Page 26

Chapter Eighteen

W yatt lay on his back looking up at a view he had never imagined he would see—the curtains above his wife's bed. He felt blissfully spent and sated. And more than a little relieved.

Because, just as he had suspected, Gemma had just proven that, beneath that icy shell, her heart beat just as hot and fiercely as his.

He had hardly been able to believe it when he had come home to find her seeking out that forbidden book.

He had always had an inkling that there was more to Gemma than the cool facade she hid behind.

Seeing his suspicions confirmed had brought him no small amount of joy.

And when she had agreed to let him play out that racy scene, well…

He turned his head to look at her. She too was lying on her back, staring up at the bed canopy.

In the dancing lamplight, he could see her cheeks were flushed and rosy after their adventures, her chest still rising and falling hard beneath the sheets.

Her long hair had come loose from its plait and now lay strewn across the pillow like dark silk.

Disheveled and tired, she looked impossibly beautiful.

Nonetheless, Wyatt had not been able to miss the way she had so quickly released her hold on him once the deed had been done. Now she lay with her hands folded over her chest, as though in a gesture of self-preservation. He wondered if she regretted what they had done.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She turned, giving him a smile that, while tiny, did look genuine. “Yes. I… I enjoyed that, thank you.”

In spite of himself, Wyatt just managed to hold back a laugh.

She might have allowed herself to become Captain Midnight's captive for a brief time, but fine upstanding Lady Gemma was very much still in attendance.

In any case, her uninhibited moans had left him in no doubt about how much she had enjoyed their night together.

“I am glad,” he said. “I enjoyed it too. Very much.”

Gemma sat up suddenly, clutching the bedclothes to her chest. “The book,” she said.

“What?”

“The book ,” she said, her eyes widening with something close to horror.

“You know, with… Captain Midnight.” That rosy flush of embarrassment spread down her neck.

“We left it on the floor in the library. We need to collect it before anyone sees it.” She began to look around, as though searching for her nightshift and robe.

Little point doing that , Wyatt thought. Her nightshift was in pieces, and he was fairly certain her robe was either on the floor in the library, or kicked under the bed somewhere. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I'll fetch it.”

Gemma's blue eyes conveyed a look of wordless gratitude. “Make sure you put it back exactly where you found it,” she said, her voice low.

He chuckled. “On the floor at your feet?”

She blushed furiously. “On the very top shelf… Next to Robinson Crusoe …”

Wyatt slipped out of bed, retrieving his shirt and breeches and tugging them on. After a moment of consideration, he collected the rest of his clothing from the floor as well.

I suspect she does not want her lady's maid seeing them and knowing what we did…

“Next to Robinson Crusoe ,” he said. “On the very top shelf. Understood.”

Gemma murmured her thanks, and he stepped out into the hallway, closing the door silently behind him.

Wyatt made his way down to the library. The book was still lying open on the ground, where he had tossed it carelessly after Gemma had uttered that magic word— yes . There was no sign of Gemma's robe.

Of course there's not—you used it to tie her to the bedpost. Wyatt grinned at the memory.

Picking up the book, he climbed carefully onto the step ladder and returned it to the top shelf, neatly dodging the question of which of his relatives the thing belonged to.

Then he blew out the lamp they had left flickering on the side table and made his way back upstairs.

At the top of the staircase, he paused. Should he return to Gemma's bedchamber?

Was that what she was expecting? Somehow, he doubted it.

She had made it quite clear that she did not intend to fall asleep in his arms. But it also felt wrong to just leave his wife to her own devices after all that had just passed between them.

Wyatt shook the thought out of his head. He knew well that Gemma held no illusions about this being anything other than a marriage of convenience. Yes, they had finally succeeded in consummating it, but Wyatt felt fairly certain that that changed little in Gemma's mind.

He also knew that his wife was not one to be wooed by romance.

She was far too clear-headed and realistic for that.

He was certain that if he turned up back at her door, proposing she fall asleep in his arms—which, he had to admit sounded fairly wonderful—she would send him back to his own quarters with the derisive snort he deserved.

Wyatt turned down the passage and made his way back to his own bedchamber.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Ivy sang the next morning, carrying a fresh jug of water into the dressing room. “Did you sleep well?”

With a pang of horror, Gemma realized she was still completely naked beneath the sheets. She tugged the blanket up to her chin. “Yes, thank you, Ivy. I slept very well.” What was wrong with her voice? Was it too high? Or too low? Why was she having such trouble speaking normally?

Her eyes searched furiously for her nightgown that Wyatt had yanked apart and then tossed to the floor.

If Ivy sees it, I just might die!

Casually, her lady's maid picked up the cord from Gemma's robe from the floor and placed it on the end of the bed. “Shall I help you dress, Your Grace?”

Gemma swallowed heavily. “I should like to sleep for another ten minutes. Please come back then.”

“Of course, ma'am.” Ivy bobbed a curtsey. “I shall be back shortly.” She disappeared from the room, and Gemma let out a breath of relief. She slipped out of bed and hurried to her wardrobe, pulling a fresh—and mercifully intact—nightshift from the bottom drawer.

As she slipped it on over her head, her body tingled with memories of the previous night. Of the way, Wyatt's lips had moved over her bare skin. Of the way his tongue had felt as it teased her most intimate of places. And the unnamable sensations he had drawn from her.

All at once, her body was aflame again, craving his touch.

Her muscles ached, and the twinge between her legs was a stark reminder of all that had taken place the previous night.

How was it that such sensations managed to feel immensely pleasurable?

Gemma went hurriedly to the dressing room and washed her face at the basin.

This is becoming a far too regular morning occurrence.

Perhaps foolishly, she had assumed that finally letting her husband into her bed would put an end to such pent-up desire. But it seemed to only have intensified it. Now she truly knew what her body was capable of feeling, all she wanted was more.

After she had sent Wyatt off to retrieve the book last night, she had found herself lying awake for hours. Though her body was heavy with pleasant exhaustion, she had been unable to still her racing thoughts.

She had given in to her desire, yes, but it was more than that that was keeping her awake.

It was the realization that she was lying there, waiting in hope for her husband to return to her bedchamber.

She had listened carefully as he had ascended the stairs again.

And then listened as his footsteps had turned down the hall toward his wing of the house. The disappointment had been crushing.

It was the right thing, Gemma knew. She could not allow herself to grow close to him; doing so would only lead to her getting hurt. And so surely it was for the best that they spend the nights in their own quarters. Nonetheless, Gemma could not deny the tug of regret that accompanied this thought.

Stop it! You know he is just like your father! He will only end up hurting you.

And nothing, she reminded herself, had shown that more clearly than last night.

Mere hours after Wyatt had promised to stay away from the gambling halls, he had been gallivanting around town with Lord Anderson, no doubt with a drink in his hand and a woman on his arm.

Gemma had promised her grandmother that she would not end up with a man who enjoyed the drink as much as her father.

It had been a promise she had been unable to keep, through no fault of her own.

But she could—and would—protect her own sanity by refusing to give Wyatt her heart.

Yes, he had assured her he had not been in the company of another woman last night. But Gemma was not sure if she believed him. She knew men like him. She knew of their empty promises, and of the smooth words they rattled out to keep the peace.

And I know better than to trust them.

She gave her face another splash at the washstand for good measure, then hurried back out to her bedchamber, shoving the torn nightgown in the bottom of the drawer before Ivy could return.

Sandra Felps sipped from her teacup and surveyed the breakfast table. Something was different this morning.

Oh yes, something is definitely different.

Gemma had appeared almost shyly at the breakfast table, with a glow in her cheeks Sandra was sure had not been there yesterday.

When Martha had attacked her over the dour brown day dress she had worn to breakfast, Gemma had not snapped back as she was wont to do but had instead let the comment glide right past her.

Meanwhile, the bright smile Wyatt had offered his family when he had appeared in the breakfast room was a stark contrast to the vaguely haunted look he had been wearing for most of the week.

Had something happened between them last night?