Page 6 of The Earl’s Scarred Bride (Taming the Gillets #2)

CHAPTER SIX

T he flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the walls of Cecil's study as Elizabeth stood in the doorway, her heart hammering against her ribs. She'd expected to be summoned to his bedchamber—isn't that where rakish husbands typically demanded their wives' presence? Instead, here she was, watching him lounging behind his massive desk like a predator at rest.

"Come in, wife," Cecil drawled, gesturing to the chair across from him. A decanter of amber liquid sat between them, two crystal glasses already poured. "I trust you weren't expecting something more...intimate?"

Elizabeth forced herself to move forward with measured steps, refusing to let him see how his mere presence affected her. "I've learned not to expect anything conventional from you, my lord."

"Cecil," he corrected, his eyes following her movement. "I believe we established that particular intimacy already."

She settled into the chair, painfully aware of how the candlelight would illuminate her scar. Even in the dim light, she couldn't help but wonder if he found it as repulsive as every other man had. Not that it mattered—this was a marriage of convenience, nothing more.

"Drink with me," he said, sliding one of the glasses toward her. "Consider it a proper beginning to our...nightly arrangements."

Elizabeth's fingers closed around the cool crystal. "Nightly arrangements?"

"Mm." His smile held a dangerous edge. "I'll be calling you here each evening. Unless you'd prefer my bedchamber?"

"The study suits me perfectly well," she replied quickly—too quickly, judging by his knowing smirk.

"Does it?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Tell me, Elizabeth, are you always this...defensive when alone with a man?"

"Only when that man has explicitly forbidden me from certain rooms in my own home," she shot back, emboldened by either the brandy or her own recklessness. "Speaking of which, your behavior this afternoon was absolutely?—"

"Careful, wife." His voice dropped lower, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "You're beginning to sound like you're reprimanding me."

"And what if I am?" She lifted her chin. "Does the great Earl of Stonefield not tolerate criticism from his wife?"

Cecil's eyes darkened as he rose from his chair with fluid grace. "I'm not accustomed to women attempting to scold me like an errant schoolboy. They usually find...other ways to express their displeasure."

He moved around the desk, and Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken with each step he took toward her. When he reached her chair, she instinctively pulled back, though whether from fear or something else entirely, she couldn't say.

"Now who's being defensive?" he murmured, reaching out to trace the air just above her scar, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the heat of his hand. "I've never forced my attentions on an unwilling woman, Elizabeth. They typically beg for my touch."

The implications of his words made her face flush. "Then you'll find me a disappointing wife indeed, my lord, for I have no intention of begging for anything—least of all your touch."

"No intention of begging?" Cecil's laugh was low and dangerous as he perched on the edge of his desk, looming over her. "Not even for an heir? Isn't that what good wives are supposed to provide?"

Elizabeth forced herself to meet his gaze steadily, though her hands trembled in her lap. "I don't want children."

She saw the surprise flash across his face before he could mask it. "Never?"

"Never." Her voice was firm despite her racing pulse. "I have no desire to be a mother."

Something shifted in Cecil's expression—curiosity? But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by that calculating look she was beginning to know too well.

"Well then," he said softly, "perhaps we should make this more interesting."

"Interesting?" Elizabeth didn't like the predatory gleam in his eyes.

"A challenge, if you will." He moved closer, until his leg brushed against her skirts. "I won't touch you unless you beg for it. You have my word."

She couldn't help the skeptical arch of her eyebrow. "The word of a rake?"

"The word of your husband," he corrected, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that made her skin tingle. "But make no mistake, Elizabeth—within these three months, you will beg."

"You seem very confident, my lord."

"Because I know something you don't." He leaned down, his breath fanning against her ear. "Once you discover what real pleasure feels like, you won't be able to stop craving it. And I'm very, very good at providing pleasure."

Elizabeth's heart thundered in her chest, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how his proximity affected her. "Your reputation precedes you, but I assure you, I'm made of sterner stuff than your usual conquests."

"Oh, I'm counting on it." His smile was pure sin. "It will make your eventual surrender all the sweeter."

"And if I don't surrender?" Elizabeth challenged, though her voice emerged huskier than intended. "What then?"

"Then you'll have proven yourself the first woman in London capable of resisting my charms." His fingers traced the air along her neck, following the path of her scar without touching. "Though that lovely blush suggests you're not quite as immune as you pretend."

Elizabeth cursed the betrayal of her own body. Even without contact, his proximity made her breath catch, her skin flush with unwanted awareness. "Perhaps it's merely irritation, my lord. You do seem to excel at provoking that particular response."

"Do I?" His smile widened as he noticed her slight shiver. "And yet you haven't moved away. Shall I tell you what I think, Elizabeth?"

She should leave. Every instinct screamed at her to flee before this dangerous game went too far. Instead, she heard herself ask, "What do you think?"

Cecil's hand came to rest on the back of her chair, effectively caging her in. "I think you're curious. I think you lie awake at night, wondering what it would feel like to be touched—really touched—by someone who knows exactly how to pleasure a woman."

"You presume too much," she whispered, but the breathless quality of her voice betrayed her.

"Do I?" He leaned closer still, his lips nearly brushing her ear. "Then why are you trembling, wife? Why does your breath quicken when I'm near? Why haven't you run from this study the moment I suggested our little challenge?"

Elizabeth gripped the arms of her chair, fighting the urge to lean into his warmth. "Because I refuse to let you win. You may be London's most notorious rake, but I won't become another conquest in your collection."

"No," he agreed, his voice dropping even lower. "You'll be my wife who tried to resist me...and failed spectacularly. The fact that you're mine makes the challenge all the sweeter."

Elizabeth gathered her courage and stood abruptly, forcing Cecil to step back. "You overestimate your charms, my lord. I've spent years turning down unwanted attention?—"

"And yet," he cut in, his eyes darkening with predatory intent, "none of those men were your husband. None of them had the right to pursue you...as thoroughly as I intend to.”

Before she could react, he caught her wrist—not roughly, but with enough authority to halt her retreat. His thumb brushed over her racing pulse point, and Elizabeth felt heat spiral through her body at that simple touch.

"You feel that?" he murmured, his eyes locked on hers. "How your body responds to even the lightest caress? Imagine what it would feel like if I touched you...here." His free hand hovered over her collarbone, not quite making contact. "Or here." Lower, tracing the air above the swell of her breast.

"Stop," she breathed, though she couldn't bring herself to pull away.

"I'm not touching you," he reminded her with wicked amusement. "Just showing you what you're denying yourself. Would you like to know more, Elizabeth? Would you like me to tell you exactly what I could do to make you forget every proper thought in that clever head of yours?"

She should say no. Should tear herself away from his grip and flee to the safety of her chambers. Instead, she heard herself whisper, "You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?" His smile was pure temptation. "I could tell you how I'd start with soft kisses along your neck, following the path of this fascinating scar that you try so hard to hide. How I'd learn every sensitive spot until you were gasping my name. How I'd use my hands, my mouth, to make you feel pleasure you've never even imagined."

Elizabeth's face flamed at his bold words, but something molten pooled in her belly. "You're being deliberately shocking."

"Tell me, Elizabeth," Cecil's voice remained low but took on a more serious note, "why do you truly resist? Is it fear of what others might think? Or fear of what you might discover about yourself?"

She tried to step back, but found herself against his desk. "I fear nothing, my lord. Least of all your supposed charms."

"Then prove it." He released her wrist and moved away, creating space between them. "Accept my challenge. Three months. If you can truly resist me for that long, I'll leave as planned and never question your resolve again."

"And if I can't?" Elizabeth forced herself to ask, though she dreaded the answer.

"Then you'll have to admit that even in a marriage of convenience, certain...pleasures shouldn't be denied." His eyes held hers with unsettling intensity. "After all, we both might as well enjoy our temporary arrangement.”

"You speak of this with remarkable confidence for a man who claims to want nothing but an heir," she observed, finding her footing again in their verbal sparring.

Something flickered across his face—pain? Regret? But it vanished so quickly she might have imagined it. "The terms are simple enough. I won't touch you unless you ask. But make no mistake, wife—I will do everything in my power to make you want to ask."

"Through scandalous words and improper suggestions?" She lifted her chin defiantly.

"Through truth," he countered. "About what you're denying yourself. About what we could be together, if you'd only let yourself feel."

"And what if I told you," Elizabeth said, forcing steel into her voice, "that I have no interest in feeling anything with you? That our arrangement suits me perfectly well as it is?"

Cecil's laugh was soft and dangerous. "Then I would say you vastly underestimate the effect a man can have on his wife." He moved closer, his presence overwhelming yet still honoring his word not to touch her. "Tell me, Elizabeth, do you pleasure yourself at night? Or are you as proper in your private chambers as you pretend to be in my presence?"

"You are absolutely depraved," she managed, though her voice emerged mortifyingly breathy. "To speak of such...such things..."

"Are you scandalized, wife?" His lips ghosted near her ear, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath. "I'm merely being a considerate husband, ensuring my wife's needs are met since she claims to want nothing from me. Though I must say, the way you're trembling suggests you might want quite a bit."

Elizabeth tried to step back but found herself against his desk. "You know nothing of what I want."

"On the contrary." His hand came to rest on the desk beside her hip, caging her in without touching. "I know exactly what you want. You want me to break my word. To grab you by that delectable waist, bend you over this desk, and make you forget every proper thought in that clever head of yours. To make you scream my name so loudly the servants will blush at breakfast."

"You are utterly?—"

"Wicked? Indeed." His other hand traced the air above her collarbone, following her scar's path downward. "And you're fascinated by it. Since you're so certain of your victory in our little challenge, perhaps you should practice finding your own pleasure in the meantime. After all, three months is a very long time to deny yourself...especially when you'll be thinking of me every time you touch yourself in the dark."

Elizabeth felt her face flame scarlet, equal parts scandalized and inflamed by his vulgar suggestions. "You are without doubt the most insufferable man I have ever met."

"And you," he murmured, finally stepping back with that infuriating smirk, "are the most enticing woman I've ever had the pleasure of watching blush. Sweet dreams, wife. Do try to think of me when you're alone in your bed tonight."

She stopped at the threshold, her hand gripping the doorframe. "You are absolutely depraved."

"Depraved?" She could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm merely being a considerate husband, offering suggestions for your...comfort. Since you've made it clear you don't want my direct assistance."

Elizabeth didn't trust herself to respond. She fled down the corridor to her chambers, her heart pounding and her skin burning where he'd almost—but hadn't quite—touched her.

Once safely behind her locked door, she pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. The nerve of that man! To suggest such...such scandalous things. To make her body respond so treacherously to his mere proximity. To challenge her in ways that made her question everything she thought she knew about desire.

Her eyes fell on her bed, and Cecil's wicked suggestions flooded back unbidden. Do try to think of me when you're alone...

"Absolutely not," she muttered, though her fingers tingled with forbidden temptation. She would not give him the satisfaction, even in the privacy of her own chambers.

But as she lay in bed later, sleep proved elusive. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Cecil's knowing smile, felt the phantom trace of his almost-touches along her skin. His words echoed in her mind: Once you discover what real pleasure feels like, you won't be able to stop craving it.

Elizabeth rolled over, punching her pillow in frustration. She would prove him wrong. She had to. Because if she didn't—if she gave in to this maddening attraction—she would lose far more than their little challenge.

She would lose her heart to a man who had already declared he had no interest in keeping it.