Page 30 of The Prince’s Wallflower Wife (The Wallflower Academy #4)

I care for you, Daphne. I hope, one day, you can care for me.

Daphne blinked. Then she blinked again. Then she swallowed, very slowly, and tried to replay in her head the words she thought she had just heard. Just to make sure.

I care for you, Daphne. I hope, one day, you can care for me.

No. No, that could not be right. It simply did not happen.

Handsome princes did not realise they cared about wallflowers, even if they were their wives.

The dreams she had dreamt, the daydreams she had indulged in, had all included something like this.

Something devastatingly romantic. Some sort of declaration, usually focusing on his deep obsession for her.

But affection? No, that was not something she had dared to hope for, even in her dreams.

Christoph was looking at her with concern, as though he had accidentally cursed before a lady and was waiting to see what social punishment she would exact from him.

‘Daphne,’ he said softly. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

Yes, she had. She had, and Daphne could not believe it.

Gentlemen—any men—did not care about her, about ladies like her.

About wallflowers. They did not make declarations by the fireside of adoration and affection.

They did not usually wait long enough to discover that she had a mind, passion and interests, and was more than a shy woman who preferred to listen to conversations than contribute to them.

So she must have made a mistake. She must have misunderstood. That was all.

‘No,’ she said carefully. ‘No, I don’t think I heard what you said.’

There was a teasing smile across his face, and it filled her with certainty that Christoph could not have said what she thought he’d said. No, there was too much mischief in that smile.

‘Only someone like you,’ Christoph said gently, ‘could hear a declaration of affection from your own husband and believe you misheard.’

Flames licked her skin. Daphne did not need to see herself to know she was flushing a dark red, the heat scalding her face, likely leaving a mark. A brand. A declaration of affection.

She swallowed, mouth dry this time, and said the inside thought almost without thinking. ‘A…a declaration of affection?’

‘Yes,’ Christoph said. There was pink in his cheeks too, now she came to look at them. As though he were…ashamed? Nervous? Unsure of himself? ‘A declaration of…of how I feel.’

Daphne wetted her lips, and tried not to notice how her husband’s focus flickered to her mouth.

Attraction, yes. They could not have shared what…

they had shared without some attraction.

And he was willing to give pleasure without receiving it, which was far more than she had expected from any man. But more?

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice croaking. ‘But could you repeat that?’

His chuckle was not malicious, and held no teasing. Still, he did laugh. ‘You are not one for hearing compliments, are you, Daphne? About yourself, I mean.’

Daphne looked away, but only for a moment. There was something so accepting about Christoph. She had never felt judged by him for a single moment that she had been in his company, not truly.

And she did not feel judged now.

‘I… I did not want to get my hopes up,’ she said softly, looking back at him. ‘We had been very clear with each other—’

‘We did not know each other then,’ Christoph interjected.

‘We were quite clear with each other—in fact, as I recall, it was you who stated quite plainly that you would not fall in love with me,’ Daphne said, her lips curling.

‘I am not saying I am in love with you now,’ said her husband quietly.

‘But I would be a fool if I did not admit that even then, when I first told you that love was not possible in our marriage, I was nevertheless concerned for your welfare. That…that I wanted what was best for you. That I cared for you.’

She’d have been wrong if she’d thought she could not grow any hotter. Tendrils of flaming fervour were curling around her ribs, radiating across her body and making it very difficult to breathe.

Cared…cared for…

‘I would rather you did not say such things,’ she said hoarsely, her fingers knotting together in her lap, the fire far too close, ‘if you have any qualms about… I mean, if you do not mean them.’

Daphne gasped and ceased all speech as Christoph rose from his seat and moved to sit beside her. He was too close—and yet not close enough, their skin not touching, the intimacy far less than she wanted.

‘Daphne,’ Christoph said quietly, his breeches brushing against the skirts of her gown, and she hardly knew where to look.

‘Daphne. You are kind, and patient, and you do not have a bad bone in your body. And you have such depth to you—such intelligence, such wit. You are careful with others because you know the value of them.’

It was impossible to bear hearing, and Daphne could not help but lean closer.

Oh, these words, spoken by this man. It was wonderful, heady stuff.

‘You…you cannot mean…?’

‘And I would be a liar if I did not admit that I am devastatingly attracted to you,’ Christoph murmured.

Oh, saints preserve her. She had known, of course—Christoph had not hidden his desire for her—but still. It was quite another thing for him to say the words aloud. ‘Dev…devastatingly attracted? To me?’

When Daphne said it out loud, it sounded preposterous. No man had ever spent more than five minutes looking at her, and the few who had spared a passing glance had never liked what they’d seen. Had they?

‘Damn it, Daphne, you cannot be that ignorant of your beauty, can you?’

Christoph had at some point leaned closer. Daphne did not know when, but it was playing havoc with her senses and making it difficult to breathe.

Which was the least of her worries. Before she could stop him, before she could even think of why he was doing such a thing, Christoph had slipped an arm down the back of the sofa to her shoulder and was pulling her into his chest. His other hand was…

on her knee! On her knee through her gown, admittedly, but still on her knee!

And when he spoke, which he did in a low murmur, his breath blossomed over her neck, spreading tingles of anticipation for pleasure she knew she would not be given, and it was agony.

Sweet agony.

‘Daphne,’ Christoph hummed into her ear. ‘Daphne, you are beautiful—so beautiful that I want to touch every single part of you. Every part.’

She shivered. She could not help it—the embellished words somehow poured through her like warm water, delicate like jewels, sparkling like sunlight.

‘And I want to do more than touch,’ Christoph continued, a hardness accompanying the softness in his voice. ‘I want to caress, I want to taste. I want my mouth on every part of your skin.’

Daphne swallowed hard, her throat dry, an ache building now between her thighs as she thought of the last time Christoph had his mouth on her skin.

I ache for you, Christoph. For the way you touched me.

Oh, he couldn’t say such things—and all she wanted was for him to say these things. All she would want, for the rest of her life, was to be spoken to like this. To know herself to be this desired. To feel Christoph’s touch…

His fingers were stroking the bare skin of her shoulder now, gently and with purpose, his fingertips brushing heat through her like a furnace.

Daphne tried to speak, she really did, but what could she say?

What words would be sufficient? How could she even claim to understand precisely what these words were doing to her?

Burning her, marking her for him. As though she could ever be anyone else’s now.

‘And once I’ve kissed and tasted every part of you,’ Christoph continued, his melodious voice low and urgent, ‘I want to pick you up and carry you upstairs, lay you out on the bed with not a stitch of clothing on you and worship you.’

Daphne’s eyelashes fluttered, no longer able to remain open.

How could they, with this onslaught of desire?

‘And then…’

‘And then?’ she whispered, unable to help herself. ‘Christoph? Christoph!’

Her exclamation was impossible to swallow down—not when she opened her eyes to find that the hand caressing her knee had moved. It was now at the bodice of her gown, the ribbons being tugged, the fabric loosening around her breasts to reveal her stays.

Daphne slowly raised her head to look into Christoph’s eyes.

There was hunger there, yes, but also devotion.

What she thought was devotion. How was she supposed to know, never having experienced anything like this?

But Christoph would not lie to her. There were no secrets between them, there had never been any need for them.

‘Wh-what are you doing?’ Daphne knew it was a foolish question the moment the words passed her lips.

It was obvious, what he was doing, what he wanted. Had he not already told her? Had he not shown her with his eagerness to gain access to her body?

Christoph’s smile was roguish. ‘Well, this is a real marriage now, is it not?’

‘A…a real marriage?’

‘Arranged, yes, but no longer merely an arrangement ,’ he said lightly.

‘We respect each other, Daphne. Love…love is another matter. I told you, I shall never fall in love. I cannot risk the hurt, the pain of loss. But this—perhaps a new understanding? I don’t want the rules, the restrictions, the negotiations to still stand. I… I want you as my wife.’

As my wife.

The words rang through Daphne’s mind and she could not help but flush.

She needed to tell him—she knew that—and yet the words had always been impossible to say, getting stuck in her throat, becoming tangled with inside thoughts that never made it to her lips. She’d spent so much of her life never speaking, and it was a difficult habit to break.

I carry your child.