Page 29 of The Wicked Duke's Convenient Bride
Lord Mayhew chuckled. “I think you know, dear.”
Tabitha smiled sweetly. “Mr Richardson shows what the world is like for women,” she explained. “All Miss Clarissa Harlowe wants to do is live a single life and be charitable. She is so very good and would do amazing things if it were not for every man in her life trying to control her.”
Matthew could not really disagree with that.
“Well said,” Lady Mayhew replied.
Tabitha and her parents seemed to have a rather close relationship, Matthew reflected. He looked back at the stage, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Perhaps it would behove him to learn a little more about Tabitha. It might dispel some of the awkwardness between them, and it was not as though he wanted his wife to detest him while he awaited Rosemary’s return.
Because as loathe as he was to admit it, Tabitha was his wife at the moment. He ought to treat her like one, and it was unkind of him to make her bear the brunt of all his guilt and frustration of being so close, yet so far, from Rosemary.
The play continued, and Tabitha and her parents grew a little quieter. It was unclear if their subdued conversation was because they were also engrossed in the play or if they realized he preferred silence and were trying to accommodate his desires.
Halfway through the play, he realized that Tabitha had not spoken for some time. He glanced at her fair face, trying to read her expression. She appeared … strange. Unsettled, he decided. Matthew glanced at the stage where the shrew Katherina was agreeing to marry Petruchio, a rather disagreeable and foolish man.
Matthew remembered the earlier question, spoken in jest, about if this play—about an unconventional woman being cruelly tamed by her husband—was intentional. Tabitha had laughed at the joke, but he wondered if, upon further reflection, she had seen something of a parallel between herself and Katherina.
“Tabitha,” he murmured.
She tilted her head towards him, indicating that she heard. Unthinking, Matthew placed a hand on her knee, rubbing careful circles with his thumb. The fine silk of her gown was soft and sleek beneath his fingers. He remembered her pet name of Tabby Cat and smiled to himself. Matthew turned his head, and she met his gaze. The flickering candlelight gave her skin a warm glow and emphasized the fine structure of her face. Her cheekbones and thin nose were thrown into sharp contrast, and he drew in a shuddering breath. She was so lovely.
He swallowed hard and drew his hand further up, resting his open palm against her thigh. Tabitha’s lips parted slightly, and her eyes were wide. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, sounding a little breathless.
That single word sent a jolt to his groin, and he stifled a groan. He watched her face as he leaned closer—concealing the movement of his hand from her parents—and let his hand drift to the inside of her thigh, his fingers sweeping over the silk skirts of her gown. Tabitha bit her lip and turned her attention to the stage.
“I hope I am not distracting you from the performance,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You seemed somewhat distressed.”
“Only by how poorly Petruchio is as an actor,” she said.
“I had not noticed,” he replied. “I suppose my attention was elsewhere.”
She tensed beneath his hand, and he smiled. It was difficult to see with the dim light, but he thought that he saw colour rise to her face. Certainly, her breathing became quicker. He saw readily the quickening rise and fall of her chest, the tops of Tabitha’s fine breasts straining against the material of her gown.
“Was it?” she asked. “Would you like me to explain what is happening on stage?”
“No, I am familiar enough with how the play progresses.”
Her parents and his mother were still seated behind them; he remembered that with a jolt of frustration. If he and Tabitha were alone, he could have done so much more. The box was dimly lit, and most of the theatre’s patrons were engaged in their own conversations or by the spectacle on stage.
If it were only he and Tabitha, he could have hitched up the skirts of her gown and slipped his hand beneath them. He could have trailed his fingers up her thigh with agonizing slowness until Tabitha squirmed beneath him and fought to contain her moans of pleasure.
He could have caressed between her folds and coaxed her into an orgasm there in the theatre, and he was willing to wager that no one would notice. Matthew withdrew his hand, trying to ignore the tightness of his trousers. Maybe he ought to finally join Tabitha in the marriage bed more fully.
“I fear I was wrong,” Tabitha said, her voice strained. “You have distracted me, Matthew.”
She pressed her thighs together, and a slow grin crept over Matthew’s face. There was no denying how flustered Tabitha was. She was probably glowing as brightly as an ember, and he was tempted to caress her face to feel the tell-tale heat rising on her cheeks.
He could not. If he did, he might be unable to refrain from insisting that the two of them leave at once and hasten to the nearest secluded place, which would likely be his coach. That was not exactly the romantic rendezvous that Tabitha imagined for their consummation.
He should not be thinking about consummating any marriage. Matthew knew that. But something about the theatre and that look on Tabitha’s face awakened all the desire and longing he had built up over a decade of monk-like chastity, waiting for Rosemary to return to him. Here was a young woman right before him, in the full bloom of her youth, and she responded so eagerly to his touch that it left him nearly breathless.
“I shall try to be less distracting,” he said. “This play is no Titus Andronicus, but I imagine you enjoy the witty dialogue.”
“As do you,” she replied. “I am certain of it.”
Her tone was difficult to determine. Matthew felt strangely uneven, unsure what this was now. It felt almost heated, the same way that his hand had felt on her thigh, and a shiver of excitement traced the path of his spine. This woman was going to drive him to madness. He knew that more than he knew anything else in the world.
