Page 80 of His Duchess of Scandal
He shrugged. “We were forced into a marriage that neither of us wanted. I wanted to care for her, but I did not, and she did notcare for me. She was cold but not cruel, and I admit our marriage was probably colder than winter. But that is often the case with arranged matches, I suppose. We each had a role to play.”
“And her… her death?”
“She went to visit an aunt. It was something she did frequently—likely to escape our marriage—but she contracted an illness aboard the inbound ship. Phoebe was only three; she does not recall her. And while Mercy was not a woman I loved, she was still a lady who died too young. Phoebe deserved a mother, and she never got one. Not truly.”
“I am sorry,” Hermia whispered. “I—” Her voice cracked. “I know what it is like to lose somebody too young.”
Charles eyed her curiously, but there were no tears in her eyes, only a harder set to her jaw as she gazed at him.
Heavens, those eyes. They stirred something deep within him, something that he knew would burn if he dared touch it, and yet…
Yet hewantedto.
“Phoebe has you now,” he said, trying to distract himself. “She has the mother figure she has always needed, and you have been excellent both to and with her.”
“And what about you?” He wasn’t prepared for how quiet her voice would be, nor the question. “What have you got, Charles?”
His eyes bored into hers, and he felt that flame lick higher and higher, burrowing deeper in him.
He suppressed a shiver. He knew the shape of her lips beneath his, the taste of her tongue, the way her body twisted in pleasure.
Why was one night not enough? Why could he not douse these flames?
“I have got a wife who shatters every ounce of control I possess,” he whispered.
And then he kissed her.
This time, Hermia didn’t stiffen in surprise. She let out a moan, muffled by his mouth as he pulled her into a deeper kiss. His hand cupped her neck lightly, sliding up to the back of her head, keeping her close.
He heard—hefelt—the hitch in her breath as his teeth sank into her lower lip. He kissed her, letting his tongue slide over her lips to coax them open. He groaned quietly as he kneeled over her, and she tipped her head up.
Heavens, he could devour her whole if only she said the word.
Charles pulled back, knowing how wrecked he must have looked if it was anything like her.
He barely gave himself a moment to watch her chest rise and fall, to hear her panting breaths. His lips crashed back into hers the next moment, his fingers already tangling in her hair. Her fingernails scraped through his beard, her breath stuttering into his mouth.
Charles’s other hand moved to the laces on the back of her dress.
He no longer cared about pretenses. He wanted her bare beneath him. He wanted to taste her. He wanted to bury himself inside her until she washed away every conflicted thought.
“Have mercy on me, Hermia, for I cannot take this any longer,” he groaned between kisses. “I cannot deny wanting you any longer.”
His control was a thread long snapped.
Her hand fell to his shirt, which still clung to his skin. He shivered as her palms roved over his shoulders, sliding down his chest, dancing along the waistband of his breeches. She undid two buttons, lost in the tangle of his tongue and mouth, before she pulled back—away.
Charles would have done foolish things just to feel her hand on his bare chest.
“We—” Her voice quivered. “We should not.”
The fire in him was slow to ebb, but he let it.
He nodded slowly. “You are right. Phoebe is in the next room.”
Hermia’s cheeks flushed a pink so deep he wished he could kiss it. He lifted his hand to her face, feeling the heat of her skin.
“It really is best not to.”
