Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

F or the remainder of the day, Edward kept arguing with Violet about which of them was more to blame for not questioning Basil’s lies, but he failed to mention that there were no stipulations attached to her inheritance.

Not even after they learned that her father had left her nearly thirty thousand pounds.

He was aware that he’d have to tell her eventually. She’d be furious when she discovered the truth, and it would eat at his conscience to keep something so massive from her for long.

Their conversation in the rain had already brought forth enough revelations for one day, and his desire for their marriage to be a happy one gave him a viable excuse to wait. He hoped to give the feelings she wanted to avoid enough time to blossom into something that didn’t frighten her so much.

Something like love.

He’d been earnest when he told her she didn’t need to concern herself with his emotions. Not because they didn’t exist, but because he intended to feel them whether it was wise or not.

Falling in love was a choice he made while fully aware that she might never feel the same. She might break his heart eventually, but it was a risk he was willing to take, because he chose to be optimistic about their future.

Just like she chose to scowl at him from across the table when he offhandedly asked, “Should we go shopping tomorrow? You could order a new gown or two.” They had just finished supper—Isabelle had requested a tray in her room—and were lingering over wine when he made the offer.

It hadn’t occurred to him that she might not be interested. Her dresses were old and frayed and shabby, and it had seemed a reasonable suggestion. Especially now that they knew the full extent of their funds.

“I don’t require a new gown,” she responded stiffly.

The one she currently wore had a hole in the elbow and could almost accommodate her thin frame twice. He wanted to argue with her, but he didn’t want to make her self-conscious, so he tried a different suggestion instead.

“Maybe you would prefer to go with Emmeline? Or with my sisters?”

“I don’t need a new gown,” she reiterated.

“Maybe not.” He tipped his head to the side as he tried to figure out why she was so adamant. “But would you like one? Or two? Or five? We can afford as many as you’d like.”

She huffed. “There is nothing wrong with my gown.”

“It has a hole.” He reached out with his finger and touched the visible skin above her elbow.

She yanked her arm away. “Stop. You’ll only make it worse.”

“I thought there was nothing wrong with your gown.”

She huffed again. “If I decide it’s time to purchase a new one, I will not require your or your siblings’ assistance.”

His sisters always visited the modiste as a group. They fawned over fabric, style, and color, and then offered bluntly harsh critiques on what best suited themselves and each other. He had assumed all women shopped together and argued whether one shade of yellow looked better or worse against their skin than another, so her insistence was unexpected.

In retrospect, he realized it was foolish of him to assume Violet had the same shopping habits as his sisters. Or that she had strong feelings about fashion. Not everyone grew up with a mother who considered beauty more important than brains, decency, and lineage.

“I’m sorry,” he said. It seemed he was destined to spend the first full day of their marriage apologizing. “I didn’t mean to suggest—you look lovely no matter the condition of your gown, and if you don’t wish to purchase something new, you will receive no further pressure from me.”

She glared across the table.

Damn. He must be more tired than he’d thought, because he’d forgotten her disdain for compliments. It would behoove him to remember his commitment to be deliberate in his word choice, because offhanded comments that flowed from his lips without consideration weren’t going to win him any favors.

She required genuine, thoughtful compliments.

Not ones he’d toss about to anyone.

He clenched the stem of his wine glass as a distressing thought occurred. Had his mother’s influence caused him to focus too much on physical appearance?

Earlier that morning, he’d looked in the mirror and not liked the image he presented. Being disheveled had made him less assured of himself. Was it wrong that he had strict standards for his own appearance?

Were his standards unfair? Or unnecessary?

He’d never considered it before, but in the flickering candlelight with his wife glaring at him, he couldn’t help questioning himself.

And her.

Why was she so upset that he wanted to take her shopping?

And why wouldn’t she explain her reasons to him?

Countless times throughout his life, he’d promised that he wouldn’t allow the lessons of his mother to influence the way he treated others. Had he unknowingly done exactly that?

Did Violet believe that he only cared about appearances?

“You have nothing to apologize for.” She fingered the small hole in her gown with her pinky as she spoke softly. “Isabelle has been nagging me about the state of our gowns for months. It’s only gotten worse since we met your family. She’s awed by the splendor of Emmeline, Belinda, Jane, and Louisa.” She tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth. “I might be a touch more sensitive about it than I should be.”

He twisted the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. It seemed he was just as sensitive as Violet, only in the opposite way. Perhaps they could find middle ground if they kept discussing it. “My mother is widely considered an unparalleled beauty. Her obsession with being admired led to an unhealthy emphasis on our appearance. She mostly ignored us while my father was alive, but after his death, she alternated between being critical and complimentary. She always had an opinion on how we looked, and I’m afraid it left an impression.”

“I can’t imagine what she had to be critical of. I’ve never seen your sisters with a hair out of place. And you—” She fluttered her fingers in his direction.

“And I?”

“Clearly know how to present yourself.”

His lips curved upward. “That feels like a compliment.”

She pressed her lips together as if she wanted to smile in return. “Just an observation.”

He would take it as a compliment.

After all, there was nothing wrong with having a wife who admired his appearance.

“Her critiques were not mean-spirited. At least I never took them that way. It was more that she has exacting standards. And an unerring eye for fashion. A decade of her guidance seems to have left an indelible impression on me.”

It was sometimes difficult to think about his mother, especially since she’d left without saying goodbye to marry a man closer to his age than her own. He didn’t begrudge her happiness, but he wished she had occasionally considered the feelings of her children when she made decisions. And that she hadn’t cared more about their appearance than their well-being.

“I didn’t intend to be critical of you. I simply thought it might be something you would enjoy.”

“You weren’t entirely wrong. I’m aware that the state of my wardrobe isn’t exactly impressive.” She rubbed her forehead. “I suppose…I’ll consider it.”

He didn’t press further. In fact, he didn’t intend to mention it again. At least, not unless she brought it up.

“Do you—” he started to say.

She spoke over him. “Would you like to retire to our room?”

The remaining wine sloshed in his glass as he sat it down and stood abruptly.

If he had the choose between attempting to converse without stumbling into one of the many topics that seemed to upset her or going upstairs and stripping the clothes from both of their bodies, there was no contest. He knew which one he preferred without any doubt.

He barely managed to keep his voice steady as he said, “I would like that very much.”

They took the stairs side by side, and with every step their bodies seemed to gravitate toward each other. At first it was the brush of her forearm against his. Then it was the whisper of her skirts against his knee. And finally, it was the scent of her as she tipped her head in his direction.

He shifted closer, his arm sliding around the curve of her waist. Just like when they’d trudged through the rain, she fit perfectly against him. He tucked her into his side and held her tight, while her hand crept under his waistcoat. With nothing but a thin layer of fabric between them, he could appreciate the warmth of her palm.

When they reached the landing, he swept her into his arms, her threadbare dress offering only the thinnest barrier between her skin and his sleeve. She tucked her face into his neck as he moved the short distance to their room and hurried inside. Practically falling on top of her as he dropped her on the bed, he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her. She didn’t seem to care that he was crushing her into the mattress as her lips attached themselves to his.

Their tongues immediately collided and then tangled with each other.

Kissing her was like nothing else he’d ever experienced. Joy radiated through his whole body. It lit him up, and the only thing that could make him stop was the need to breathe. He broke away just long enough to take a few heaving breaths before pressing his lips to hers once again.

They were both still fully clothed, with barely any skin available to touch, so her hands delved into his hair while she kissed him as feverishly as he kissed her. Gasps and moans filled the air as they battled for power, dominance, and most of all, pleasure.

They were consumed, practically mindless, and heaving for breath.

He pulled away slightly, and as if making a mutual decision that they’d never survive if they kept kissing with such ferocity, their next kiss was softer, almost languid. It wasn’t a lessening of passion, more of a declaration that they didn’t need to act as if they were desperate.

They weren’t desperate. They could do this every day for the rest of their lives.

His lips drifted away as he pressed gentle open-mouthed kisses along her jaw. She tugged his hair and urged their lips back together before tipping her head to the side and guiding him to the sensitive skin at her neck.

Too much of her body was still covered by her gown, and he had to resist tearing it straight down the middle. In some situations, that sort of ferocious desire might be welcome, but after their conversation about her gowns, he didn’t want to risk infuriating her.

“Your lips are like magic.” Her eyelids fluttered as she sighed contentedly.

“I could put them to better use if you were wearing less clothing.”

She chuckled and arched her back. “I can hardly undress while your leg is pinning me to the bed.”

He pushed himself up until he was on his knees straddling her thighs. “What about now?”

She squirmed and swatted his leg. The folds of her skirt were still trapped under his weight. “Very funny.”

He grinned and peeled off his jacket. She stopped squirming, becoming distracted as he started to unbutton his waistcoat. It was mesmerizing the way her eyes tracked him as he removed it and then his shirt.

She kept watching him until there was nothing left to take off.

For the second night in a row, he was completely naked while she was still fully clothed. Maybe it was the spellbound expression on her face, but he felt both powerful and at her mercy, and it was hotter than it should have been.

He’d gotten so lost in her gaze that he wasn’t ready when she reversed their positions, knocking him onto his back and straddling him like he weighed nothing. She shimmied down his body, dipped her head, and sucked his cock into her mouth.

He almost died.

His thoughts became blurry and indistinct.

Life had not prepared him for the sheer bliss of the warm, wet suction. Her mouth was glorious. Magical, even. She swirled her tongue around the tip, and he made a sound that was more animal than human. He didn’t attempt to thrust because he didn’t need to—he was going to explode if she didn’t stop the delicious torture.

“Violet.” Her name was a gasp.

Her fingers clenched around his hips as she held him in place. He tensed and spilled into her throat. He was still tingling and gasping for breath, trying to regain his wits, when she straightened and, with a bit of maneuvering, removed her dress and chemise.

It was lucky that he’d studied the pictures in the little blue book that had been hidden at Greydon Hall so closely, because he might have been shocked by what she did next if he hadn’t. She shimmied up his body and straddled his face. Her thighs brushed against his cheeks as she sank onto his mouth. He responded in the only way he knew how, by licking into her folds, his tongue exploring until he found the exact spot that made her muscles quiver.

He got drunk on her scent as he tormented and teased her, determined to give her the same bliss that she’d given him. Paying careful attention to her reactions allowed him to incite a feverish need within her. Gasping when he flicked his tongue quickly, she groaned when he sucked gently.

“More,” she mumbled repeatedly.

More of what? Which action would send her over the edge?

It would take time and practice for him to completely master her body, but he was committed to discovering every single way he could make her moan.

Without warning, she clutched the sides of his head and held him still as her whole body clenched. Bliss reflected on her face as her orgasm rolled through her. Unable to resist, he sucked in the scent of her, musky and feminine, as she shifted downward enough to collapse. Her stomach pressed against the side of his face as she sprawled on top of him.

Satisfaction settled in his heart. She was his.

Unable to believe his luck, he turned his head and pressed his smile against the soft skin of her abdomen.

“Am I suffocating you?” she asked, her voice muffled.

“You can suffocate me anytime you want,” he responded, entirely serious.

She laughed and moved, sliding down further until her head rested against his chest. He pulled a blanket over them and started to drift.

He loved her.

He’d never been surer of anything in his life.

“I don’t know if I can stop myself,” she whispered against his skin.

“Stop yourself?” he repeated, struggling to regain enough consciousness to converse.

“From falling for you,” she said, so softly he might have imagined it.

He surfaced enough to whisper, “I hope you can’t.”