“Friends?” Tremont’s deep voice cut in.
Thea swung around in her chair. Once again, he’d approached as soundlessly as a shadow, and this morning she found the habit irritating. That and the fact that he was so dashed attractive. Why couldn’t he be missing a few teeth or losing his hair? But, oh no, he had to look perfect. Like a sculpture, his angelic features were schooled to an impeccable sternness. His hair, the same tawny shade as his son’s, lay neatly against his head. His eyes were as somber as the charcoal coat and buff trousers that fit like a glove over his lean muscularity.
“Good morning, Papa,” Freddy said tentatively. “I’m feeling so much better today.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Now what is this about friends?”
The boy bit his lip, so Thea said, “That was my idea, my lord.”
At Tremont’s inquiring look, she repeated her proposal.
“That is not possible,” he said. “My son is not well enough for a social call.”
Freddy’s face fell like a soufflé.
“We could consult Dr. Abernathy,” she said swiftly. “I am sure he will approve of the distraction. In addition, I could make sure my nephew knows not to overtire Freddy. Edward is a quiet boy by nature and much prefers games like chess to Oranges and Lemons or Hide the Slipper.”
At length, Tremont said, “I will consider it—if the doctor approves.”
“Thank you, Papa,” Freddy said tremulously.
Tremont’s gaze remained on hers, the grey depths turbulent, disconcertingly warm. Thea told herself that she was glad for the boy’s sake alone. She didn’t care what his father thought.
She rose to leave—and remembered the book in her hands. Holding out the leather volume, she said, “I almost forgot. I brought this for you.”
“For me?” Freddy took it, his eyes as big as dinner plates.
“A belated birthday gift. My papa gave it to me when I was bedbound, and Captain Gulliver’s adventures made the time pass more quickly.” She smiled at the fervent way the boy opened the cover. “I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I have.”
She almost made it to the door when Tremont blocked her path. She ignored the jolt that his gentle touch on her arm elicited. Lifting her chin, she said, “My lord?”
“I wanted to inquire after your health.” His high cheekbones turned ruddy. “After, ahem, yesterday’s events.”
His solicitous tone made her grind her teeth.
“I’m no porcelain doll,” she said tartly. “I’m perfectly well and stronger than I look.”
“Did you know Miss Thea has an illness too? I would not have guessed,” Freddy piped up from the bed. “She was fearless yesterday and didn’t stand down.”
“Miss Kent’s vigor is indeed a thing of wonder,” Tremont said.
Cheeks flushing, Thea told herself to ignore the husky edge to his voice, the hungry gleam in his eyes. Frustration filled her. Why was he toying with her, flirting with her when he’d made clear not once, but twice, that he didn’t want her?
There was, she supposed, a freedom that came from knowing that one has been rejected. She had enough pride not to ask him to reconsider. If Tremont couldn’t recognize the strength of her passion—couldn’t see her for who she was—then she would find someone else who would.
She refused to languish away like some piece of forgotten fruit. No, she would search out someone who would return her love. Who would kiss her, touch her, desire her as a flesh and blood woman. Who would make her feel as alive as she did when she was in Tremont’s arms…
Stop it. Don’t let him play with your emotions like a cat with a ball of string.
“I have errands to attend to, my lord,” she said coolly.
The steel curtain dropped over his gaze.
An instant later, he moved out of the way and let her go.
What a surprise.
Chapter Six
After ensuring that Freddy was settled, Gabriel descended the steps to the main floor.
What the devil are you doing flirting with her?
He had urgent business to take care of—and that didn’t include dallying further with an innocent miss he couldn’t have. Yet in Thea’s presence his principles seemed to fade, the compulsion to be near her, to possess every glowing inch of her, making him act like a damned cad.
God help him, her passion had burned so brightly at their midnight encounter, illuminating his darkest fantasies. He’d stared at her lustrous hair, knotted in his fist, and the beast in him had hungered to use that silken skein like a rein. To flip her onto her knees, tear off her shift, and plow her until she screamed his name—until she let him do anything. Everything.
Instead, he’d hurt her. Caused her to have an attack.
He passed the landing, his shoulders rigid.
He knew better than to get involved with a woman who couldn’t give him what he needed. And whom he couldn’t please no matter how hard he tried. Memories of his marriage fell over him like a shadow.
Fresh from leaving the Quorum, he’d met Sylvia at a society ball, the first he’d attended as a newly minted marquess. After the life he’d led, he’d felt out of rhythm with the carefree dance of the ton, but from the moment he’d been introduced to Sylvia, her delicate brunette beauty and ladylike graces had anchored something inside him. Over the next few weeks, they’d fallen in love. He’d asked for and received her hand in marriage.
He’d been certain that he’d finally found what had been missing in his life. Sylvia had been like a shining torch: her lightness and beauty, her tranquil presence, had promised to chase away his shadows. For the first time, his future had seemed bright.
Their marital relations had come as a shock—to both of them. Having spent his adult life immersed in the murky world of espionage, he’d never been with a lady before. He hadn’t realized how debauched his sexual preferences were. The whores he’d bedded prior to his marriage had never complained; in fact, they’d urged on his depraved demands the way a jockey does a mount.
But Sylvia was no trollop. She was his bride, an innocent. He’d made every effort to tame his lovemaking, to change his needs and see to her pleasure—but nothing changed.
She didn’t enjoy his touch. Every time, she lay there, tense and stiff as a board, waiting for it to be over. When his hope began to fade and his visits to her bedchamber became less frequent, he could see the relief, the sense of reprieve in her blue eyes, and it was like throwing sand on the flames of his soul.
After she gave birth to their son, she’d finally told him what she wanted. For him to do what every considerate gentleman did: take a mistress. Please, you can’t expect me to see to all your needs. You want too much. Tears had leaked down her beautiful face. Isn’t it enough that I’ve given you an heir and a peaceful home?
Shame crept over him, thinking of that accusation. That he was too… needful. He knew that she’d meant not just sexually but emotionally as well. He cringed to think of how, in those early days of their marriage, he’d let down his guard for the first time in his life. He’d been so damned eager to put his dark past behind him, to start life over as a new man. The humiliating truth was that he’d been like a foolish puppy, annoying and pathetically eager for her new bride’s attention.
A sinful, needful bastard. No wonder Sylvia had found him tiresome.
His mama’s deathbed words had risen to haunt him. ’Tis the curse of the Tremont blood. Her beautiful, pious face etched by years of suffering, she’d whispered, All of you, beasts of excessive appetites. I’ve prayed for your soul, son. That you will not become a degenerate like your father.
At age twelve, he hadn’t understood her words. By the time he had, it’d been too late. His tainted blood had won out, the beast’s hungry presence pulsing within him. Yet despite everything, his heart had belonged to his wife. He couldn’t betray her, so he’d lived in limbo, wanting the woman he loved and knowing that she didn’t want him back.
Hell had been staring at the closed door between their bedchambers night after night. Sitting at the breakfast table, making polite conversation with his dutiful marchioness who despised his touch. Pretending to be happy for her sake and their son’s.
He would never put himself in that situation again. He knew what he was and the bitter futility of wanting what could never be his. In the unlikely event that he should remarry, he would base the match on things that might at least be attainable. Sexual compatibility. Honesty. There would be no talk of love or such other nonsense.
Even so, the first criterion made finding a suitable mate nigh impossible. How could one ascertain one’s sexual fit with another prior to marriage, after all? The kind of well-bred female he desired for a wife was not the sort of filly one could take for a test ride and decide whether to buy. You didn’t get to try out a potential bride to see if you could make each other happy in bed. And what were the chances that that could happen anyway? His own sexual tastes were dark, filthy, and likely to send any virgin into a dead faint.
So there it was. He wanted a gentle lady by his side, a submissive wanton in his marriage bed, and no complicating emotions between them. In other words, he wanted the moon, stars, and all the heavens in between.