“And what of your duties toward your husband?”
Willow brushed a wayward strand of hair from her face, suddenly pleased the reckless declaration had flown from her lips.
“What about them?”
A vein ticked in his jaw.
Willow shrugged. “You have made your point clear, as have I. I shall not neglect my duty to produce you an heir but neither shall I endure your huffing and puffing.”
“I do not huff and puff!” Clearly offended, he dragged his hand through his hair.
“Once I have confirmed your seed has not taken root, I shall decide if I wish to endure another night of your . . .” she shot him A Look, “erratic breathing or not.”
His eyes darkened, if that was at all possible. “You did more than endure, dear wife, you cried out in pleasure. And may I remind you, regular intercourse ensures a faster result,” he pointed out. “And I can show you just how much you enjoyed it, again and again.”
Heat pooled in her belly at the reminder. She wasn’t about to let slip just how much last night had rocked her world. Not when he was still thinking to deny her that experience.
“Perhaps, but that was before you awakened me to the pleasures of the flesh and then threatened to deny me, most cruel of you. So if I am not to enjoy the siring of your heir, neither shall you.”
His lips thinned.
Willow almost cracked a grin. She had the devil there. She meant it, too. Either he would change his rule or she would stick to hers. No small part of her hoped for the former.
“Besides, if your seed is as disciplined as you are,” she said with the jut of her chin, “no further intercourse is required.”
His eyes rolled over her in a sensual way, indicating he did not agree. She quickly quelled the sudden well of unbidden desire. Willow would not be intimidated or seduced by him. No matter that his low drawl stirred her senses to arousing life. She would maintain her composure.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I mean every word,” Willow declared.
A wicked smile curved his lips “Is this your way of seducing me? Driving me wild with want?”
“Of course you would see it as such. No one has ever defied your wishes, have they?”
He glared down at her.
“If you wanted a biddable wife, Ambrose, you should not have set your sights on a Middleton. A wallflower might have been more to your taste for I am not a woman who wilts under a man’s stern regard.”
“In the battle of wills, Willow, you will lose.”
Determination rose within her breast. “I suppose we shall see about that,” she murmured.
From nowhere, he tossed the latest newspaper on the bed. Willow hadn’t even realized he had it clutched in his hand. She drew the paper closer, reading the headline, printed in bold letters on the first page of the London Times.
The Duke of St. Ives marries the wrong Middleton.
Willow groaned. “That sounds about right,” she muttered, reading on. Why had she harbored the faintest of hope that the scandal would not be splashed on the first page of the newspapers?
In what might be considered the greatest deception in London’s aristocracy, one of the most powerful men in England was duped in a grand heathen wedding swap.
Well, Willow mused, it could hardly be a wedding swap if one of the parties walked away without a husband.
Though the duke seemed taken with his bride—even kissed her most ardently before the priest!—one has to wonder whether the Dowager’s fainting spell was due to her failing health or bearing witness to the stain of black taint spreading across her coveted family name.
Willow flinched.
“I see you agree with my sentiments,” the duke snatched the paper from her fingers. “It’s a rare pleasure to read the paper and see they refer to my wife as a heathen.”
