Page 73 of More or Less a Countess
Nick didn’t touch her again, and he never said another word.
When she woke the next morning, she was alone in the bed.
Nick was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
Nick’s head was throbbing, his eyes were gritty, and his neck was so sore from being jammed against the carriage window all night that if there’d been any blood to speak of, he would have sworn he’d been decapitated.
And yet despite all this pain and annoyance, his cock remained as hard as a slab of marble.
He ran a weary hand down his face. He didn’t recall everything that happened last night after he’d stormed out and left Violet alone in their bedchamber, but he did recall that the rest of the evening involved a great deal of whiskey, and he’d stumbled upstairs in a haze of liquor, vowing to fall into a drunken stupor before he could do any more damage.
Except he hadn’t fallen asleep. Instead, the moment he’d slipped between the sheets he’d been overwhelmed by his lust for his wife, and instead of resisting his baser instincts as he’d promised himself he would, like most sotted scoundrels, he’d yielded to temptation.
He’d touched her. Stroked and caressed and tasted her until she’d cried out, then come to a quivering release in his arms. The way she’d arched and squirmed under his fingers, her slick heat—
Christ. He’d been hard ever since, which seemed a fitting punishment for a man who’d reduced his new bride to solitary weeping on their wedding night. When he’d touched her face, and his hand had come away damp with her tears…
Had she been crying for him, or for herself? Or for Lord Derrick?
It shouldn’t matter. Her tears couldn’t make him forget what she’d done, yet those drops on his fingertips felt like a blow to the chest. His heart was still reeling from it.
He let his head fall back against the squabs and squeezed his lids closed over stinging, bloodshot eyes. He and Violet had been wed for less than one day. Already there were enough lies and betrayals between them to doom their marriage, and now there was the drunken, illicit touching, as well. To make matters worse, after he’d given her pleasure, he’d behaved like every other sotted rake who’s committed a debauchery—that is, he’d slunk off to sleep in his carriage.
He should have stayed away from her last night. He should have known as soon as he lay down next to her and inhaled her warm, seductive scent he wouldn’t be able to keep from touching her.
That there would be more touching was a foregone conclusion, of course, since touching was a necessary component of getting an heir upon one’s wife, and getting an heir upon his wife was a necessity if he was ever going to escape England. Butthattouching would be of the clinical, detached sort—the sort one engaged in only as a means to an end.
Purposeful, not passionate.
Last night he’d given in to the hungry, urgent sort of touching, but it wouldn’t happen again. There would be no more stroking her hair, or whispering in her ear—no more tenderness or passion. He’d be respectful of her, of course, but anything more than that would only encourage Violet to believe there was a chance they could overcome the obstacles between them.
There wasn’t.
Nick pressed a hand over his closed eyes, but it would take far more than his hand to erase the image of those sketches. They were burned into his brain like a brand, so deep even a scalpel wouldn’t excise them. He’d nearly drowned himself in whiskey last night, and even that hadn’t been enough to make him forget that drawing she’d done of him.
The Selfish Rake.
Christ, what a fool he was. That day they’d visited the Hunterian, when she’d wrapped her arms around his neck in his carriage afterwards and begged to touch him…
I want to. Not for a sketch. For you. Just for you.
He’d believed her, every word. She’d kissed him so sweetly, and he thought he’d felt truth in every stroke of her hands. He’d been out of his mind with desire for her that day, but his hopes had all disintegrated into smoldering ashes last night when he discovered what she really thought of him.
Just for you…
What had been moments of exquisite tenderness for him was likely nothing more than an experiment for her—a salacious chapter for the bluestockings.
How to Break a Rake’s Heart.
At least she hadn’t taken a sketch of him when he was shuddering to release beneath her. He supposed he should be grateful for that much. But then perhaps it hadn’t been about him at all. Perhaps she’d been thinking of Lord Derrick the entire time, imagining it washishands stroking her,hislips tasting her skin…
Nick dug his fingers into his scalp, but there was no escaping it.
Violet had been in love with Lord Derrick. Perhaps she still was.
Lord Derrick had broken Violet’s heart when he married Lady Honora.
