Chapter 8
Michael wanted to take back the words as soon as he said them. Everything was so perfect here in the dark with Cecilia—his wife, the wife he never thought he wanted. But his words of pleasing her called up in his mind the sensuous slide of her clothing from her body. He could imagine touching her, the erotic thrill of her telling him what pleased her. He barely kept himself from pressing into her from behind, trying to find relief and delicious pleasure.
But she would pull away. She was angry that he disturbed her perfect little world, perhaps even frightened of all the changes. He knew it was easier for her to be in control than to let emotions overwhelm her.
But she didn’t pull away, only stared at him in the window with a faintly curious look. Maybe she didn’t even understand the double meaning of his words.
“What romantic words please me?” she murmured, sounding confused, turning her head to the side as if she could no longer look at him.
The fall of her golden hair was like a curtain drawn across the classic beauty of her face, with its slanted cheekbones, the sultry mouth made to form to a man’s—to form to his.
“What else should I have written?” He had to whisper, afraid to trust his voice. He didn’t want to sound harsh and frighten her when it was taking every ounce of his control not to draw her back against him, to cup her breasts, to part her gown. She was wearing so very little, and all of it of the finest silk. He could see her nipples, hard for him, though she might not realize it.
“You could tell me about the nautch girls,” she said.
He glanced back at her face in surprise.
“A long time ago, I was at the court of a rajah,” she murmured. “I remember little of it except feeling ... captivated by their dancing.”
He inhaled the warm scent of her and closed his eyes. “I would write that their beauty was nothing to yours, even in their jewels and glittering fabric. Their long scarves of gold floating about them in time to their dancing would be dim in comparison to your hair.”
When she said nothing, he murmured, “How was that?”
“Adequate,” she said after a long pause.
He was still moving his hands slowly up and down her arms, could feel the faint sway of her body, saw her eyes half closed as she succumbed to the magic of the moonlight and their nearness to one another.
He wasn’t certain, but he didn’t think she’d ever been touched, ever been kissed—or maybe he just wanted to believe that she’d saved even the first caress for her husband.
But that couldn’t be true, not with a half dozen proposals. He knew every other man who beheld her must have succumbed to the same dazed longing. But it wasn’t just her beauty—he admired her determination, her belief in herself, the very intelligence that let her stand toe to toe with any man.
He leaned closer, felt the strands of her hair against his face as he imagined baring her throat for his kiss. He inhaled deeply, smelling warm woman, fragrant with something exotic, as if she’d brought it back from the Far East.
He let his hands drift lower down her arms, no longer knowing what he meant to do. He encircled her wrists with his fingers, wanting to draw her arms up so that her head would fall back against him, that long, supple hair spill down his body—
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
He froze, hearing a thread of unease in her voice. He couldn’t express his lustful thoughts—not without frightening her. His mind scrambled and latched on to the first thing he remembered—the thing that had haunted him all afternoon and evening.
“I can’t forget your near escape today. I feel like I need to make certain nothing is broken.”
Very slowly, he released her wrists, then silently cursed as she straightened and moved away from the lure of the moon and the apparent threat of his body. She touched the locket at her throat as if for comfort. He stood still for a moment, eyes closed, breathing deeply, evenly, calming himself, as he had such practice doing—although usually for a very different reason than the ache of pleasure thwarted. He told himself that this was promising, that Cecilia wasn’t immune to him, that perhaps she might come to realize staying married to him was the best thing for her.
She stood indecisively in the middle of her own bedroom, as if she didn’t know where it was safe to go. Her gaze hastily avoided the four-poster bed, with its luxuriant hangings meant for warmth but so intriguing when used for privacy. The counterpane had been turned down, the pillows plumped, already bearing the indentation of her body.
He began to perspire, never imagining what a fine line he’d walk, trying to get close to his skittish wife.
She rubbed her arms almost absently, as if she didn’t quite remember what he’d done to her. “I’m fine,” she said too firmly. “It was only an accident.”
“I don’t like to imagine a woman in danger.”
She turned then and studied him with an earnestness that caught him by surprise. He didn’t know what she was looking for but remained transfixed in her spell, off balance. And then he realized he didn’t have his cane. He had to look for it, so he didn’t further damage his leg by letting it collapse underneath him.
“It’s leaning against the window frame,” she finally told him, as if reading his mind.
He heard the faint amusement in her voice, and something in him relaxed. “I had no memory of where I put it. I think I was trapped in your notion of romantic letters when I set it down.” He reached for it, then knew what he must do. “I’ll bid you good night then.”
“Good night,” she murmured, even as she turned away.
