Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(79)

“It looks as if you’re wearing the costume of a whore.” His voice was pure ice. “What can you be thinking, gadding about London wearing bloody trousers? Wasn’t it enough to take your pleasure with whatever man you could find? You needed to humiliate me as well, is that it?”

His words cut her more than she had expected them to. When she and Georgiana had set their plan into motion, she hadn’t considered the full ramifications. She’d been driven by desperation, by longing. By missing him. She’d been prepared to do anything—don trousers, flirt with rakes, incite whispers and disapproval at every turn. Heavens, she had written him a waterfall of letters, desperate for any way to make him come back to her.

But scandal was rather like wildfire. It couldn’t be controlled. Once it had begun burning, its hunger for destruction became voracious. Now, it seemed all her frustrated efforts had turned upon her to disastrous effect.

He was home at last, but he didn’t believe her. He believed the gossip. And well, why should he not? They were strangers, weren’t they? Married for several months, only a fortnight spent in each other’s presence. What could she have expected? Her heart felt like a weight in her chest to match the knot of dread spinning in her stomach.

Yet, it was he who had created the chasm. He who had abandoned her with a hastily scrawled missive as explanation. The loneliness, isolation, and confusion of the months without him struck her now with the force of a locomotive. An ire to match his fanned into a flame. Where had he been? What had he been doing? Who was the real Sebastian, Duke of Trent?

“How dare you insult me?” Pent-up emotion made her voice shrill. “You, who abandoned me with no real explanation, no notion of where you’d gone or when you might return?”

“It was a private matter of extreme urgency,” he gritted. “I told you I would return as soon as I was able. My departure from London was necessary. Had I been able to avoid it, I wholeheartedly would have.”

“A private matter. Necessary.” The words left a bad taste in her mouth, and the pressing suspicion that had been her constant companion for the last few months returned. What if he had been engaged in a different form of secrecy than what Georgiana suspected? By-blows were common enough, though hardly proper drawing room conversation. A few oddly phrased missives weren’t enough to prove some sort of vast conspiracy. “Were you with your mistress?”

“No, goddamn it.” Suddenly, his hands gripped her upper arms, large and warm on her bare skin. The contact sent the same fiery need as always licking through her. “I’ve told you before that I don’t have a mistress. I’ve been bloody true to our vows, which is more than I can say for you.”

She wanted to believe him, even as his continued assertion that she had been unfaithful left her cold. “I have not made a cuckold of you.”

He pulled her into him and her hands flew to his broad chest, seeking purchase, her earrings falling forgotten to the floor. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. They were so near that if she rose on tiptoe, their lips would meet. How she missed his kiss. For an instant, it didn’t matter that he’d been gone, that he had returned a cold and bitter stranger. Her body still longed for his.

Ached for him.

She still loved him.

“Would you care to explain what you’ve been doing behind closed doors with the Earl of Bolton?” His tone had become deceptively smooth once more. His eyes traveled over her face, studying. “You’re beautiful as ever, Daisy. Little wonder half the men of London are waiting in line to lift your skirts. How many others have aside from Bolton?”

She’d known that receiving the Earl of Bolton had been a grievous mistake. At the time, her husband’s dislike of the man had served as her primary impetus. “The door was never closed. That was a rumor likely begun by the earl himself.”

That much was the truth. Bolton had been clear with his desire that she become his mistress. Daisy had refused and slapped him for the insult, which was likely why he’d spread such a tale—a balm to his wounded pride. The only man she wanted was the one standing before her, and it was a truth she couldn’t deny. She had made vows to him and him alone. Her heart beat for him. Broke for him.

“Did you scream the way you did for me, sweet?” His hand left her arm to skim over her jaw, then cup her cheek. His thumb pressed into the fullness of her lower lip with a rough pressure that surprised her. But she liked it. The savagery in him made her pulse leap, her entire body come to life. It was odd and troubling, and yet, there it was. “Tell me. Did you enjoy it when he fucked you? Did you pretend he was me, just for a moment? We both know he couldn’t have made you come the way I did.”

She swallowed, the memory of their blistering lovemaking coupled with his lean hardness against her—his masculine scent and strength enveloping her—made heat bloom between her thighs. The flesh he’d brought to life became hungry and wet. Her nipples tightened against her corset. His anger should have disturbed her, should have lessened her desire. Such provocative, ugly things, he’d said. He was being rough and crude, deliberately cruel. The way he touched her—masterful though detached—should have left her cold.

And yet, she couldn’t help the way she felt. The way he made her feel. Hot. Restless. Yearning. Her heart still ached for him, and in spite of everything—logic, reason, hurt, common sense—she couldn’t deny him.