His words poured over her. He might never love her, but she couldn't continue to pretend that he didn't want her. She might not understand it, since she'd spent so long hating her own body, wishing her curves weren't so exaggerated, wanting longer legs or a smaller bottom. But her husband craved her body, and she would give it to him freely.
She lowered her head and kissed him. He gripped her bottom and slid her forward, pressing her even harder against him.
"Harriet," he groaned. He slid a hand up her torso to cup one breast. He lifted it, then brought it to his mouth.
She arched against him as he suckled and nibbled teasingly. Her sex slid against the hard ridge of him, and she cried out. She rubbed against him again and again while he laved kisses from one breast to the other. Pleasure tightened inside her, knotting in her core. Another stroke and the knot burst, jolting her with wave after wave of ecstasy.
Before she'd ridden out every last bit of her climax, he lifted her hips and plunged into her, sending her spiraling again.
"You're so wet for me, so tight. I knew it would be good with you, but damnation, Harriet, you feel too good."
He felt too good, too. She wanted to tell him, but the words died in her throat as he lifted her up and then slowly back down. Teasing and taunting, he moved inside her, and she knew another climax built. Gracious what this man did to her.
"Look at me, love," he said.
She met his gaze as he thrust deep inside her. This beautiful man was hers. Her heart swelled, and she knew no matter how long it took, she'd be here, loving him enough for them both.
Again and again he thrust, and the pleasure mounted. His thumb flicked against the tight bundle of nerves hidden in her folds, and lightning shot through her. She cried out his name and watched his eyes close as he poured his seed inside her.
Their union almost made up for the fact that he'd avoided her all day. Almost.
Chapter Seventeen
They had been at Brookhaven for nearly a week. Still she had heard nothing from Agnes or anyone else in London. Every day went much the same-they didn't see each other during the day, but at night he lit up her body. Then he'd leave her at some point after she'd fallen asleep; whether in her bed or his, he never stayed.
She hated that she wanted him to, that she longed to wake up with his large warm body pressed against hers. She wanted more than the pleasure-rocking intimacy they shared. But that was all he'd promised her.
Still, it did not stop her from seeking him out that day. She rapped her knuckles on the door to his bedchamber, but no one answered. She checked the door and it was unlocked, so she let herself inside. This was the first time she'd been in his massive room in the light of day. The sunlight from the window beamed in, spotlighting the architect's table sitting beneath it.
She stepped closer to the window, staring out at the forested area that backed up to the property. This very spot was where she'd want to sit to read or write letters or simply stare out at the beauty of the space. She understood why he chose it to do his own work.
Laying open atop the desk sat his sketchbook with a drawing he must have been working on, as it remained unfinished. It was a rough sketch of a large room with vaulted ceilings, paneled walls, and tables scattered about. Perhaps a project for his friend Benedict's gaming hell.
She turned the page and found a series of drawings of windows, different shapes and designs, just ideas tossed onto paper, but with such detail they were mesmerizing. The next page featured the same as before, only with archways. One drawing after another, sketched ideas that poured from his head. She had no idea he hid such a talent. She'd heard that he'd been the one responsible for the rebuilding of this house, but she'd never realized.
She turned one more page, and her breath caught. Staring back at her was her own face and her naked body. Heat swarmed to her cheeks, and she swallowed. In the image, she lounged on a settee, one arm gracefully arched above her head, her legs turned slightly and held together, but not enough to hide the triangle of curls between them. Her breasts looked heavy and lush, the curve of her waist and hip in perfect proportion. Not at all what she'd ever seen in the mirror when she looked upon her real body.
Was this how he saw her?
The woman in this picture was beautiful, desirable, seductive. She moved her finger down the curve of her illustrated arm. All of these drawings were done by his masterful hand. Pictures to do justice to the images in his mind. Certainly that meant that, despite what he'd told her brother, that he'd never love her, he must care something about her. This drawing spoke of more than simple desire. Just as he'd lovingly drawn the architectural details, he'd drawn her, too.
Hope bloomed in her chest. She grabbed the drawing and went in search of her husband. Perhaps there was love to be found in this marriage after all.
…
It didn't take her long to find him, in that small parlor where they'd stood with their mothers after he'd compromised her. He leaned as much as sat on a stool behind the drawing table, his hand working furiously over a piece of paper. Is this what he spent his days away from her doing?
His eyes lifted and met hers. The blue of them pierced into her. How was it possible for eyes to be that color? A silver-blue that defied creation.
"Harriet," he said with a nod. "I trust you slept well."
She blushed and wondered at what point would she stop having such reactions to him. "I did. Thank you."
"Good." Polite and cool, not the passionate heat he brought to her at night. "Did you need something?" He motioned to the paper she held at her side.
"I found this." She bit down on her lip, realizing that she'd been prying into his private belongings. "That is, I was exploring the house and entered your bedchamber. I found your sketches."
He nodded. "Some of them."
"I'm sorry?"
"It matters not." He pointed to the one in her hand. "You wanted to ask me about one in particular?"
She swallowed and stepped forward. She set the paper down on the desk in front of him. Her naked form stared up between them. Her breathing shallowed.
"It does not do you justice. I realized that, after I saw you in all your glory." He picked up the paper. "The curve of your legs is wrong; your breasts are so much fuller, and your nipples are more upturned than this."
Realized after he'd seen her … "You drew this before?"
"Weeks ago." His heavy gaze fell on her.
"Oh."
"I can throw it out, and the rest of them, if you'd like. I can't ever seem to do you justice."
"There are more?"
His lips quirked. He dug through the sketchpad beneath his hands and pulled out three more drawings. Each of her, different poses, different state of dress, but mostly without clothes. All painfully beautiful. She reached out to touch them but pulled back.
"You could recreate the pose there." He motioned to the leather settee behind her. "I could try to capture your body on paper, though I seriously doubt my talent."
"That's not necessary. And please don't toss them out. They're lovely. I've never seen myself like that."
His brows rose. "You've never looked at yourself unclothed?"
She shook her head. "That's not what I meant. The way you see me, it is unexpected." These drawings of her were made with artistic skill, but something more. Why couldn't she simply say it? Why couldn't she come right out and ask him. Do you love me? Will you ever be able to love me?
"You shouldn't be so surprised, Harriet. I told you I wanted you, that you were desirable. You are a beautiful woman. Hasn't anyone ever told you that?" He stepped around the desk, leaned against it, and pulled her to him.
"I don't know. Not that I recall, except for my parents."
He dropped a kiss on her lips, slow and languid and full of heat. Desire prickled through her, and she clung to him, wanting more, wanting whatever he gave her. "Well, that is truly a shame. I shall endeavor to remind you of that fact on a regular basis."
Yes. She could get used to hearing him say such things. "Greedy," she whispered. Though, this time, it wasn't an insult.
He chuckled. "Yes, I am greedy. I've never wanted anything or anyone the way that I want you. One kiss is not enough. One night in your bed is not enough. I want you always, beside me, beneath me, atop me. All of you."
She'd been thinking about herself, the greed he brought out in her, but his words stole her breath.
"My Harriet cup is never full; there is always room for more. I will never get my fill of you. Do you understand?"
She closed her eyes and heard every word, felt them as she saw the raw emotion in his face. His desire was true and authentic. She couldn't deny that. Still, he had made no mention of his heart or hers. Love was not what he offered, and it is what she wanted, craved. She was his wife now, so there was no leaving. But could her love sustain them both, or would she end up resenting him and hating herself?