A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 50
“Mmm. Alice told me that you do not sleep here.” She tried to sit up, the fur and the feather bed making the movement difficult, and Michael watched as the edge of her nightgown slipped, devastatingly, beautifully, down the slope of one bare breast. “You are always so silent, Michael. Do you try to intimidate me?”
He willed his voice calm. “Do I intimidate you?”
“Sometimes. But not right now.”
She crawled toward him, kneeling in front of him on the bed, one knee pulling the fabric taut, and Bourne found himself praying that her night rail would fall an inch more . . . half an inch. Just enough to bare one of her perfect pink ni**les.
He shook off the thought. He was a man of thirty, not a boy of twelve. He had seen plenty of br**sts in his day. He did not need to lust after his wife, swaying before him, testing the strength of her nightgown’s fabric and his sanity, all at once.
Indeed, he had not returned in a fit of lust. He’d returned because he was angry. Angry at her for nearly marrying Tommy. For not telling him the truth.
She broke into his thoughts, and he caught her by the waist to steady her. “I am sorry that I am not perfect.”
Right now, the only thing imperfect about her was the fact that she was clothed.
“What makes you say that?”
“We were married today,” she said. “Or perhaps you do not remember?”
“I remember.” She was making it impossible to forget.
“Really? Because you left me.”
“I remember that, too.” He had returned, ready to consummate the marriage. Ready to claim her as his and eliminate any doubt that they were married, that Falconwell was his.
That she was his. His, and not Tommy’s.
“Brides do not expect to be left on their wedding night, Michael.” He did not reply, and she brazened on, raising her hands to his arms, clutching him through layers of clothing. “We do not like it. Especially when you forgo an evening with us for one with your . . . raven-haired beauty.”
She wasn’t making sense. “Who?”
She waved a hand. “They’re always raven-haired, the ones who win . . .”
“Who win what?”
She was still talking. “ . . . It doesn’t matter if she’s raven-haired or not, really. It just matters that she exists. And I don’t like it.”
“I see,” he said. She thought he’d been with another woman? Perhaps if he’d been with another woman, he would not be here, wanting her so much.
“I don’t think you do see, actually.” She wavered, watching him carefully. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No.” He at least knew that was the correct answer.
“Shall I tell you what else brides do not like on their wedding night?”
“By all means.”
“We do not like to sit at home. Alone.”
“I imagine that goes with not liking being left.”
She narrowed her gaze and lowered her hands, swaying back, enough for him to tighten his grip and hold her steady—to feel the soft warmth of her beneath her shift, reminding him of the way she molded to his hands . . . to his mouth . . . to the rest of him. “You mock me.”
“I swear I don’t.”
“We also don’t like to be mocked.”
He had to take control before he lost his mind. “Penelope.”
She smiled. “I like the way you say my name.”
He ignored the words and the unplanned flirtation in them. She did not know what she was doing. “Why aren’t you in your own bed?”
She tilted her head, considering the question. “We married for all the wrong reasons. Or, all the right reasons . . . if you’re looking for a marriage of convenience. But, either way, we did not marry for passion. I mean, think about it. You didn’t really compromise me at Falconwell.”
A memory flashed of her writhing against him, pressing up into his hands, his mouth. The feel of her. The taste of her. “I am fairly certain that I did.”
She shook her head. “No. You didn’t. I know enough to understand the mechanics of the process, you know.”
He wanted to explore that knowledge. In depth. “I see.”
“I know there’s . . . more.”
So much more. So much more that he wanted to show her. So much that he had planned to show her upon his return home. But . . . “You have been drinking.”
“Just a little.” She sighed, looking over his shoulder into the darkness of the room beyond. “Michael, you promised me adventure.”
“I did.”
“A nighttime adventure.”
His fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her to him. Or maybe she was simply swaying in that direction. Either way, he didn’t stop the movement. “I promised you a tour of my club.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want that tonight. Not anymore.”
She had the most beautiful, blue eyes. A man could lose himself in those eyes. “What do you want instead?”
“We were married today.”
Yes. They were.
“I’m your wife.”
He stroked his hands up her back until his fingers slid deep into golden curls, taking hold of her head and tilting her just so, perfectly, so he could lay claim to her and remind her that he was her husband.
He, and no one else.
He leaned in, brushing his lips across hers, light and teasing.
She sighed and pressed closer, but he pulled back, refusing to allow her to take over. She’d married him. She’d given him the chance to restore his name and his lands. And tonight, he wanted nothing more than to give her access to a world of pleasure as his thanks.
He willed his voice calm. “Do I intimidate you?”
“Sometimes. But not right now.”
She crawled toward him, kneeling in front of him on the bed, one knee pulling the fabric taut, and Bourne found himself praying that her night rail would fall an inch more . . . half an inch. Just enough to bare one of her perfect pink ni**les.
He shook off the thought. He was a man of thirty, not a boy of twelve. He had seen plenty of br**sts in his day. He did not need to lust after his wife, swaying before him, testing the strength of her nightgown’s fabric and his sanity, all at once.
Indeed, he had not returned in a fit of lust. He’d returned because he was angry. Angry at her for nearly marrying Tommy. For not telling him the truth.
She broke into his thoughts, and he caught her by the waist to steady her. “I am sorry that I am not perfect.”
Right now, the only thing imperfect about her was the fact that she was clothed.
“What makes you say that?”
“We were married today,” she said. “Or perhaps you do not remember?”
“I remember.” She was making it impossible to forget.
“Really? Because you left me.”
“I remember that, too.” He had returned, ready to consummate the marriage. Ready to claim her as his and eliminate any doubt that they were married, that Falconwell was his.
That she was his. His, and not Tommy’s.
“Brides do not expect to be left on their wedding night, Michael.” He did not reply, and she brazened on, raising her hands to his arms, clutching him through layers of clothing. “We do not like it. Especially when you forgo an evening with us for one with your . . . raven-haired beauty.”
She wasn’t making sense. “Who?”
She waved a hand. “They’re always raven-haired, the ones who win . . .”
“Who win what?”
She was still talking. “ . . . It doesn’t matter if she’s raven-haired or not, really. It just matters that she exists. And I don’t like it.”
“I see,” he said. She thought he’d been with another woman? Perhaps if he’d been with another woman, he would not be here, wanting her so much.
“I don’t think you do see, actually.” She wavered, watching him carefully. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No.” He at least knew that was the correct answer.
“Shall I tell you what else brides do not like on their wedding night?”
“By all means.”
“We do not like to sit at home. Alone.”
“I imagine that goes with not liking being left.”
She narrowed her gaze and lowered her hands, swaying back, enough for him to tighten his grip and hold her steady—to feel the soft warmth of her beneath her shift, reminding him of the way she molded to his hands . . . to his mouth . . . to the rest of him. “You mock me.”
“I swear I don’t.”
“We also don’t like to be mocked.”
He had to take control before he lost his mind. “Penelope.”
She smiled. “I like the way you say my name.”
He ignored the words and the unplanned flirtation in them. She did not know what she was doing. “Why aren’t you in your own bed?”
She tilted her head, considering the question. “We married for all the wrong reasons. Or, all the right reasons . . . if you’re looking for a marriage of convenience. But, either way, we did not marry for passion. I mean, think about it. You didn’t really compromise me at Falconwell.”
A memory flashed of her writhing against him, pressing up into his hands, his mouth. The feel of her. The taste of her. “I am fairly certain that I did.”
She shook her head. “No. You didn’t. I know enough to understand the mechanics of the process, you know.”
He wanted to explore that knowledge. In depth. “I see.”
“I know there’s . . . more.”
So much more. So much more that he wanted to show her. So much that he had planned to show her upon his return home. But . . . “You have been drinking.”
“Just a little.” She sighed, looking over his shoulder into the darkness of the room beyond. “Michael, you promised me adventure.”
“I did.”
“A nighttime adventure.”
His fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her to him. Or maybe she was simply swaying in that direction. Either way, he didn’t stop the movement. “I promised you a tour of my club.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want that tonight. Not anymore.”
She had the most beautiful, blue eyes. A man could lose himself in those eyes. “What do you want instead?”
“We were married today.”
Yes. They were.
“I’m your wife.”
He stroked his hands up her back until his fingers slid deep into golden curls, taking hold of her head and tilting her just so, perfectly, so he could lay claim to her and remind her that he was her husband.
He, and no one else.
He leaned in, brushing his lips across hers, light and teasing.
She sighed and pressed closer, but he pulled back, refusing to allow her to take over. She’d married him. She’d given him the chance to restore his name and his lands. And tonight, he wanted nothing more than to give her access to a world of pleasure as his thanks.
