Page 21 of A Whisper Of Desire (The Disgraced Lords #4)

“We can’t always get what we want; you of all people should know that. I suggest you turn around and go back to your room.”

“Why, you’re still awake.” She looked down his body to where his robe displayed the effect she had on him. “You appear to be very much awake. So much for being tired.”

To his horror, a smile that spoke of sex broke on her face.

“You vowed before God to obey me. Please go to your room, Marisa. We will discuss your behavior in the morning.”

She moved closer like the serpent in the Garden of Eden. “One thing you best learn. I don’t like being told what to do unless I’m naked in your bed—with you.” She all but purred. “In your bed I concede to your experience.”

God, she was glorious. How unfair was that? How was he to resist when faced with a hot-blooded woman who was unafraid to challenge him?

Without another word she turned away from him and walked to his bed, sliding beneath the sheets while he stood moot and aroused.

“I will accede to your wishes and not ask to discuss the plan to bring down Angelo for the rest of what is left of the night, but I will be sleeping in this bed.” She smiled seductively and drew down the sheet, exposing her breasts. “At the moment, I’m not very sleepy.”

“Unfortunately, I’m very tired,” he uttered, as he scooped her negligee from the floor while trying not to feast on her breasts.

He moved to the other side of his bed, as far away from temptation as possible.

He stood undecided, his body screaming for him to get in the bed and take her, while his brain was calmly explaining how his self-control was hanging on a cliff by a strand of cotton.

Before he’d married he’d decided on a conjugal schedule.

Relations once every third night was permissible.

He should be able to keep his urges satisfied while maintaining a sense of propriety.

To his dismay he’d never considered his young, proper, inexperienced wife would initiate sex or demand to sleep in his bed.

He was in a decided pickle, the irony of which was that most men would give their last breath to be in his position.

But long ago, having seen the blood that flowed in his veins, he understood that he was not most men.

He was his father’s son.

He tried to forget the incident in the barn when he was sixteen but never could for long. He suppressed the memories and focused on his current situation.

He dropped the flimsy silk garment on her exposed breasts and saw the first sign of insecurity flash across her beautiful face. “I don’t mean to hurt you, Marisa, but it would be best if you went back to your own suite.”

“You really want me to leave?”

He hated himself. He could see her eyes begin to well with tears. He ran a finger down her cheek. “I really am tired, my sweet.”

“Then I’ll simply sleep here, with you.”

“You know if you stay in this bed we are unlikely to sleep.”

Her smile was back. “So you do desire me.”

Too much. That was the problem. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Beatrice shares Sebastian’s bed every night.”

Ah, now he understood. She was comparing their marriage to that of her brother’s.

“No one knows what goes on behind couples’ closed doors. Couples behave differently, depending on the basis of their relationship. Unlike Sebastian, I prefer to sleep alone.”

At the word “alone,” more tears filled her eyes as she whispered, “I want to be a good wife, but I don’t know what you want from me.”

He scooped her into his arms and began to carry her back to her room. “We have only been married for a little under two days. It will take time for each of us to settle into married life. Give me time. I’ve not had a wife before.”

“I’ve never had a husband before,” she promptly replied.

As he laid her on the bed and drew up the covers, he added, “I imagine other men are quite envious of my good luck in securing your hand in marriage.”

As he made to leave she grabbed his hand. “It’s not only the plan I wish to discuss. I want to hear about Priscilla.”

“There is nothing to tell.”

Marisa’s heart hit her stomach. His demeanor changed the minute he heard her say Priscilla’s name. Her courage deserted her. “As you say it’s late. We shall talk tomorrow.”

He stood looking down on her, his jaw taut.

“Sometimes stories are not ours to share.”

With that cryptic comment, he slipped from the room.

Marisa slowly rolled onto her back and began chewing her bottom lip. She welcomed the darkness because it gave her the feeling of invisibility. “Stories are not ours to share,” she muttered. “What the hell does that mean?”

The darkness also allowed her to pretend her cheeks were not bright red. Humiliated by his ability to resist her, she vowed it would be the last time she would approach him. If he wanted her in his bed, he would have to beg her. A woman did not have to chase her husband for pleasure.

Unless, and her muscles locked at the thought, he was in love with another woman or fancied—dare she say it?—a man.

He was hiding something; that was obvious. He desired her, the evidence was clearly visible under his robe, and yet he did not want her in his bed. She knew that men felt desire without love. Perhaps it was guilt keeping her at arm’s length, guilt because his heart belonged to another.

Love could grow between strangers. Beatrice and Sebastian were an example. It couldn’t grow if Maitland loved another.

She slapped her forehead. “I didn’t ask the right question before we married.” She’d been so focused on her broken heart she’d not thought to ask Maitland if there was anyone he loved. She’d only asked about a mistress.

She was a young lady used to men begging for her attention. In fact, Maitland had tried to seduce her before they woke up together in that room. He’d told her she would be perfect as his duchess at the ball earlier in the evening. Why? Why her?

Fury rifled through her. This relationship was beginning to reek like a decomposing body. There had to be a reason why Maitland rejected her tonight. A reason he was keeping his distance.

She hated to admit it, but it would appear he loved another. Now that the seed of his relationship with Priscilla had been planted, it was blooming inside her head.

No longer able to trust her judgment when it came to men and the lies they could spin, she would talk to Sebastian. Surely her brother would not lie. And he knew about Priscilla. Sebastian was about to mention her name tonight, then stopped.

God help both of them if they had kept Maitland’s love for Priscilla from her. If Sebastian had misled her or withheld information from her, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive him.

A tear slid down her cheek. She hadn’t minded marrying a stranger because she thought Maitland kind and honorable.

Stupidly, she’d assumed they might come to love each other.

If he loved another, that was unlikely. Fear saw her snuggle deeper into the bed.

A long and lonely life stretched before her.

Her brother had a lot to answer for and tomorrow she would insist on answers.