Page 26 of Ruby in the Rough (Heiress #4)

Chapter

Twenty-Six

C hristian returned home from his club before Cordelia that evening to find the house quiet and still.

He climbed the vast staircase, glad to have his valet help him undress, the familiar routine of removing coat, cravat, and boots feeling oddly hollow tonight.

Once dismissed, Christian climbed into bed, the cavernous room echoing with its silence.

He lay staring at the plastered ceiling, restless and ill at ease.

The mattress might as well have been stuffed with stones for all the comfort it gave him. He turned one way, then another, his thoughts a tangle he could not name.

Hours passed in a similar fashion. It was only in the pale hush before dawn that he heard Cordelia’s return—the shuffle of her slippers in the adjoining chamber, the hushed murmur of her maid helping her undress, then the faint rustle of linen as she slid into bed. After that, the house fell quiet again.

Christian threw back his covers, his sleep futile. Instead, he started for Cordelia’s room, crossing the threshold only to find her already asleep, curled on her side.

She looked so peaceful, so heartbreakingly lovely in the half morning light, that something inside him shifted. It rose quick and sharp, an emotion he had long denied having any use for. He didn’t know the word at first—didn’t want to know it—but the truth pressed hard against his ribs.

Without another thought, he slipped into her bed. The mattress dipped as he drew closer, pulling her gently against his chest. Her hand moved of its own accord, clasping his arm and holding it tight to her waist. That small instinctive gesture nearly undid him.

He kissed her throat, breathing in the faint scent of roses in her hair, content simply to hold her. For once, the restlessness ebbed.

Some hours later, he woke with a start—disoriented, momentarily forgetting he was not in his own room. But then he felt her, warm and soft against him, her head pillowed in the crook of his arm, her body pressed across his chest.

He drank in the sight of her and he knew he could no longer deny the emotion that had been threading itself through him since the day they met—that unlooked-for affection he had dismissed, argued with, and ignored—was love.

He loved her.

The truth was both terrifying and freeing.

Terrifying, because love meant vulnerability.

He had never permitted himself that, not once in his life.

He’d sworn he would never make another live as his mother had—forever bent under the weight of a husband’s indifference.

He’d warned Cordelia that he wasn’t the type of gentleman to promise a happily ever after, a bed of roses for the rest of their lives, but he called horse shit of that thinking.

The thought of Cordelia smiling at another man, of finding happiness outside of their marriage when he could not give her what she wanted would unman him. He had not wanted to admit he was under her spell, beholden to her, but it had been growing all along.

He adored and loved her. Would not have pursued her into his library had he not.

She stirred against him, mumbling incoherent words, before opening her eyes.

“I thought you had slipped into my bed last evening,” she whispered drowsily. “Why did you not wake me?”

He brushed a lock of golden hair from her face, savoring the way it spilled across her pillow. “You looked so peaceful. I knew you were tired.”

Her hand traced idly over his chest, slow and unthinking. “I missed you. Many asked after you.”

He knew she was right. He ought to have attended. And yet the thought of endless ballrooms and smiling strangers left him cold. Now that he was married, did he need to waste nights parading about town? He had no reason to seek a wife—he had her. Was that not enough?

“No one looks for the duke,” he murmured. “It is the duchess they wish to see.”

Her brows drew together. “That is not true, and you know it. You will attend the ball with me this evening, will you not? We must be seen together, or tongues will wag. People are already whispering our marriage was too hasty.”

He laughed quietly, remembering the library, the stolen moment that had led them here. “A scandal did happen. But what does it matter? We know we suit well enough. And no one dares censure the Duchess of Walpole.”

“Perhaps,” she said softly. “But I should like us to attend one event together before the Season draws to a close.”

“I promise you one,” he conceded. “But truthfully, I never enjoyed such things, even before meeting you. My duty was to Jane then. It is not my pleasure now.”

“I understand.” Her eyes lingered on him, thoughtful. “And did you enjoy your evening at the club?”

“The same as always. I read, played cards, and came home early. Hours before you did.”

Her head lifted at that, and in the morning light he could not help noticing how her shift clung to her, nearly translucent.

“You did?” she asked, clearly shocked by his admission.

“I did. And you’ll be pleased to hear,” he smiled, “that in the few short weeks since we married, I can no longer sleep unless you are beside me.”

Her lips curved and she pushed back the covers, slipping astride his legs, eyes bright with mischief. “So you laid there waiting for me,” she teased, “listening for my return?”

“I did.” His hands moved to her waist, unable to resist her.

Already he grew hard and wanted her with a thirst that left his mouth dry. He flipped her onto her back, and she gasped in surprise.

Her legs instinctively went about his waist, and he pulled his nightshirt out of the way. Not that Cordelia seemed to mind, she helped him move their garments aside, pressing up to take him.

He thrust into her, groaning at the pleasure that rocked through him of having her, not only as his wife, but like this, alone in the quiet morning, pleasing each other with their bodies.

“Christian…” Her breathless moan almost undid him, and he took a calming breath, brushing soft kisses against her lips.

The need to tell her, to admit to all that she made him feel settled over him like a cloak.

The words sat edged on his lips and yet he could not say them.

He’d never told anyone ever that he loved them, and to tell Cordelia felt odd and against everything he’d ever stood for right up to this moment.

Still, he could not help but make sweet, slow love to her, press into her and slowly push them toward release. She moved under him, searching, reaching for that sweet pinnacle, and he was determined to not disappoint.

He may not have the courage yet to tell her that he loved her, but by God he’d show her with his body.

“I adore you.” He brushed kisses along her jaw to her neck, teasing the underside of her ear. She squirmed, giggled, and he wanted nothing but to please her.

Forever.

“And I you,” she said in return.

The words I love you hung between them, unspoken, and yet there, taunting him to be honest, with both him and her. He was a coward, but soon he would find his voice, declare his devotion and ensure that she never believed anything otherwise.