of the bowl. It landed on his bare foot and the thick carpet with a splat. Damn it to hell, how could this woman who was a stranger to him, this dainty, elegant creature he didn’t dare trust, shake him to his core?

It made no sense, but she did.

He continued across the chamber, not stopping until he’d reached her bedside. Everything in him had meant to upkeep his honor and preserve her virginity. Yesterday, he’d stood at this same spot, slashing his thumb and smearing his blood into the bedclothes to maintain both.

He loathed himself.

“Your Grace?” she asked, her tone hesitant, wide eyes going from his hands to his face.

Her guard was down, it was plain to see, and she looked every bit like a woman who’d had to live her life by the whims of a violent man. She was a wary thing, his buttercup.

Surely not his, though?

His, answered something deep inside him, just as quickly.

“Promise me something?” He deposited the bowl on the bedside table with care, his gaze never leaving hers. “You will dispense with the formality between us forever. From this moment forward, I am only Sebastian to you.”

A frown creased the creamy perfection of her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

His self-loathing increased tenfold. “You have done nothing for which you need apologize. I, on the other hand, have. This… consummating our union… I should never have come to you tonight. And for that, I must apologize to you. I promised you a courting, and within a day, I’ve made a liar and a cad of myself.”

And worse, he added inwardly.

A man without honor was not a man at all.

“Sebastian.” A soft smile transformed her features, and if she had been beautiful before, there was only one word to describe her now. Radiant. She glowed. Daisy was a force.

“As we’ve already established.” He found himself smiling back at her like a bloody escapee from a lunatic asylum. “The sort of churl who doesn’t appreciate his wife’s tardiness at dinner.”

“Yes.” Her smile widened, and so did his, and for a beat, he fell into her green gaze, mesmerized by that simple way she had of making him see levity where he was certain none could be had. “Then you must promise me not to apologize for what happened tonight. A churl you may be, but a cad and a liar, surely not.”

Christ, she didn’t know how wrong she was.

He had not returned to her side to make a confession, however. He jerked his attention back to the bowl of water. Best to act while it still remained warm. And there was utterly nothing to be gained by mooning at his beautiful pawn of a wife. A woman suspected of treason.

For some reason, the reminder didn’t hold as much ice and warning as it once had. He dipped one of the towels into the bowl, saturating it, before wringing out the excess. Slowly, he joined her on the bed.

“What are you doing?” she asked, eyes going wide.

Curious that she would only question him now, when the damage had long since been done. With his free hand, he nudged her knees open. “Tending to you, buttercup. Let me, please?”

She resisted. “I’m perfectly capable of—”

“Of course you are,” he interrupted, not at all surprised. Something had told him that she would be independent to the last. This was a woman who had been relying on herself and herself alone for far too long. “But I want to do this for you.”

Her flush heightened as her eyes searched his. At long last, she nodded, her jaw tensing, the only outward show of her nervousness. “If you must.”

It was a means of doing penance, and a small one at that. He guided her thighs open, swept aside the fabric of her dressing gown once more, revealing her mound in all its perfection. Blood smeared her thigh. Her cunny was pink and wet with the evidence of their lovemaking. His cock surged anew at the sight, some primal force in him relishing his claiming of her.