Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

“ I need you to please me, husband.”

Percival groaned as the words played over and again in his head. God, she was killing him. He had never thought it possible for a man to die of extreme arousal, but he just might be the first.

But then he guessed it served him right for thinking that marrying a seemingly prim and proper young lady would allow him to continue to live his life the way he wanted. There was nothing prim and proper in the thoughts she had planted in his head, and if he were to show her even a glimpse of the evil her proximity stirred, he was sure she would demand that he stay as far away from her as possible.

Damn .

He didn’t know how he had thought that he could marry the girl who had tempted him from the very first moment they had met and then proceed to ignore her as if she did not exist.

Now that he thought about it, Louisa was never exactly demure. In the days he courted her, he could see the signs of the fiery, bold spirit she hid behind her prim facade.

The times when she had taken him to task for his tardiness, negotiated the terms of their marriage, and teased him should have been warning enough, but he had been so preoccupied with the financial and social benefits of having a wife that he had not taken the time to think about what it would actually be like to be married to Louisa.

Those proverbial scales fell off his eyes when he stood at the altar and watched her walk down the aisle, looking as beautiful as an angel—so beautiful that for a moment, he believed that she might save him from the darkness in his soul.

With every step she took towards him, she drove his arousal and obsession to greater heights, and when she finally stood beside him, the torture worsened because the scent and heat that emanated from her body had almost driven him insane. It was rosewater and some other haunting scent that seemed to be uniquely hers.

He spent the whole wedding ceremony fighting the urge to pull her to himself, bury his nose in her neck, and breathe in her scent.

With how distracted he was, he was surprised that he had managed to repeat his vows in a normal voice. But the moment he was asked to kiss his bride, he hesitated because he understood the risk of pressing his hot, aroused body anywhere against hers.

He did not understand how easily this young lady disarmed him, reducing him to a primal caveman who just wanted to mate with his bride.

It was madness because he had decided to abstain since his return to England, simply because it was never just about satisfying desires of the flesh with women. They always wanted more, except when it was transactional, like his routine visits to his favourite brothel.

Besides, his desires had changed from sweet trysts that his new wife would have no doubt expected to hard, fast coupling that would expel the excess energy from being on active duty.

She had been so innocent earlier, her eyes closing in anticipation, and he wondered why her sweet innocence aroused him when he had sampled some of the most experienced girls in the Continent, who flaunted their sexuality and nakedness rather than saw it as something shameful.

He wanted Louisa, he knew that much, but he knew she expected more than just cordiality between them even if she had agreed at the onset. She was a woman—a noble one at that—fed on romantic notions and hope of true love, and he had no such feeling to give her.

Every time he neared her and smelled her delicious scent or saw her lovely neck flush with desire, he was sorely tempted to change his mind and tell her that they could have a normal marriage, one that involved sharing and enjoying the pleasures of the marriage bed. His body agreed, for it was a means to satisfy the desire coursing through his body. But was it worth it to destroy her just for the selfish reason of satisfying his needs?

One thing he was sure of was that if they consummated their marriage, he would destroy her. She would scarcely be able to return to normalcy once his hands and darkness got hold of her, and he wasn’t that selfish.

No woman deserved to be a casualty in that battle, least of all Louisa. If he told her as much, she would no doubt make it her life’s mission to save him, but she would lose herself in the process.

So, he had decided to keep her at arm’s length, content to watch her from a distance even while he stood beside her.

He maintained a cold facade even while he imagined throwing her on his bed and spreading her sunshine-coloured hair on his pillows.

He had been mistaken to think that he could only control his response to her by suppressing his lust, but Louisa found other ways to get under his skin.

She asked questions that reopened old wounds and displayed endearing quirks that he preferred not to know if he was to keep his distance.

He soon had to leave before she destroyed what was left of his resolve and self-control.

He locked himself in his study, his sanctuary, hoping he would succeed in banishing her to the recesses of his mind by focusing on the estate’s ledgers. But the memory of her followed him here, feeding lascivious fantasies that kept him up most of the night, waking him up from short slumbers.

Several times, he had almost gone to her to soothe the ache that was now skin deep. He had held on, persuading himself that he was right in keeping his distance from her, that such maddening lust would eventually burn itself out if he didn’t see her.

He was wrong because he had thought she would not dare come in, but then his fiery sprite of a wife did dare, marching into his study with righteous rage flashing in her eyes and heating her skin.

She was magnificent in her anger, and just like that, the banked fires of his lust blazed anew. The moment she suggested that he didn’t want her, he almost laughed.

He didn’t want her? How did she come to that conclusion when he was being tortured by lust that he was sure he would go mad before the week’s end?

Before he knew it, he was walking towards her, a primal part of him enjoying the intrigue and wariness warring in her eyes as he cornered her.

She should be wary because the feelings storming inside him were nowhere near controllable, and the restraints on his self-control were growing lax with every moment she stood in his study.

When he loomed over, her pupils dilated with desire, and her breath came out in short pants. His eyes fell on her lips, the pink succulent flesh that had almost driven him to cause a scandal.

His mind tortured him, reminding him how good she felt and tasted and why he should kiss her again. He might have given in if it were not for the sounds of the distant footsteps of a maid or someone else in the hallway.

He slowly released her, not surprised when she demanded that he join her for dinner.

His fiery wife was bossy, and somehow it stirred a different kind of lust in his blood that told him she might not be entirely averse to the kind of entertainment he enjoyed.

He quickly dismissed that idea before it could take root in his mind and be actualized.

He wondered just how long he could stay, keeping himself in check while playing companion to his delectable wife. Just how long did he hope to keep his desire under leash while spending that much time with her?

Even if he managed to bring his aroused body under control, what about her? What right did he have to keep her in this marriage with no chance of satisfying her sexual urges?

Louisa was a passionate woman. She might not know it now, but in the future, she might look for means to relieve that sexual tension, and married members of the ton took lovers every day.

She might decide to take a lover. She seemed the loyal sort, but sexual frustration could push one to do things they never thought they would. Percival also reckoned that other gentlemen could recognize her innate passion with time and pursue her, seduce her until they shattered her resolve.

The thought of her taking a lover made his blood boil with fiery rage.

He would die before he allowed any man to touch her skin, kiss her delectable lips, and sink himself into the sweet warmth of her body. He could not bear it. She was his. She was his wife . She belonged to him, and no one was allowed to touch her.

That begged the question of what he was going to do. He could not very well force her to stay in a passionless marriage with him to feed his ego and possessive tendencies. That would not be fair to her. It might be selfish, but he admitted that if any man were to touch her sexually, it had to be him.

So, the question remained—was he going to consummate their marriage despite the consequences for his young, innocent wife?

It was difficult to make a decision when his aroused body was fervently arguing in favour of taking her.

To distract himself, he straightened and walked around his desk to retake his seat. Just to his right, he could see the pile of correspondence that required his attention. He had ignored it the previous night, unable to concentrate enough to sort through it.

Pulling the bundle towards him, he unraveled the string that held the letters together.

The first one was a letter of congratulations from the Duke and Duchess of Northwick, as well as several others, written by many members of the ton.

While it was tempting to feel flattered by their congratulatory messages, Percival knew the truth. This was their way of reminding him of their presence and establishing some sort of rapport with him.

While they did not care when he had sequestered himself in his home right after returning from the war, now they were scrambling to regain his favour. He was, after all, a duke, and while they might have little respect for him, they did have a healthy respect for his title. After all, who in polite society did not want to brag that they had connections to a duke no matter how dysfunctional he might be?

It sounded cold, thinking about it that way, but it was the dark reality outside his manor.

Humans were, in fact, selfish to the root. People hardly made connections unless they had something to gain, and Percival was not offended in the least.

He had seen even worse displays of this innate selfishness on the battlefield. After all, the war had started because of the selfishness of an aristocrat.

Many families were now without fathers, sons, and brothers because a man or a group of men could not control their greed.

Percy took a deep breath, hoping to distract himself from the dark turn his thoughts had taken. He sorted through the bundle, only to realize that they were all congratulatory messages, just as he had expected. But the last letter bore a familiar crest—that of the Baron Gillingham.

It was surprising because Eli was not one to write letters, apart from the occasional missive when they had to meet.

Percival picked it up, reached for his paper knife, broke the seal, and read it. By the time he got to the end of the letter, he was even more puzzled.

Why exactly did his half-brother require his help to gain entrance to the Duke of Ravenmoor’s ball?

Granted, the ball was usually exclusive for members of the Royal Family, dukes and their wives, and whatever aristocrats they deemed worthy.

It was a snobbish affair, in his opinion, and he didn’t really care for their events. He would have sworn that Eli was not interested as well, were it not for the letter demanding his help to get in.

What could Eli possibly want with men that he had condemned as snobbish several times?

Well, a man was allowed to have the ambition to raise his social standing.

It was a simple matter to write a letter. After all, the young Duke of Ravenmoor had been a close friend of Percival’s in the years before he had gone to war.

The fact that he had to write such a letter deepened the mystery that surrounded his half-brother even though he had known him for years.

He still felt that he did not truly know him. But then a man was entitled to his own secrets.

Percival’s secrets lay in the fact that he was growing increasingly smitten with the petite minx that was his wife.

He must be a masochist because even though he understood the torture that awaited him, he still looked forward to seeing her at dinner.

Perhaps she would wear one of her more provocative gowns—for his eyes only, of course.

That line of thought was enough to brand him as crazy, but he had never made claims of being sane where Louisa was concerned. He just had to make sure that his innocent, bright wife never discovered how unhinged he truly was underneath his finery.