Her Convenient Husband's Return. Eleanor Webster
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Anger exploded like scalding water, pulsing through her veins, unpleasantly tangled with the fear she always felt when she considered the Duke.
She turned on Ren, hands tightened into fists. ‘Weren’t you even listening to me? These people, your tenants, are my friends. They will be kicked off land they’ve farmed for centuries. Or they will pay exorbitant rents so that they’re unable to feed their own children. I will feel gaunt faces, arms like sticks and the bellies of bloated babies. And I will know that the man who was once my friend and sort of husband is to blame.’
‘I am your friend and what sort of husband would you have me be?’
‘One that is not so—so self-righteous and honourable. You want to punish yourself because you are illegitimate. Fine, drink yourself into an early grave. Gamble yourself into oblivion, but don’t punish people far weaker than you and call it honour.’
* * *
Perhaps it was that cool disdain lacing the words she spat out as though they were noxious. Perhaps, for once, his anger could not be contained behind trite words and calm façade. Or maybe it was none of this but merely an impulsive, instinctive surge of lust.
His hands reached for her. He gripped her shoulders, pulling her tight, needing to feel her, to feel something. She stiffened, her shock palpable. Her hands pushed against his shoulders, ineffective like fluttering birds.
He didn’t care. Her futile movements fuelled the angry molten heat.
Her head moved, angling away as she twisted from him. He caught her lips, kissing her with a hard, punishing kiss.
Her fury met his own, her balled fists pushing him away.
Briefly, it was all fire and heat and rage. Then something changed. She no longer pushed against him; instead, her fists opened, her hands reaching upwards to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. Her clenched jaw relaxed, her lips parting as anger eased, morphing into something equally strong. His kiss gentled. Her fingers stretched across his back, winding into his hair. He held her tight to him, hands at the small of her back.
The anger, the pain, the hurt drained away, pushed aside by a growing, pulsing need. He had wanted this woman for ever—long before he had known about want or lust or need. And she was here now, warm, willing, pliable and giving beneath him. He explored the sweetness of her mouth, shifting her backwards, pushing her against the edge of his desk. He stroked the column of her neck, the smooth line of her spine, the curved roundness of her bottom under the soft muslin gown.
He wanted—he needed—to fill her, to find forgetfulness in physical release, to make her his own. He wanted her to cling to him, to need him and desire him and to forget that annulment was even a word.
One hand pushed at her neckline, forcing the cloth off her shoulder so that his fingers could feel her skin and the fullness of her breast. With growing urgency, his other hand pushed up at the fabric of her skirt, his hands feeling and stroking the stockings she wore over shapely legs.
She said his name.
Something fell.
He stilled. He stared down at her flushed cheeks, tousled hair and bodice half-undone.
Disgust rolled over him.
What, in the name of all that was good and holy, was he doing? He moved from her so suddenly that she almost lost her balance, striking the lamp.
It fell, splintering against the hearth.
‘Ren?’
Self-loathing mixed with frustrated need. She was not one of his doxies. She was not one of the women who populated his London life. Moreover, she had made it quite clear she wanted to end their pseudo-marriage, which could hardly be construed as an invitation to consummate their union.
‘It would seem indeed that, after all, my sense of honour is somewhat impaired,’ he said.
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