Page 17

Chapter Thirteen

G emma closed her eyes as Ivy ran a hairbrush through her long brown hair.

When her lady's maid had arrived at Larsen Manor that afternoon, Gemma had almost thrown herself into her arms in relief.

It seemed someone had given Ivy a brief rundown of what had happened at the wedding, for the girl had slipped into the routine of Larsen Manor with barely a hiccup and even fewer questions. Gemma was endlessly grateful.

“I am so sorry, Ivy,” she said, as her maid wound her thick hair into a plait. “I know you had many friends at Volk House. I feel dreadful that you have been torn away from them like this.”

Ivy gave her a sympathetic smile in the mirror. “It's all right, My Lady—I mean, Your Grace. I know it wasn't your fault.”

At her words, Gemma reached back and pressed her hand to the girl's. She did not care how inappropriate such a thing was—she was far too overcome with relief that there was someone in the world who believed that this had not been a result of her own underhand scheming.

“Besides,” Ivy continued, “this is a beautiful house. Like a palace, don't you think? I am sure I'll be quite happy here.”

Gemma smiled faintly. “Thank you, Ivy. I am very glad to hear it.”

Ivy set the hairbrush back on the dressing table. She opened her mouth as if to speak, and then seemed to change her mind.

“Yes, Ivy?” Gemma pressed.

The girl wound a strand of blonde hair around her finger, meeting Gemma's eyes in the mirror. “I was wondering what you wished to wear to bed tonight, Your Grace. Given… well… Will His Grace, the Duke be…” She faded out, her cheeks flushing scarlet.

Inexplicably, the question made something flip in Gemma's chest. And for a fleeting moment, she was back in the music room at the Henfords' home, feeling the Duke of Larsen's lips against her own.

Feeling sensations course through her body that she had never been aware of before.

Sensations that had not begun to calm down in the slightest over the past few days.

And now the man that caused them is my husband…

Gemma tried to force away the tug of desire she could feel gathering in her belly. Tried to stop the ridiculous pounding of her heart. These were just foolish physical reactions. They were not to be acted on. Ever.

“My usual nightgown will be just fine, thank you, Ivy,” Gemma said, forcing herself to keep her voice level. “Everything will go on just as it did before this… unfortunate series of events.”

Ivy's eyes widened. “Your Grace, I…”

“As far as I am concerned, the Duke of Larsen is my husband in name only. I have no intention of being his wife.” She realized her lady's maid was still watching her in the mirror. “Do you have something to say about that, Ivy?” she said, a little too sharply.

Ivy lowered her gaze hurriedly. “No, Your Grace. Of course not. I am sorry. I'll fetch the nightgown at once.”

Regretting her outburst, Gemma swiveled around on her chair to look the girl in the eyes before she could run out of the room.

“I am the one who ought to be sorry, Ivy. Forgive me, I did not mean to be so curt.” She offered her maid an apologetic smile.

“You are my only ally here. And the last thing I wish to do is offend you.” She let out her breath in an enormous sigh.

“I do not know what I would do without you here.” Involuntarily, she dropped her voice.

“I have never felt more alone in my life.”

Wyatt stood outside the door of his wife's bedchamber, head resting wearily against the wall. The words Gemma had uttered to her lady's maid were echoing in his head:

“Everything will go on just as it did before this… unfortunate series of events… As far as I am concerned, the Duke of Larsen is my husband in name only. I have no intention of being his wife.”

He had not meant to eavesdrop. He had just been trying to work up the nerve to face her. What was it about her that made him so on edge, he wondered? Wyatt had never been shy around the ladies before. He had never been short on confidence or doubted his ability to please them.

He had also never known a lady so reluctant to be in his company.

What a bizarre turn of events that that lady was now his wife… He would have laughed were the situation not so dire. All he had ever wanted to get out of marriage was an heir. And here he was with a wife who planned never to let him into her bedchamber.

Wyatt shook the thought away. Today had been a shock for both of them. He could hardly blame Gemma for the way she was behaving.

She will come around. Somehow, I will make sure of it.

The door clicked open suddenly, yanking Wyatt from his thoughts.

“Oh. Your Grace,” spluttered Gemma's lady's maid. “I beg your pardon, I…” She dropped a hurried curtsey, then stumbled backward, clearly caught off guard by his closeness.

Wyatt was about to ask the girl about Gemma when she appeared suddenly at the door, a thunderous look in her eyes.

“You are excused, Ivy,” she said tautly. “Thank you.” The girl hurried away with the speed of a hunted rabbit. Gemma looked up at him. “Your Grace.”

Wyatt swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

His wife was wearing a thin cotton nightgown that reached the middle of her calves.

Her long dark hair hung in a thick plait down her back, loose strands framing her heart-shaped face.

Despite the thin blue shawl wrapped around her shoulders, Wyatt could make out every curve of her body, could see the alluring swell of her breasts, the creamy white skin below her collarbones, the soft protrusion of her hips.

What would it feel like, he wondered, to pull her into his arms?

To feel the shape of her, with nothing covering her but that paper-thin nightgown?

“You are beautiful,” he found himself blurting.

A look of surprise passed over Gemma's eyes, but she blinked it away quickly. She tugged the shawl tighter around her body and folded her arms across her middle in a gesture of self-preservation.

But Wyatt could see the color gathering in her cheeks; the blush beginning to spread down from her neck toward the pale skin at the top of her breasts. And he knew that, despite these walls of ice that Gemma had erected around herself, his comment had had an effect on her.

“If you think a hollow compliment like that is going to get you into my bedchamber, you are very much mistaken,” she said, a slight thinness to her words.

In spite of her bitterness, Wyatt felt a tiny smile on the edge of his lips at the knowledge he had rattled her. “I would not be so foolish to presume such a thing,” he said. But he dared to take a step toward her, nonetheless. Gemma darted backward with a little too much vigor.

Beneath the bravado, he caught something else in her eyes; a look of fear and bewilderment. A look he could tell she was trying her best to hide. It made his chest ache with something he could not quite identify.

Wyatt softened his voice. “I would also not be so foolish to presume I would be welcomed to your bed after such a day.” The words were hard to get out.

Because at the sight of Gemma in her nightgown, Wyatt could feel a tightening in his groin and an urge to march inside her bedchamber and lock the door behind him.

Worst of all was the knowledge that, as her husband, he was now well within his rights to do such a thing. But he swore to himself that he would not. Not without her permission. He could never be that kind of man.

No, he was wrong. That was not the worst thing. The worst thing was that, behind this wall of coldness that Gemma had constructed, Wyatt knew the effect he had on her. The sound of her moaning in his ear and whispering for more as his hands roamed her body were not things he would easily forget.

Have you forgotten ? he wanted to ask her. Do you not remember how wonderful I can make you feel?

But he knew this was neither the time nor the place.

Well, he supposed that was not entirely true.

His wife's bedchamber on their wedding night did seem rather the perfect place to shove that nightgown to her hips and make her back arch with pleasure—but that was an image he was going to have to push aside for now.

Because there were things to say. Important things, that had been interrupted earlier in the day when his mother and grandmother had returned from the chapel.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Gemma let out a gasp, her eyes widening with an emotion he could not quite identify.

Wyatt held out a hand, palm up in a gesture of peace. “Calm yourself,” he said. “I am not here to visit your bed, I swear it.”

Gemma narrowed her eyes, and he could tell she did not believe him.

Not, he supposed, that he could blame her.

He did seem to have a habit of crossing a line whenever he found himself in her vicinity.

But to prove his point, he strode across the room and sat on the stool beside the desk, several yards away from his wife.

And several yards from the bed. Gemma took a single step toward him.

“I am sorry things happened the way they did,” he said. “I know I am the last man you wished as your husband.” He swallowed. “In fact, I seem to remember you saying something strikingly similar to me in the past. And I truly do regret that you were caught up in my grandmother's meddling.”

Gemma gave a brisk nod that Wyatt took—rather optimistically, he knew—as an acceptance of his apology.

He folded his hands and rested them on his knees.

“I want you to know that you will have everything you need. You were not the wife I intended to have, but you are my wife nonetheless, and I will see to it that you want for nothing. I will do everything in my power to make you as happy as possible.” Wyatt felt his throat tighten inexplicably. He did want Gemma to be happy.

Or at least slightly less miserable than the expression on her face suggested she was.

“Happy?” she snorted. “You think you can make me happy?” She strode toward the desk and stood close, hovering over him.

Wyatt could smell lavender on her skin and feel the warmth emanating from her body.

He forced away a pang of desire. “I have been disgraced ,” she hissed, “through no fault of my own. No doubt my family is now more of a laughing stock among the ton that they were this morning. And I have a damnable rake for a husband.” Her eyes flashed as she glared into his.

That rosy glow on her decolletage again had intensified, Wyatt noticed.

Was it her anger that had caused it? Or was it his nearness?

How easy it would be to pull her down onto the stool with him, onto his growing hardness, and quieten her harsh words with his lips against her own.

How easy it would be to toss her onto that wide curtained bed and cover her body in kisses.

That evening in the music room, she had melted beneath his touch.

He knew how easy it would be to silence her arguments with his lips against hers.

How easily he could make her scream his name.

If only she knew how much her feistiness makes me long for her…

He got quickly to his feet. He knew himself in danger of breaking his rule about not taking a woman without their permission. And treating his own wife in such a way was something he had no intention of doing.

“I suppose I cannot deny that,” he said. “I am a damnable rake.”

Gemma snorted. “You sound almost proud of yourself.” She shook her head. “I ought not be surprised. I know the kind of man you are. You have already made that quite clear.”

“Oh yes?” Wyatt was surprised she had dared go near a mention of their time together at the Henfords'. “And what kind of man is that?”

“A man a lady would be ashamed to be married to,” she hissed.

Though he knew he had goaded her into it, Wyatt could not deny the insult stung. “Most ladies of the ton would be honored to marry a duke,” he said, aware of how petty and shallow his words sounded. He regretted them the moment they were out of his mouth.

“I am not most ladies of the ton ,” Gemma shot back.

No. You most certainly are not…

Wyatt clasped his hands behind his back. “Forgive me. Regardless of what you might believe, I did not come here to upset you. In fact, I came hoping to reassure you.”

“Reassure me?” Gemma snorted. “Of what, exactly?”

“Of that fact that you are welcome here at Larsen Manor. You are the lady of the house now. And I hope you will come to feel at home here.”

Gemma pressed her lips into a thin white line. “This will never be my home.”

He nodded acceptingly—for right now, what else was there to do? “I hope you may come to change your mind.” When she did not speak, he added, “Good night, Gemma.”

Her eyes narrowed at his familiarity. “Good night, Your Grace. And please do not come here again.”