Chapter 13

William stood up sharply, as if he had sat down on a pin. For a second, he did not recognize the glittering, breathtaking goddess standing in front of him.

Her strawberry-blonde hair had been teased into curls and fashioned into a loose bun, allowing more locks than usual to fall free around her face. Her lips were redder than he remembered them, as if she had lightly dabbed them with the juice of a blackberry—subtle but disarming, making it impossible for him to look away from her mouth.

At least, it would have been impossible if it had not been for that gown drawing his gaze lower. It was of the deepest emerald green, almost black in the dim light of the private box, shimmering with what must have been thousands of lighter green beads. The capped sleeves were short, exposing the peaks of her freckle-dusted shoulders, and the neckline was low enough to drive any man to distraction. Trimmed with gold lace, it was as if she had meant to highlight her tempting bosom.

A ribbon of greenish gold cinched in her waist in a fashion that would undoubtedly see her name in the scandal sheets. It was not the done thing—even he knew that. Yet, he could not stop staring, admiring her dramatic silhouette.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, recovering as quickly as he could.

She swayed her hips as she walked closer… and continued right past him to the right-hand chair. "I have come to watch the opera."

"You are supposed to be at Stonebridge," he said, moving behind her. He gripped the top edge of her seat and leaned in, aware that the entire auditorium was probably observing them. "I thought you did not tolerate cheating."

She stared straight ahead. "I am not cheating. I am here to watch the opera, then I plan to leave to spend the evening at my sister's townhouse."

"In that gown, you will not be going anywhere," he murmured, biting his lip as he inhaled the tortuous scent of her. Verbena and lavender and something warmer, more seductive that he could not name.

She smiled but still would not look at him. "Oh, so you like it?"

"Like it?" He could not begin to describe the effect it was having on him, not with so many eyes on them.

I like it so much that I will feel simply awful when I tear it off you…

"This is not you," he said instead, bending lower until his lips were so close to her neck that he could sense her pulse. "Who has urged you to do this, kitten? You have not broken one of my rules, have you?"

He had received a letter from her two days ago informing him that his mother had come to the manor to offer her congratulations. She had also told him that it was nothing she could not deal with herself. Now, he was beginning to wish he had ridden back to his estate… but then he would not have been blessed with the glorious sight of her in this gown.

"I have not, my feral tomcat," she replied, tilting her neck slightly. A subtle gesture exposing that delicate skin to his lips, as if daring him to kiss it. "I wrote to you, like you asked. My being here has nothing to do with her. It was my choice, for I rather thought I let you slip away too easily."

He swallowed thickly. "Does that mean you are trying to make things hard for me?"

"All I am trying to do is watch the opera," she replied in a casual tone that made him want to burst with frustration. He would have taken a quarrel over that tormenting indifference.

At last, she turned, her face so close to his that it took everything he possessed not to kiss her right then and there. Her lips curled into a teasing smile as she whispered, "If you do not like the gown, I shall not purchase another like it." Her eyes gleamed, mischief sparkling. "There, my darling husband, are you satisfied?"

"Not at all," he growled, gripping the back of the chair until his knuckles whitened. She was not supposed to be a temptress. Worse, he was not supposed to fall for it.

She put her finger to her lips. "Hush now, Wolfie, and retreat to your seat. The performance is about to begin."

As if she had commanded it, the lights all around the auditorium were dimmed to darkness, and the footlights on the stage flared into life. The curtains swung back to reveal the first scene, and a robust woman in a draped, Roman-style gown began to sing in a shivering soprano.

She could have been singing in English instead of Italian, and William still would not have understood a word; he was too fixated on the minx that was, somehow, his wife.

I suspect the performance began just before you entered the box, kitten.

For this Lydia was not the one he had left behind. This was an otherworldly being, come to torture him with her dismissals.

But two could play that game.

Sliding his hand along the back of the chair, his fingertips lightly grazed the back of her neck. She shivered a little, sitting up straighter.

Above the sound of the tenor who had just begun to sing, William took his chair and placed it directly next to Lydia. He sat down and did not glance at her, spreading his legs wider so that his thigh had no choice but to press against hers.

One sideways peek at her bosom, and he saw what he had hoped to see—her breath had quickened.

He could not resist leaning in. "I will pay for your gown."

"It is paid for," she replied in that same infuriatingly casual tone.

"Not this one," he said, undeterred. "You will need a replacement."

She raised an eyebrow. "If you like it, why would I need a replacement?"

"Because there will be nothing left of it when you finally allow me into your bed," he whispered, bringing his hand up to that sensitive nape of hers.

He caressed the soft skin, his loins burning with a vengeance unlike anything he had ever experienced as a faint gasp slipped past her lips.

"Do you remember what mask I was wearing the night we met?" he said.

Her throat moved in a swallow. "You know I do, Wolfie."

She kept calling him that. He would have to put a stop to it but not right now.

"If you unleash a beast in me, kitten, do not expect your fine garments to be spared. There will be no time for careful unbuttoning when you say the word that I may have you. I will strip you bare and bask in the glory of what lies before me. I will?—"

"Might you cease this flirtation, husband?" She met his gaze. "It will not work, and I cannot hear what they are singing, with you whispering in my ear."

He blinked at her calm tone, drawing his hand away from her neck. But rather than leaving him cold, that rejection did something he could not have anticipated—it made the fire within him burn hotter. It seared him, pushing him toward the brink of doing something very stupid in a very public place. A kiss to startle her out of whatever this stirring fa?ade was.

Reining in his wandering mind, he sat back in his chair and did not remove his gaze from the stage for the rest of the performance. If she had come to watch the opera, that was what they would do, even if it killed him.

Lydia was dazzling, making a debut as the Duchess of Stonebridge that was bound to be remembered. After the performance was over, the married couple had been bombarded with well wishes and congratulations, and countless ladies asking about her gown. Meanwhile, countless men had stared lewdly until they caught William's warning glare and immediately dropped their gazes.

By the time they reached William's carriage, he was not in the best of moods. It was one thing for her to parade herself in front of him like that in that divine gown, but it was quite another for her to laugh and smile and thank other gentlemen for their compliments while wearing that wretched, delicious thing.

He tutted as he held her hand and helped her into the carriage. "Another rule broken."

She sat down on the squabs. "What rule?"

"Not flirting with any other gentlemen when we are in public together," he replied, getting into the carriage.

"I was not flirting. I was being polite."

He laughed stiffly. "You forget, I was watching you."

"You cannot have been watching very closely. If you had been, you would have seen that my smiles were merely courtesy. After all, did you not want a wife who could earn you excellent connections?" She gestured to the still-busy steps of the Opera House. "At least five gentlemen invited you to tea while their wives have invited me to promenade. This is what you wanted."

He sat down opposite her, furious that he could not argue with her point. She had done wonders for his reputation and his position in Society by turning up that night, and he had been invited for tea with gentlemen who, otherwise, would not have given him a second thought.

This is what you wanted…

The words turned around and around in his dazed mind, for he had thought he knew what he wanted. Now, he was not so sure. He had thought he could last a month. He had thought he could have a distant marriage. He had thought his will was stronger than hers. He had thought she would break first. He had thought that when he finally lay with her, it would be a functional matter—not passionless, but not anything new either.

She had burst in and confused him, thoroughly, behaving in a way that should have appalled him. Yet, his arousal only confused him more.

"Should you not tell the driver the address of my sister's residence?" Lydia asked, searching for something in her reticule. While he was in turmoil, she was not even looking at him.

He smiled. "There is no need."

"And why is that?"

"I told you, you are not going anywhere in that gown," he replied. "Nowhere but my townhouse, where you belong as my duchess."

Lydia smiled back, but it did not reach her beautiful eyes. "Well, I hope you have prepared a bedchamber for me."

"There is one adjoining mine."

"With a lock?"

His smile tightened. "Naturally."

"Very well. I am tired, and I see no reason to argue." She turned her gaze out of the window, resting her chin on her hand. "A bed is a bed. As long as we are each in our own, that is agreeable."

As the carriage pulled away from the Opera House, he wished he had chosen to sit beside her. Sitting opposite was its own sort of trial, for the way she had positioned her body was nothing short of enrapturing, as if she were a muse posing for a famous artist.

Her back curved as she leaned toward the window, her legs turned out at an angle, her slender neck as elegant as that of a swan, her profile the most captivating thing he had ever seen.

Although, he wondered if he would be thinking the same thing if she had succumbed to his flirtations. Was it the forbidden element that made her so enticing, or was it just… her?