Page 34 of A Whisper Of Desire (The Disgraced Lords #4)

Chapter Fifteen

M aitland remounted Astraea, understanding that perhaps he had consumed one too many whiskies—hell, perhaps several too many whiskies. Astraea’s even gait was greatly appreciated, and he barely noted the busy streets as he made his inebriated way from Waverly Court to home.

That had been the most excruciatingly embarrassing few hours of his life. Sebastian had listened quietly to his concerns before tearing a strip off him for making Marisa think he did not desire her.

When Sebastian informed him that Marisa had been to see him, upset and concerned that there was something wrong with her, Maitland suddenly wanted to thank Arend. Arend’s stern words were those of a true friend. Only a friend would threaten to sleep with your wife to teach you a lesson.

Arend had been right, though Maitland was loath to admit it. His wife had been hurt by his cowardice.

When confessing his “problem” to Sebastian he hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell his friend what had happened in his father’s barn all those years ago. His shame would go with him to his grave. Instead, he had admitted his concerns about becoming like his father.

Warmth still cloaked him at Sebastian’s response.

His friend had hugged him, something they rarely did, not manly behavior at all, and said, “I know you. I see the man you are. You are not your father. If I thought you capable of that sort of behavior I would never have allowed you to marry Marisa.” As Sebastian’s chest heaved with emotion he added, “I have faith in you to be an excellent husband for my sister.”

All these years Maitland had kept his wants and desires from surfacing.

When Sebastian had seen the doubt in Maitland’s eyes, he’d told him tales of his amorous pursuits prior to meeting Beatrice, and Maitland began to understand that many of his fantasies were normal.

That as long as the sex was consensual, both parties could engage in anything that felt good and gave pleasure.

They both laughed at the antics Sebastian used to get up to.

He’d regularly enjoyed all forms of bed sport—multiple partners, a bit of bondage, brothels, many, many different positions that Maitland was now eager to try, but he could hardly say that to Sebastian.

Marisa was his sister. What he’d begun to understand was that there was nothing unusual with a robust sex life.

What turned a healthy appetite for coitus into something obscene?

The two men had discussed this at length.

They determined it was when the urges started to affect the normal course of your life.

That is, your work suffered, you forgot friendships, duty was pushed aside, and you did not care whom you hurt.

Sebastian’s threat reverberated through the drunken haze swirling in his mind. “I swear if I see you behaving like that, I’ll ensure it ventures no further. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect Marisa and anyone else.”

Maitland should have felt threatened by Sebastian’s words, but, instead, a peace had settled over him.

Arriving home he let the groom help him from his steed because he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him. He’d ridden round the back of the house to the stable, as he didn’t wish anyone to see him stumble up the steps.

All he knew was if he was to play cards and win tonight he needed to sleep off his drinking session with his brother-in-law. A smile creased his face. He knew his friendship with Sebastian ran deep. So deep, Sebastian would kill him before he let Maitland turn into his father.

Peace washed through him, and for that, he owed Sebastian everything.

Marisa almost fell on her face as she was helped down from the Lyttleton carriage. Giggles exploded from her mouth even though she knew she was making a spectacle of herself.

The champagne was to blame, but she didn’t regret the morning spent drinking with Rose. She’d learned a lot about herself and what she wanted out of this marriage.

She had gone to see Rose, seeking a way to engage Maitland’s interest in bed. Now she wanted more than that. She wanted his heart too.

While she was armed with knowledge about how to entice a man into her bed, she had no idea how to win a man’s heart.

Beatrice would be the woman to speak to for that.

Thanks partly to Rose, but more so the book she’d taken, shoved down her trousers, from the Top Hat, how the two of them had tittered and drunk more than was good for them while examining the book, she had a plan for seduction—Maitland’s seduction, to be precise.

Some of the positions were now clearer, given Rose’s tutoring.

The staff avoided eye contact as she weaved up the stairs. She stopped Brunton. “Is His Grace in residence?”

Brunton didn’t bat an eyelid at her slurred speech. “I believe he is resting in his bedchamber, Your Grace.”

“Excellent.” The perfect place for her to try out her new wiles. Especially as the alcohol buzzing in her veins gave her more courage.

“Shall I call for your maid to assist you?”

The wave of her hand to decline his offer would have had more conviction if she hadn’t tripped up the next stair. With a giggle she said with as much dignity as possible, “No need.”

Marisa didn’t wait for further comment. She continued up the stairs, gripping the banister. The plan to seduce the truth from Maitland would not work if she turned an ankle.

The staff would hardly call her tipsy, clattering, approach to Maitland’s bedchamber creeping. She was too intoxicated to do that. When she reached the door to his room it was the champagne that saw her gather her courage and, without knocking, enter his room.

To her surprise, Maitland was lying on the bed fully dressed. His soft snores attested to the fact he was sleeping, not resting.

She moved toward where he lay, her eyes feasting on his face.

In his sleep he looked much younger. It was as if all the worries in the world had lifted from his shoulders.

As if his dreams were filled with the happiness his waking hours weren’t.

In that moment she wished she could make him as happy in his woken state as he appeared to be in his dreaming one.

Reaching out, she moved his fringe off his face.

Her fingers traced the few strands of gray near his temple.

He had lovely hair, thick and soft. She let her fingers run through his curls.

Looking at his face, his beautiful green eyes were staring back at her.

For a moment confusion filled their gaze until she saw the moment he recognized her.

His look turned warm and welcoming, and her heart flipped in her chest. She smiled down at him and placed a kiss on his forehead.

“I thought you were a dream,” he whispered.

“A good dream, I hope.”

He sighed and rolled onto his side to face her. “Sit down. I need to talk with you.” The happiness had vanished from his face. He was back to the Cold Duke.

Her heart stopped flipping and instead clenched, along with almost every muscle in her body. Why couldn’t that look of happiness stay on his face when he looked at her?

When he patted the bed she sank down onto the edge and waited. He sounded so serious.

“I owe you an apology.”

Whatever she had been expecting him to say, it wasn’t that.

Marisa watched him lick his lips, wondering what he was apologizing for. She didn’t have to wait long.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel inadequate in any way. In the bedchamber . . .”

Oh, goodness, he’d obviously been talking with Sebastian. She would kill her brother.

She couldn’t look at him.

A finger lifted her chin so she had no choice but to let him see her embarrassment.

“The fault is mine. I have been a coward. I didn’t wish to face the feelings you so easily arouse in me.”

Relief surged along with the joy at his words—“easily arouse.” He did want her. She saw heat and need filling his eyes as they darkened to a deep emerald. She leaned forward to kiss him, but his hand landed on her shoulder, forcing her upright.

Another rejection.

“I have to tell you something important, and disturbing, about myself first. I want you to understand the man you married, but, more important, the man who longs to share your bed.”

He took her hand and led her to the chairs positioned by the banked fire.

She looked at the trinkets positioned along the mantelpiece.

A clock, two frames with miniatures of Penelope and Antonia, and the book he seemed to have been reading the last few nights.

He saw her looking at the book, and at his frown she quickly took a seat.

He moved to pick it up from the mantel. He waved it in the air.

“This is part of my cowardice, but we are getting ahead of ourselves.” He remained standing, but he was silent, looking out the window. He looked like a lost little boy; it took everything she had to not jump up and fold him into her arms.

The afternoon sunshine flooded the room. There were no shadows to hide in. They would both be totally exposed.

With his back to her, he spoke. “When I was sixteen . . .” He faltered. “Gosh, this is harder than I knew it would be.” He sighed and dropped the book into the smoldering fire grate.

“You don’t have to do this.” Marisa couldn’t bear to see him looking so sad.

He faced her then. “I’m doing this for you, for us. So yes, bear with me as I tell you a sorry, sordid tale.”

She merely nodded and hid her clenched fists in the folds of her dress.

“You know about the sickness that invaded my father . . . well, something happened when I was sixteen that made me think I was exactly like my father.”

Her face looked pale as he began to unburden his past. He had to force himself to keep looking at her. She deserved to see the real man she married.

“When I was fifteen my father was diagnosed with syphilis. I didn’t really understand what that meant or the impact it would have on my life.”

She remained passive, not moving except to blink back the sympathy shining within her eyes.