Unforgivable(50)

His eyes were open, as were hers. There was a fraction of a second when she might have pushed him away; when he might have pulled back. His pride warred with his desire and lost resoundingly when he saw excitement flicker in her eyes.

He let himself take what he wanted.

At first, her mouth was immobile beneath his. Not resistant but cool and still. He moved his lips over hers, plucking at her mouth coaxingly, drawing her lips into the shape of the kiss, persuading her to meet his desire. Gradually, he felt her mouth begin to move, becoming as pliable as warmed wax. She began to kiss him back, tentatively at first, and then her mouth opened with a sigh, and she tilted her head farther back, giving him access to her lips, her mouth, her throat.

With a groan, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her body up against his. Lord, but she felt good, familiar and intoxicatingly feminine. As he pulled her even closer, she wound her arms around his neck, fractionally deepening the kiss, and all he could think was, at last. She was in his arms again, and it felt so right and so easy. Everything else, all the lies and the history between them, melted away. And now there was just this, this closeness, her soft mouth under his and her pliant body in his arms. And soon there would be more. He thought about taking her here, on the desk. He might not trust her, but he wanted her with a relentless ache that demanded satisfaction.

Even as he ground his hips against her, his rational mind thought, No, not like this. She was his wife, after all. The least he could do was to make love to her in a bed.

Reluctantly, he lifted his mouth from hers, and she opened her eyes dreamily as though waking from a deep sleep. She blinked at him.

“Shall we go to your chamber?” he asked, smiling.

Something happened to her eyes. They seemed to go flat. The dreamy look left her, and she stared at him in silence. His exuberance fell abruptly away. She lowered her arms from his neck and stepped back a pace, breaking his gentle hold on her. A moment ago, she had felt like part of him. Now they were apart again.

“Yes, of course,” she said in a cool voice. “You might have done before if you wished. You are my husband—I’ll hardly deny you.”

Her grudging acceptance stung.

“Very well,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll come to you tonight.”

He turned and walked back to the chair behind the desk, back to his account books. But Rose did not leave.

“I thought you meant that you wanted to come to my bedchamber now.” Her cheeks were flushed with what looked like mingled embarrassment and anger.

“You are my husband—I’ll hardly deny you.”

Those words had killed his passion as surely as a bucket of cold water. The thought of her tolerating him was horrifying. He wanted her to desire him, as he desired her.

Even as these thoughts clamoured to be spoken aloud, it felt as though they were stuck in his throat. He stared at Rose for several moments, on the cusp of blurting it all out, but he couldn’t do it. The habits his father had taught him were too ingrained to do anything other than shove his feelings behind the dam of his pride. And so, in the end all he said was, “Tonight will be fine.”

His gaze lingered long enough to see her flush deepen to crimson before he turned back to the ledgers, staring unseeingly at the columns of numbers until Rose finally turned and left the room.





Chapter Fourteen

When Gil went down to the drawing room before dinner that evening, he found Harriet sitting quietly by the fire, embroidering. She looked up at his entrance and smiled at him, setting her sewing aside.

“Well now,” she said, sounding pleased.

“Cousin,” he murmured. It was the first time he’d been alone with Harriet since the day he’d arrived. He’d been rather hoping to avoid an interview with her, having had one or two rather frank letters from her over the last few years which he suspected she might want to reprise verbally. He remembered those letters still, the measured, reasonable words of censure.

“Gilbert,” she began. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are taking Rose back to London with you. I don’t pretend to understand how things are between you…” She hesitated awkwardly. “I sense some strain between you still, but I’m sure that, given time, you will make a good marriage of it.”

“I certainly hope so,” he replied. He tried to look remote, but it was difficult to be remote with a woman who had dandled one on her knee in infancy. She did not appear to be put off by his distant tone.

“Rose is such a special young woman,” she went on, clasping her hands together earnestly. “I hope you realise what a treasure you have in her, my dear.”