Eleanor woke with a start and lay staring into the darkness of midnight and loneliness. Only the orange glow of the embers in the fireplace gave illumination to Remington’s big bedchamber she shared…with no one.
No matter what she dreamed or what she wished, Remington had not returned to the house on Berkley Square.
Impatient with her wistful, old-maid illusions, she sat up. The bed was tall, its posts looming out of sight. Velvet bedcurtains hung at the corners, and the mattress was soft and luxurious. A silk-and-lace gown had been draped across the foot of the bed. She had donned it in hopes he would return, and now it slithered across her cool skin in a sensuous flow of luxury.
Well. She wasn’t going to wear this forever. Cotton was much more comfortable, and when winter came, flannel was the only thing that kept her warm. Of course, if Mr. Knight shared her bed, she would wear nothing but desire.
Foolish dreams. When had she lost her firm grip on reality and fallen into wistfulness?
Sliding out of bed, she padded on bare feet toward the fireplace. If she had to be awake, she wanted the cheer and warmth of a crackling fire.
Kneeling on the hearth, she tossed on a few sticks of kindling, then placed enough logs to last her through the rest of this interminable night. Staring into the red and yellow flames, she wondered if Mr. Knight would ever return. Perhaps she would live her life alone, a virgin, married and abandoned.
If the look on his face today was any indication, she would be lucky to live long at all. She didn’t know him. No one did. The questions Lord Fanthorpe had asked returned to haunt her. Who was Mr. Knight? Who were his people?
She thought she detected traces of kindness in Mr. Knight…but that was before. Before she had betrayed him.
The merest drift of air brought the scent of tobacco, of cards, of old leather. The skin on her neck prickled in warning. Lifting her head, she looked to the chair on her right.
There, darkness outlined by darkness, lounged Mr. Knight. He still wore the suit he’d worn to be married, but he’d discarded his jacket, and his satin waistcoat was unbuttoned. His shirt was open at the throat, and the slice of skin was tanned and dusted with hair. His features were the same, austere and still, but his chin was unshaven. The careful image he had cultivated, of a gentleman of leisure, disintegrated into a more honest and less civilized image—that of a master of the streets and alleys.
He was silence personified. As he observed her, his eyes reflected the fire’s golden flame.
Rising, she faced him.
Still indolently sprawled in the chair, he said, “I used to think you did those things in all innocence.”
He was here. He was speaking to her. The tightness of her throat eased. “What things?”
He gestured up and down her figure, using his long, blunt fingers in emphasis. “Like that. Standing in front of the fire so I can see the outline of your body through your clothes.”
At once she started to walk away.
His voice halted her in her tracks. “No. Stay where you are. I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
“I won’t stand here while you ogle and insult me.”
“Yes. You will. I’m your husband, and I will see that for which I paid so dearly.” His pale eyes glowed and seemed almost feral in their intensity. “You should be proud of your body. Your breasts are perfect, rounded and firm.” His gaze feasted on her. “And I love to watch you from the back.”
Her hands itched to cover herself, but which part? The fire heated the silk over her back, and his gaze heated the silk at her front.
“Your thighs…I love your thighs the best. They’re slender, yet strong, and when you ride, so smoothly, so gracefully, all I can think is how you would move beneath me.”
“Mr….Knight!” Such an inadequate response. So ineffectual.
Taking a glass half-full of golden liquid from the table beside him, he lifted it to his lips, sipped, and put it back. “There’s a quaint American custom in which I’d like you to indulge me. I’m your husband. For the rest of your life, we’re going to share the same bed. Call me Remington.”
She could do that easily enough. “There’s no need to be sarcastic…Remington.” To her surprise, the sound of his name on her lips made her shiver, as if she allowed him an intimacy so great she would never recover the pieces of herself.
As the logs caught fire, she could see his face more clearly. His brows were black and straight. Flames were reflected in the frozen blue of his eyes. Deep grooves were etched into his skin between his nose and his mouth. He looked diabolical, and he looked hungry.
Again she started to step away.
In a tone so deep he sounded like the voice of darkness, he said, “Stay. I insist. I like the way the material clings to your hips and the little puckers your nipples make in the silk.”
He spoke softly, as if he were talking to himself, but each word seduced her as surely as a touch. It didn’t matter who he was or who his people were. It wasn’t hostility that gripped him tonight, but lust. Ladies should not respond to anything quite so vulgar as lust. Certainly they shouldn’t lust in return. But the place between Eleanor’s legs grew damp, and her nipples ached. She ached. She wanted to move. Not away, but toward, and with.
She found herself standing like a wanton: hip out, shoulders back, her spine a graceful curve. He still wanted her, and instinct told her that making him her mate would bind him as nothing else could. “Please, let me explain why I did what I did.”
“What you did? What do you mean? Married me?” He laughed without humor. “No need to explain. I do understand. I’ve been married for my money.”
Shocked that anyone could think that of her, she protested, “I didn’t marry you for your money!”
“Please. Don’t tell me Banbury tales in addition to your other sins. What other reason could there be for marrying me? It certainly wasn’t for love. Love wouldn’t have made a sacrifice of my needs.”
At his scorn, she shriveled a little inside. But the habit of frankness had been easy to adopt, and she answered, “No one needs to marry a duchess, and I didn’t need to marry a wealthy man. You’ve heard my story. Had I chosen, I could have married an old and moneyed man when I was sixteen. I would even now be a rich and merry widow.”
“At sixteen, one always expects another man will come along. How old are you, my dear?”
Abominable man! “Twenty-four.”
“Firmly on the shelf with the other old maids. You were more desperate now, and what an opportunity you had with me! Well, my darling”—taking her hand, he stroked it—“if you have plans to kill me for my fortune, be warned. I’ve escaped death at the hands of your family before, and now I’m warned. I shall watch my back.”
“Kill you?” She yanked her hand free. “Are you mad?”
“Perhaps. A little, tonight.” His fingers twitched, as if he wanted to pounce, to grip her and hold her still for his possession. “I sent for my man who had been watching you two, you and your cousin, the future duchess.”
“Spying on us, you mean.”
“Spying on you,” Remington concurred amiably. “We agreed you must have made the switch at Mr. Rumbelow’s house party. That is where the duchess remains, is it not?”
“I think so, but she was supposed to be here by now. I’m actually very worried about her.”
“So worried you married her fiancé.”
Eleanor could be cruel, too. “She didn’t want you.”
“Now that, I believe.” He tensed like a beast about to spring. “You’re saying she would approve of your ingenuity. I imagine she would. I imagine any woman would. I suppose you were supposed to give me a message telling me she’d be late.”
“No. This is her scheme that I should portray her!” Eleanor drew a frustrated breath. “You commanded with such vigor that she appear promptly, we feared you would take some terrible vengeance if she didn’t obey.”
“I’m not so spiteful.”
“A man who seeks a wife at the piquet table is likely to be quite insane.”
“Hm.” He stroked his chin. “Yes. Perhaps I gave too much weight to my commands.”
“Logic at last.” Then, because she couldn’t bear not knowing for another minute, she asked, “Where have you been?”
“Spoken like a true wife.” His lids drooped as if he were amused. At her, or at himself. “And like a true English husband, I’ve been at my club, gambling and thinking. Do you know what thought I came up with?”
She didn’t know, but she suspected she wasn’t going to like it. “No.”
“I’m married to you. We have spoken our vows in front of God and witnesses, and we are as surely wed as any old married couple in London. Divorce would take years, a fortune, and an act of Parliament. There’s no grounds for an annulment. So there’s no escape. We’re married.”
“I know. I’m—”
“Don’t.” He slashed the air with the knife of his hand. “Don’t insult me by saying you’re sorry. You manipulated me every inch of the way, with your artless blushes and shy adoration. I thought I had won all…a duchess I could love and sweet revenge at the same time. Instead”—he crumpled his imaginary winnings in his hand—“I have nothing.”
She wasn’t nothing. She was a de Lacy. Straightening, she said, “You have everything. You have more than most people ever dream of.”
“Enlighten me, dear girl. What do I have?”
With his cynical gaze on her, her mind went blank. “Well…you have your health.”
He laughed, short and sharp.
“That’s important.” She thought frantically. “Your fortune is intact, is it not?”
“Very much so, to your relief, I’m sure.”
“You’re young, you’re handsome, you’re intelligent”—taking a breath, she dared as she had never dared before—“and you have me.”
He plucked off his shoes and, one by one, threw them at the door.
Eleanor jumped each time the leather smacked the wood and rattled the lock.
“Ah, yes. My dear wife, who has made me the laughingstock of London. Did I say of London? Of England. Do you know what they were saying in the club tonight?”
Beneath his insults and his seductions, she hadn’t been able to detect his feelings before, but he was angry. Of course.
“At the club, everyone was saying that all it took was the whiff of English pussy to entice an American cock to follow.”
She was shocked. Even in her travels, she had not heard such vulgarity. “How horrible. How dare they speak so about us? Use such language?”
“They’re men. That is how men talk.” He was more than angry, she realized. He was furious. She could almost see the shimmer of heat as waves of rage rolled off him.
Heat…she could warm herself by that much heat. “What did you reply?”
“I laughed. I said they were right. I said I was so anxious to get under your skirts that I would have wed you no matter who you were.”
She wiped her suddenly damp palms along the silk on her hips. This warmth she felt was more than embarrassment. More than the heat from the fire. “You were saving face.”
“I was telling the truth.” His lips, his magical, wonderful lips, eased into a self-mocking smile. “Ever since I met you, all I can think about is your breasts, your thighs, your…pussy.”
Her pussy quivered as if he had stroked it.
“Worse, I’ve been worried about your moods, your happiness, your pleasure. No wonder I let you lead me down the aisle without another thought in my head.”
Her mouth dried. He made his intentions clear. He would take her, make her his whether she willed it or not.
He had the right; he was her husband. But rights meant little when it was her body, her self who faced the beast with the untamed eyes. “You said you thought you had a duchess you could love. You were talking to me. You were looking at me. You can still love me.”
“No. I can only love a duchess.”
His answer stuck at her heart, and finally she made the move to leap away.
His hand shot out and caught her arm. “But I want you. Furthermore, you’re my wife.” He held her gaze. “I can have you.”