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He gave a heavy sigh as he turned his body stiffly. She bit her lip and waited, knowing he would hate an offer of help.
She spotted a book on his bed table. “Shall I read to you, my lord? When I can’t sleep, it passes the time.”
He ignored her, so she took that as reluctant approval. She read a chapter of Dickens’s latest novel, until the nurse assured her that he was finally sleeping.
Just as Victoria was opening the door to leave, the earl surprised her again.
He cleared his throat. “Tell your mother to stay on our grounds.”
“Pardon me?”
“I saw her walk into your old gardens. My steward informs me that your cousin is quite bothered that you live next door—worried you’ll want to visit him too much, the fool. He might not take kindly to your mother’s intrusions.”
“Thank you for the warning, my lord. I’ll speak to my mother. And if I’d known you were still awake, I’d have kept reading.”
“The book won’t go anywhere,” he mumbled, then rolled away from her and pulled the blanket up to his neck.
It wasmidnight when David returned to the town house. Wilfred the footman was asleep in the foyer propped on a chair, but he stumbled to his feet to take David’s hat and cloak. Davidsent him off to bed and walked up through the silent house alone. There was still a lamp burning in the drawing room, and before turning it out, he looked about in confusion. It took him a moment to realize what was wrong—someone had filled the room with things he remembered from his childhood, items that had been packed away after his mother died. A small, framed portrait of him as a child was propped on a table. He stood looking at it, caught in a memory of his mother telling him that it was her favorite portrait, because he looked about to do mischief.
The familiar stab of pain had dulled over the years to a spark of distant sadness, full of useless what-ifs. His father had rid the house of memories of David’s mother when his mistress had moved in. David had almost been glad to forget as well, because the waste of her life had hurt too much.
But Victoria must have gone exploring and discovered these long-ago relics as she prepared the house for their coming dinner party. He touched the ceramic bird his mother had once brought home from a shopping trip; it had reminded her of their estate in Lincolnshire, where they seldom visited anymore. David couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there. Only his steward made occasional trips there now. Would Victoria like it?
He blew out the lamp and walked up to the next floor in the dark. His wife was never far from his thoughts. In just a few days, she seemed to have brought life back into the old house. Draperies were always thrown open to the sun, when he knew his father preferred to sulk in the gloom. And now she’d resurrected memories of his mother, though perhaps she didn’t know it.
He stopped outside her door, listening. Except for the creak of an ancient floorboard, he heard nothing. During the evening spent at his club, he had forgotten to send word home that he’dbe late until the dinner hour. He told himself that Victoria would understand, because at least he’d remembered to let her know.
But had she? Once again, she’d been alone with his father and her mother. He knew he himself would go crazy dealing with his father alone all day, yet Victoria never complained. He felt a stab of guilt. The emotion was fresh and unexpected. He was doing the best he could; he was in the middle of delicate negotiations that took all his concentration. He couldn’t fail now—and he couldn’t let thoughts of his wife distract him.
Yet when he went into his own bedroom and began to disrobe, he kept looking at the door that connected their rooms. If he didn’t go to Victoria, it would be the first evening since their marriage that he hadn’t.
When he had disrobed down to his trousers, he hesitated, then knocked softly on her door. There was no answer.
He should just go to sleep. Instead, he opened the door and peered inside, unable to stay away. There was still a candle glowing beside her bed. Victoria lay curled sideways upon the bedspread, still clothed in her dressing gown, looking as if she’d fallen asleep waiting for him.
He walked to the bed and leaned over his wife. Her long blond hair partially covered her face. With a finger, he eased a curl back from her cheek, and she stirred with a small moan. Something deep in his gut twisted, and he recognized the desire she drew out of him. She was warm and soft and smelled of jasmine from her bath. He continued to comb his fingers through her hair, releasing her scent, making her move restlessly. She rolled onto her back, and he leaned over her, bracing himself on one arm and one knee, as if he’d crawl into bed with her.
He wanted to.
Her eyelashes fluttered, and she gave a soft, secret smile. “David?”
She murmured his name in a husky voice that made him hard.
He continued to stroke her hair, feeling the warmth of her scalp out to the ends of her soft curls. He brought a lock up to his face and inhaled, torturing himself over his wedding night promises.
“You’re here,” she murmured. “I waited for you.”
He traced her hair down her neck and across her shoulder where it curled provocatively beneath her breast. She still hadn’t opened her eyes. Holding his breath, he followed the curl down her side, then across her ribs.
She did that little moan and squirm again that was almost his undoing. He was consumed by the line of her throat disappearing behind her neckline. He sat on the edge of the bed and slid both hands into her hair, cupping her head.
She sighed and almost closed her eyes again like a cat rubbing against him, but suddenly she looked at his chest. In her eyes, was that the fear he thought he’d conquered?
In Victoria’s mind, the warm, drowsy remnants of a pleasant dream sank away as she saw that her husband wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was leaning over her, the dim light from the lamp casting half his face in shadows. Her gaze slipped downward, and she saw the sleek, sculpted muscles of his chest, like a rare piece of art come to life. The hollows were darkness along his skin, highlighting the clean lines of him. His nipples were brown points on the bulge of muscles beneath them. His arms were on either side of her, his large hands buried in her hair.
He sat back, pulling away from her, and she wanted to call him back, but was unsure of his reaction.
She came up on her elbows, wanting to see as much as she could. Her gaze traveled from the width of his shoulders, down the flat planes of his stomach, to his narrow waist. In the frontof his trousers, there was a prominence she was sure she hadn’t noticed before.