Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

L ouisa woke up annoyed and sad. Having come to terms with the fact that her husband probably did not find her attractive, she had resolved to live the rest of her life ignoring him. But it seemed that was easier said than done, for the moment he sat down to rest from the day’s activities, she had been immediately overwhelmed by a melancholy so acute that she had burst into tears.

She had committed the worst crime a lady stuck in a marriage of convenience could ever make—she had fallen in love with her husband when he did not feel the same.

She did not know how much and how long she could bear his rejection. Already she could feel resentment building in her heart. She loved him, but she did not think he was worth losing her sanity.

She was dragged out of her reverie by the sound of her husband knocking on her door. The sound filled her with equal parts anger and embarrassment. There was no way she was going to allow him to see her in her disheveled state, so she had kept quiet, wishing that he would go away and allow her to pull herself together.

When she heard the sound of his footsteps retreating, instead of the profound relief she had hoped to feel, a curious blend of disappointment and loneliness welled up inside her, tightening her chest.

She had taken dinner in her room, and afterward, she had stayed up for most of the night, waiting for her husband to return while her mind conjured images of him engaging in salacious activities with someone other than her.

She wondered if he had gone to visit a mistress in town. It was widely known that most noblemen kept mistresses to spare their wives’ ‘sensibilities’. It was definitely not out of place if Percival had one, especially since he had made a habit of avoiding her bed. But Louisa was not comfortable with it. Not at all.

The thought of him in some other woman’s arms made her blood boil with jealousy. He had promised her fidelity, and he was going to keep his vow. She would make sure to remind him of it. She could never share her husband with anyone, no matter the circumstance. He was hers. He belonged to her just as she belonged to him.

Getting out of bed, she caught a splash of colour out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see a large box on the only sofa in her room.

She picked up the box and unwrapped it to find a glittering masterpiece of a ball gown. It was sapphire-blue with an empire waist and a v-shaped neckline, and it came with arm-length gloves.

It was absolutely beautiful.

The box also contained a note that told her that the beautiful creation was a gift from her husband for their first ball together as a married couple.

Just like that, her anger vanished into thin air, a hopeful anticipation taking its place. Wherever Percival had gone the night before might have brought about some change in him, but she was hesitant to trust its durability.

She was unwilling to take any risk with her heart should he decide to change his mind, like he often did. But her heart, the foolish organ, was already beating an excited tattoo in her chest. She truly hoped, for both their sakes, that this was a sign of vulnerability on her husband’s part because she did not think her heart could take another cruel rejection.

After folding the dress back into the box, she prepared for the day ahead, performing her morning ablutions, bathing, and dressing with the help of Anne, who seemed more excited than she was about the new dress. Louisa couldn’t blame her; the dress was indeed a fashion enthusiast’s envy.

In no time she was standing in front of her husband’s study. She knocked once, and when his unusually soft voice bade her entry, she stepped inside.

His strong back was turned to her. He appeared to be intently gazing at something beyond the windows. She was contemplating stepping closer to see what it was when he turned to her, his grey eyes twinkling with a familiar light as they settled on her face.

“Good morning, Duchess,” he greeted, a rueful smile curving his lips. “I trust you had a good night’s rest?”

“I wouldn’t say it was good,” she replied honestly, walking towards the nearest shelf to peruse its contents. “I can only say it was sufficient. Thank you for your concern.”

“You are welcome,” he replied from somewhere behind her, his rumbling voice making goosebumps spread across the tender skin of her neck.

Turning abruptly, she forced herself to look into the blazing brilliance of his eyes. “I came to thank you for the dress—it is absolutely beautiful. Thank you.”

“You deserve that and more, Duchess. In case you do not realize it,” he continued, shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, “I am apologizing for my horrid behaviour these past few days.” A self-deprecating smile touched his lips. “Do you think you can forgive me?” he asked, boyish hope flickering in his eyes.

“It would be quite terrible of me not to accept such a magnificent apology, don’t you think?” she asked with a teasing smile. “Apology accepted, Percy.”

“Why, thank you, Your Grace,” he offered with an exaggerated bow, coaxing a laugh out of her. “But I do believe the dress is missing something.” He hurriedly opened his desk drawers and rummaged through them.

“The dress is a masterpiece. I hardly think it requires any more embellishments,” she said, her eyes following his movements greedily, drinking in the play of sunlight on his hair and his broad shoulders. The ones that she was presently fighting the urge not to touch.

“Trust me when I say that what I have in mind will be perfect…” he trailed off as he continued rummaging through his desk drawers.

Suddenly, he let out a cry of triumph.

“Here it is.” He pulled out a small box and handed it to her, a wide smile on his face. “Open it.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, she took the box carefully and placed it on the desk, before opening it. She was immediately struck dumb by the brilliance of the sapphire that winked back at her from its bed in the velvet lining of the box.

“Percy,” she breathed, looking up into his proud face. “This is beautiful.”

“I thought it would complement your fair skin and brown eyes,” he said in a low voice. “Turn around let me put it on you.”

She turned her back to him and waited while he brushed her hair over her shoulder, baring her neck and leaving it vulnerable to the warmth of his breath and the feverish sensations his fingers stirred when they brushed against her skin.

When she felt the cold stone settle on her skin, she had to suppress a sigh of relief at finally being released from the tortuous sensations that Percival wrought just by being close to her.

“It is perfect… the perfect contrast to your eyes,” he said hoarsely as he turned her around, his hot gaze heightening the feverish sensations within her.

“Yes,” she replied, averting her gaze.

She reached blindly for a book on the closest shelf, said a thank you, and muttered something about returning this book as well before she nearly ran out of the room to escape the lust that radiated from her husband’s body in waves.

No matter how she thought about it, her husband was dangerously attractive, and he was most lethal to her self-control when he was being attentive to her.

God save her because a few more of these tender moments and she might throw herself at the man, not caring if he rejected her or not. It was a testament to the fact that she thought it was worth it if he would kiss her like he had on that long-forgotten night, less than a week ago.

The man was slowly driving her mad, and somehow she could not bring herself to care.

She was a vision straight out of his fantasies, Percival thought as he watched her descend the stairs. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her to join him. She was a siren sent to torture him to death with desire.

The sapphire-blue gown she wore had a fitted, low-cut bodice that offered ample view of her cleavage, which was quite generous. The skirt of her dress draped over her hips delicately, accentuating her curves. The sight of her stirred his arousal such that he contemplated taking her back to her room and ravishing her.

In the end, his sense of honour won out. He led her to the carriage and handed her in, before taking his seat opposite her. He couldn’t stop staring at her. He seemed to have developed an obsession with her lips—those plump, sassy, delicious lips that glittered invitingly, tempting him to have a taste. And he desperately wanted a taste, especially since he knew how soft and sweet her lips felt under his.

With great effort, he tore his eyes away from the temptation of her lips, only to stare at her shamelessly flaunted cleavage. The modiste had made the dress with catching gentlemen’s eyes in mind, and she had succeeded spectacularly because Percival’s eyes were roaming over his wife’s body and his hands were curled into fists at his sides, itching to touch her. The dress, and the woman who wore it, seemed to have been designed to drive him mad with desire.

His eyes flicked to her face to see that she was blushing furiously, obviously aware of his obsessive stare.

“You look beautiful,” he offered, his voice hoarse with desire and the effort to hold on to the thin tethers of his self-control.

“I thank you, Your Grace,” Louisa replied demurely, wringing her hands nervously.

That action drew his eyes to her hands. How slim and pale they looked, and how good they would feel as they tightened around a certain part of his body. That thought was followed by lucid fantasies of making love to her in this carriage. Of laying her delicious body on the seat, her hair flowing like sunlight through his fingers while he drew out her moans until he pushed her to the pinnacle of her pleasure, watching her splinter apart while he buried himself in the warm heaven of her body.

His fantasies grew even hotter and filthier from there, and by the time they arrived at the ball, he was sporting a full erection that did not look ready to subside anytime soon.

By sheer force of will and some hastily conjugated verbs in Latin, he managed to bring his body under control—at least enough for him not to look like he had stuffed a wooden piker down his pantaloons.

Taking her arm, he led her into the ballroom, where the ton had gathered for one of their many balls. The silence that fell over the room the minute they were announced was ominous. Every eye was glued to the entrance, where Percival was slowly leading his wife to the center of the room.

Instead of feeling embarrassed, a primitive part of him enjoyed watching the emotions on their faces, usually starting with curiosity, then disgust when they spotted his face, then dismissal as they shifted their focus to his wife.

He didn’t blame them—this was the first time he was making an entrance into polite society as the Duke of Colborne, so it was only natural that they were curious. Some of them even looked disappointed that he did not have horns or fangs coming out of his lips.

When they found him too ordinary or disgusting, their gazes naturally gravitated to the beautiful woman on his arm.

At that moment, he wondered why anyone would think that her scar detracted from her charm when most of the gentlemen were staring at her in fascination, their tongues almost lolling out of their mouths. Their lascivious interest was so obvious that he fought the urge to knock some of their teeth out so they kept their tongues in their mouths and their offending eyes off his wife.

Looking down into her face, he could see the pity swimming in the warm depths of her eyes. The emotion made him uncomfortable. Of all the emotions he wanted to see glittering in her warm brown eyes, pity was not one of them.

“I need a drink,” Percival muttered under his breath, looking around the room in search of the punch bowl while studiously avoiding his wife’s gaze.

“You can go, husband. I think I spotted Isabella somewhere in the crowd. I will go look for her.”

“All right,” he said, nodding.

He gently released her arm before striding off in search of a drink to drown out the anger and loneliness that seemed to consume him under the scornful eyes of the ton.