The Rake Enraptured (22 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY

Ah, but love was a bitter thing. Colin sat at his desk, bowed, fingers driven deep into his hair.

He remembered all too well what it was like to be the object of another's obsession. To be followed and languished over endlessly. He had found it deeply repe
llent. Three times he had been the recipient of such unwanted fervor. It had alienated him, made his skin crawl, so eventually he went out of his way to avoid the women who adored him to the point of fixation.

Yet never once had he loved a woman beyond war
m affection.

Now he was the obsessive one. The irony of it was not lost on him.

He dreaded seeing that look come into her face, of revulsion. He had watched her so carefully, and never seen it, until this past hour when she drove him away. Then, that look in her eyes - had that been it? During the two weeks of their honeymoon he thought she was learning to love him too. She had married him, after all. That was surely proof of more than mere tolerance from a woman who had declared affection was important to her. At first he wondered if it was his wealth and physical appeal that had tempted her, once he proved he could be constant. He knew she desired him. A woman could make a choice like that and no one would think the worst of her. In fact, it was a triumph.

Yet he wanted her love.

Then she had been surprised by the London house. It was only one of his properties, not even the most impressive. Had she not studied him more carefully to be sure of his substance? She had such a practical streak. She had time, during the period of the reading of the banns, between their engagement and marriage. Time to make a study of his background to be certain her choice was right.

She had not. She was surprised by evidence of his wealth.

It made him hope beyond anything, that she had made a decision with her heart. In that same moment she had called him a prize. He could still see her face as she said it, absently, as if it were obvious.

To him it had been a revelation. She was so calm, so composed, when she was not annoyed at
him for his baiting. Yet she thought of him as a prize.

If there was anyone who knew how to cozen a woman, surely it was he? He set to it with determination, to be the perfect companion, and at night, the perfect lover. If nothing else he knew his own wort
h in the bedroom. He had made amends for his embarrassing lapse on the day of their wedding. Time and again he had proved to her he could be patient, bring her pleasure and delay his own, drive her from thought with physical delight. She was so deeply, purely passionate, a true gift, and he was certain with time he could prove his worth to her, and make her love him.

Yet she withdrew. Slowly, imperceptibly she pulled back from him. Stopped meeting him halfway, stopped laughing and playing. She grew quiet an
d composed.

He could not understand her. He, who had conquered so many women when the prize meant so little to him, could not win his own wife.

The dignity she had always carried with her had become a palpable force, now. She wore those new gowns of hers and carried herself with such composure she drew attention wherever they went. By God, she made him proud that she was his.

Yet she did not play with him as she had those brief, too brief bright days in the little house in the snow.

Was it London itself? Perhaps he should take her away again, to one of the country estates. Perhaps she would be as she had been: a woman falling in love. His woman, falling in love with him.

But she was near her beloved grandmother here. And she wanted this life, wanted the succ
ess that was slowly growing. He had promised he would give it to her. He could not selfishly snatch it away again, only because she did not love him the way he wanted her to.

Time. He would give her time. And space. She no doubt grew bored with him now, as
she had with the little house. Some distance would improve things. He did not need to go with her everywhere. He could busy himself with attending lectures, studying modern farming techniques, here in London with his peers - some of the most knowledgeable men in the world when it came to the subject. He could let her enjoy the City without having to always entertain him. Truly he liked her company beyond anyone else's, but she was used to being more solitary.

He had oppressed her. It was hardly her fault s
he grew impatient with him.

He would let her go her own way, even if it was painful - he measured the
sensation in his chest like a twist of anguish, and found it bearable - yes she could have the space she had asked for. That was a reasonable request.

He would give it to her.
He must never, never see that look in her eyes become weary disgust.

For that would break his heart.

This feeling was damnably familiar. He had spent six months feeling like this, had thought if he could only have his beloved Julia as his wife, he need never feel like this again.

Instead it was worse. Worse to know exactly how it felt to have her smile at him, laugh up at him while she hel
d his arm and pressed her breast against it. Worse to go everywhere and see and hear things he wished to share with her, and have to hold himself back from seeking her out to share them. Worse to know what it was like to tell someone what he really, truly thought of something and see her nod thoughtfully, and then open her mouth to say something wise or insightful or amusing or irreverent. Worse to know exactly, precisely, maddeningly what it felt like to slide deeply inside her and have her tighten around him and call out a soft welcome.

He was mad for her.

He stared at the panels of her bedroom door. The night was still. It was three in the morning, and she had been home since midnight. He had heard her come in. Now the whole house slept.

It had been a wee
k, since he had made that promise to himself. But she had not sought him out, or asked for him to accompany her anywhere. She was usually out for dinner, or he was. Once she came into the library when he was there, and he was careful not to watch her. She moved about the room, examined the books, walked twice past his desk, but he kept his head down and wrote nonsense in his ledger, an entire page of it he later tore out. Finally she selected a book and left the room. When she was gone he went to the shelf and inspected the space she had left.

He was certain it was a book of the Reverend Matthew Caulder's Sermon's and Country Contemplations, since volumes one and three stood either side of the gap. He went back to his desk and viewed the page he had written
with disgust, then sat and gazed at the ceiling for a good half an hour before rousing himself to continue with his work.

Now he stared at her bedroom door.

It was not as though she had barred him from her room. This was more in the nature of a self-imposed exile, for the sake of harmony. There would be no harm in a brief interruption. Though perhaps best of all if he did not announce himself, but made sure of his welcome before she woke.

He slipped silently into her room. He could hear her heavy breathing.
She was a sound sleeper. Carefully he stripped naked, folded back the covers and eased his body down, leaving some space between them. Then he reached out a hand and laid it on her flank. She did not stir. Her body was turned away from him, the spill of her hair a dark shadow on her pillow. He came closer still, an inch at a time, flinching with pleasure as his erection brushed her back, moving it beneath the curve of her bottom so he could come closer, could wrap around her lightly, her back to his chest, her bottom in his lap and the back of her thighs against the front of his. She was curled up, and he curled around her and rested there for a moment, enjoying the rightness of it, her small form, warm from sleep, within the shelter of his body.

He fel
t very tender of her, very protective.

With his fingertips he lightly traced the curve of her shoulder. She sighed, and shifted slightly, pressing against him. His erection twitched in eager response, nestled in the cleft between her thighs, and he closed
his eyes for a moment and breathed deep against the pleasure of it. The fragrance of her neck, her hair, was in his nose, a light, sweet smell, infinitely alluring. He stroked his hand over her chest to cup the slight weight of one breast, felt the nipple tighten against his palm. She took a deep breath, and her bottom moved again, the tiniest slide of devastating friction.

He held his breath. Slowly, slowly released it.

Good God, how he wanted her.

He trailed his fingertips down the center of her bell
y, over her hip, the outer curve of her thigh, then beneath her bottom to where the sweet folds of her were exposed. He kissed her neck, as he slid those fingers glancingly across her sensitive flesh. She murmured and stretched, thrusting herself into his hand. He followed the motion, eased his fingers deeper, a delicate exploration until he found that small center of pleasure, minute and fragile. She quivered and parted her legs, rolled a little forward into the mattress to give him better access, arching her back.

She murmured again. Had she woken?

But she said nothing, only shifted in languorous rhythm beneath his touch.

With his other hand he lifted his erection to press the blunt head of it on her, the slick feel of her blissful as he moved it back and
forth in that delectable cleft in her body, that tempting entrance to heaven.

She pushed back against him, a wordless questing, and he felt the subtle catch of flesh almost entering flesh, warm and wet and welcoming. So quickly she was ready for him. Had h
e caught her dreaming of this?

He did not enter, gri
tted his teeth to find the self-control, and only teased her. She was very sensitive there, he knew. Knew the feeling of his body there, so close, could drive her wild with wanting him. For long minutes he laid there, fingers and erection stroking her, in a torment of want, and feeling her grow ever wetter.

Then there came the moment when she rolled towards him, eyes still closed but mouth seeking his, hands outstretched. She touched him, clasped him greed
ily and slung one leg over his hip, and her mouth was open on his, her breasts pushing against his chest and she had him just inside her again at the moment he was truly certain she woke.

She did not stop, only held him harder, commanding his presence
inside her. He fitted them together with one hard stroke, inside her to the hilt, his hands squeezing her buttocks as he strained to get nearer to her. She moaned and clutched at his shoulders, his back, and he rolled so he was over her. He would have propped his weight off her but she held him too tight, so there could be no space between them, and a moment later he felt the subtle inner clenching of her orgasm drawing on him.

He kissed her, hungrily, demanding acknowledgment, and she sucked his tongue and
shuddered and bit him lightly so he groaned and felt his own release, too quick but more powerful than he could restrain, roll over him in darkness and thunder. His Julia. His wife, beneath him and he inside her, her arms tight and her legs wrapped around him. His Julia.

Immediately he turned, taking her with him so he lay on his back and she on him, not wanting to crush her but not ready - nor anywhere near it - to let her go. She lay there, face buried against his
chest, and for a moment he thought she shook with aftershocks. Then he heard a small sob.

"Sweetheart? Julia? What is it?" he asked, smoothing her hair behind her ear, trying to see her face. She kept her chin down.

"Nothing. Oh, nothing. I'm just being stupid. Don't mind me."

"What is it? Tell me."

"Nothing at all."

"It must be something."

"Don't nag at me."

That silenced him, and he lay there, stiff, feeling her rise and fall with his indrawn breath. He lifted his hand, that had been savoring the tight curve of her bottom. She
pulled back onto her knees, head averted, then climbed off the bed. He watched her go.

"You and your rules," he said bitterly, without meaning to open his mouth. She did not respond, her back still to him. That proud, stiff back. He found himself speaking
, if only to fill the waiting silence. "Don't nag. Don't watch me. Leave me alone." He wanted her to turn, to talk to him. She did not. "Be good. Be sober and Godly and prudent and hardworking." He got off the bed to and stood by the foot of it. "Contribute."

"I never told you to be all that," she said, very low.

"
Stop being such a waste
," he said, and his tone was an accusation. Still she did not turn, the silhouette of her barely perceptible in the darkness. "Give up your decadent life. Be faithful and chaste and all the things I-"

"So you don't wish to be faithful?"

"Damn it, Julia, I-"

"You miss the philandering."

"That isn't what I'm saying. But you want to change a man from what he is without loving him, to keep him like a pet in a cage and feed him only tidbits-"