The Study of Seduction (Sinful Suitors, #2)(59)

For a moment silence filled the carriage, punctuated by her shuddering gasps for air. Then, it was as if she’d brought a veil down over her face. Her breathing evened out, and she straightened in her seat, smoothing her skirts as he’d seen her do a hundred times.

“I told you,” she said, her voice calmer, though still threaded with tension. “I’m not . . . the affectionate sort. It’s nothing to do with you. I simply don’t like people being too close to me. I find it overwhelming.”

But not when you kiss me.

He didn’t speak the words. He’d learned long ago with his sister that if you boxed a woman in with logical arguments and she didn’t want to hear it, she struck out. Or retreated into silence, which would gain him nothing. So he just waited for her to speak again, hoping she would feel free to go on. Because there was more to the story. He was sure of it.

Unfortunately, when she spoke again, it was to withdraw from him even further. “I will grow used to it in time.”

Grow used to it? He didn’t want a wife who had to brace herself to be bedded. It reminded him painfully of his mother, how she had reacted to his father for a long time after that horrible day in the drawing room. How she’d jumped when her children came up behind her, cringed at Father’s touch.

How the gulf between his mother and his father had grown deeper and wider by the day. Damn it, that was not what he’d wanted for his marriage—all that roiling, suppressed anger and unmet needs.

But if Clarissa wouldn’t talk to him about her fears, then he didn’t know what to do.

“Do the servants know that we got married?” she asked.

The abrupt change of subject made him want to grab her and shake her, to demand to know why she could only let him touch her so far and no more, why she got panicky when he crowded her in. Why she only liked his touch when he was kissing her, and for anything more, he must be behind her or under her skirts . . .

He choked down bile. What if that was what it was? As long as she didn’t really have to look at him, she could close her eyes and pretend he was someone else when he grew more intimate. What if she simply disliked him?

God, he was being ridiculous. She responded to his kisses with passion; she grew aroused when he touched her. He wasn’t so terrible a judge of women that he couldn’t tell that.

And this was precisely why he’d wanted to marry some dull chit in the first place! This was why he’d wanted a mere companion for a wife. Because this seething mass of emotion was too much. He didn’t like it.

“Well?” she asked. “Do the servants know?”

He gritted his teeth. “Yes. I sent them a letter at the same time I put the notice in the papers.”

Fine. He’d do things her way for a while. Spend time with her. Deal with incorporating a new wife into his estate. Try to control his runaway desire to bed her.

Court her.

He started. He hadn’t really courted her, had he? He’d just rushed her into a marriage. And every time in the past that he had done something vaguely courtship-like, it had ended in a most pleasurable interlude. The night at the theater. Just now with the automaton. Each time, he was able to get a little further with her.

Interesting. Apparently women liked thoughtful gifts and compliments. She liked thoughtful gifts and compliments.

Very well, then that was what he would do. Court her properly. Take the lessons she’d given him for courting other women and apply them to her.

“I do hope your staff don’t mind having me as a mistress,” Clarissa said.

The hesitation in her voice firmed his resolve. He could do this. Make her comfortable with him. And perhaps not too long from now, she would be ready to reveal what made her so frightened of sharing his bed.

“I’m sure they will be delighted to have someone as accomplished as you running the household,” he said smoothly.

At least now he had a strategy to pursue.

The first thing Clarissa noticed when she entered the dining room two hours later was the rose lying across her plate. The second thing was Edwin, looking breathtaking in his black superfine and snowy cravat, standing at the other end of the table and watching her with the intensity that always made her shiver deliciously.

Guilt stabbed her anew. She hadn’t had a moment alone with him since their arrival. The staff had bombarded her with enthusiastic welcomes and then had ushered her up to dress for dinner in the suite of rooms meant to be hers. Amidst the chaos of unpacking and dressing, there’d been little time to dwell on her appalling behavior in the carriage.

But now, alone with him at dinner, she could no longer ignore it. Struggling for what to say, she took her seat and picked up the rose to sniff it. “How lovely.” She strove for a light tone. “Should I expect one of these every evening at dinner?”

“That can be arranged.”

His unconscious echo of her words earlier that had sparked their intimate interlude renewed her guilt. She had overreacted. Badly. She had to stop acting like a frightened ninny with him. She already had him asking questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

She would tell him everything eventually. Just as soon as she got her bearings in their marriage.

Coward.

“That’s a fetching gown,” he said conversationally.

The polite nicety startled her, especially coming from Edwin. But at least she knew how to play that game. “Thank you. It’s one of my favorites.” She settled her napkin in her lap. “You look rather splendid yourself this evening.”