“Perhaps you ought to ask,” Matthew suggested, finishing his second glass of brandy.
He was beginning to feel a little better, the world taking on a soft and pleasant veneer. His mother sighed. “As you wish,” she said, “but do talk to her. Please.”
“I will.”
And he would. No, it would probably not be that night, but she was his wife, after all. He could not avoid her forever, so eventually, they would need to talk and discuss what had transpired between them. It would probably be a very unpleasant conversation when it happened.
Matthew reached for another glass as his mother swept across the room to comfort—or confront—Miriam. He felt, through the slowly drifting fog of the drink, like his life was far more complicated and contradictory than any man’s had a right to be.
Chapter 21
The next few days mainly passed in silence, the ice between Tabitha and her husband so palpable that it seemed to permeate the very atmosphere of their shared townhouse. She spoke to him only if necessary, and he did the same with her. Neither idle nor joyful words were exchanged between them, and although the near silence felt like a knife twisting in Tabitha’s ribs, she made no effort to engage in further conversation with her husband. It was quite obvious that he was not inclined to listen to her.
As they prepared for bed, they did not face one another. Tabitha had thought about sleeping in her own room over the past few days, but she had not. Matthew had not asked her to leave, and she would not be the one to accept defeat.
Besides, a petty part of her wanted to be close to him so he would be constantly reminded of his rash behaviour. She had done nothing untoward, and he had chosen to neither believe nor listen to her explanations.
Matthew cleared his throat. “Tabitha.”
She glanced at him. “Yes?”
“I am sorry,” he said gruffly. “If you desire Cassius, it was not my place to chastise you for it. I told you that this would be a marriage of convenience and that we ought to live separate lives. It is hardly fair of me to say such things and keep changing my mind.”
“But I do not want Cassius,” Tabitha said.
Matthew’s shoulders tensed, and Tabitha watched him for a long moment. When, at last, he turned to look at her, his eyes were heated with a familiar intensity. “Truly?” he asked.
Tabitha slowly nodded. “I did still desire Cassius,” she said, “At first. I longed for his affection and presence more than anything in the world. But that does not change the fact that you are my husband, whom I swore to be faithful to. You married me when I faced a terrible scandal while Cassius fled for the Continent.”
“I should have been more understanding,” Matthew said. “How could I be so unkind when I wed you, knowing that Rosemary so consumed my thoughts? Knowing how much I missed her? It was a foolish and impulsive action.”
He turned then and took her in his arms. Tabitha knew she ought to tell him what Cassius had revealed to her. She should have told him already, but neither of them had spoken to one another. Perhaps Tabitha’s stubborn pride insisted that she must say nothing. She could not be the one to break their uncomfortable, unspoken agreement of iciness. Now, she should tell him; she should not keep secrets from him.
But she felt so warm and safe encircled in his arms, and as she inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne, she felt everything inside her become warm and pliant. She had missed his closeness and easy affection and wanted to be selfish for a little longer. If she told him about what Cassius had said, it would be like the beginning. It would be Matthew hoping for Rosemary, a woman whom Tabitha could never hope to match.
“You are my wife,” Matthew murmured, his lips pressing against her neck. “And I love you.”
The declaration sent her reeling. He loved her? Surely, he did not mean it. Surely, Matthew was only speaking sweet words to her because he felt she wanted to hear them, but still, his hands were warm and strong as he traced over her waist and hips. She pressed herself more insistently against him and let her fingertips trace over the hard muscles of his upper back.
He took great handfuls of her nightgown and pulled the garment off her, baring Tabitha to the coldness of the room. She scarcely noticed for Matthew was on her at once, kissing and stroking her everywhere with a sort of feverish devotion. Tabitha felt as if she were glowing, her world a hazy blur of pleasant sensations.
She fell backwards onto the bed and curled her fingers into the fine linens of the bed. Matthew stroked the inside of her thighs and kissed her stomach. Tabitha felt that familiar, welcome ache spread dully at her core.
“My duchess,” Matthew murmured, lips pressing against her hip. “My sweet wife.”
Tabitha swallowed. He so seldom called her either of those things.
He drew up his shirt, exposing his hard shaft, and gently pressed himself inside her. Tabitha arched her back and groaned, savouring the slow feeling of being filled. They fell into an easy, common rhythm. It was pleasant and even, and Tabitha felt her release curl tighter and tighter inside her.
She found her bliss soon and let herself lie, pleasantly used and sated, against the bed. A heartbeat later, Matthew also found his release. He rolled onto his back and lay beside her. A roguish smile twitched at his lips, and Tabitha felt her breath quicken just a little.
“That was pleasant,” Matthew said.
It had been.
“It is certainly a rather agreeable part of our marriage,” Tabitha said, unable to help smiling herself. “I am glad that I did not—that I have only ever experienced such passions with you.”
“Are you?”
