Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

The numbness evaporated. She looked at him, her lips thin. “And what of you, Brent? Are you not a gentleman and my husband?” She didn’t wait for him to reply, her fury too powerful. “Why is it you used to accuse me of all sorts of awful things? Why is it that I, a woman, am to be called a slut, a harlot, a—and you, a man, can bed as many women as you like, and still hurl your vile insults at me? Why?”

He’d never before thought of a man’s physical desires in that light before. Hell, he’d never before been married. “Women,” he began, trying to sort through a logical explanation, “are different. They don’t seem to want—that is, they are more—”

She achieved a creditable sneer. “Ah, so if I am different, then why did you think me like you—a harlot and a—”

“That isn’t what I meant, exactly.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Look, Byrony, I was wrong about you, completely wrong. When I was young, there was a woman who, well, taught me things that weren’t exactly correct.”

“You’re telling me that you were seduced? But women don’t like that sort of thing, Brent. Or did you pay even then, as a young man?”

“No,” he said, and she heard the ripple of remembered pain in his voice, saw the bitterness in his eyes. “She was my stepmother.”

Byrony refused to feel sorry for him. “So you paint all women with the same brush, is that it, Brent?”

“I suppose that I have,” he said slowly. “It was wrong of me. Particularly when it came to you. It’s just that I was drawn to you from the very first, Byrony. I won’t lie to you. Maybe I wanted to believe that old man’s lies in San Diego. It kept the world sane for me. It kept me intact and whole. When I saw you again, so beautiful, so sweet, I thought—Well, never mind what I thought because it didn’t last long. You had married Butler, a rich man, and were pregnant. And I laughed at myself for believing you were different.”

“And you hurt me.”

“Yes, and I was wrong.” She was still looking at him with incredulity, and something else. Anger, more than likely. She was probably remembering his words to Maggie. He didn’t owe her any explanation, none at all. He was a man and her husband. He could do precisely as he pleased. With discretion now, of course.

“Enough of this foolishness. I want to make love to my bride.”

She stared at him, disbelieving. “Go to Celeste. Go to your mistress.”

He turned away from her and began to pull off his clothes. When he’d stripped to his breeches, he said over his shoulder, “Would you like me to assist you out of your wedding gown?”

“No. I am sleeping in the sitting room.”

He whipped around at that. “The devil you are.” He unfastened the buttons on his trousers.

“Stop that.”

“No.” He stepped out of his trousers and methodically folded them and laid them over the back of a chair with his other clothes.

He straightened, his hands on his hips. “Look well, Byrony. I hope you like your husband’s body, because I am the only man you will ever see naked.”

“No,” she said. “Maybe not.”

He drew on his patience. “Byrony, you are my wife and I fully intend to make love to you. We can do this one of two ways. You can fight me or you can enjoy me. Which is it to be?”

Her head fell and her shoulders slumped.

He said nothing, merely walked behind her and began to unfasten the myriad small satin-covered buttons down her back. He wanted to kiss the nape of her neck. The smooth flesh with the tiny wispy curls. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to make her forget his ill-chosen words, he wanted—

“There,” he said, pulling the gown downward. “Would you like me to help you with the rest?”

“No,” she said. “Please, Brent, just leave me alone.”

He shook his head, and said aloud, “No. But I will have a bit of brandy while you finish.”

He forced himself to walk away from her.

Byrony wondered if all women were born under an unlucky star, then thought of Chauncey Saxton, and sighed. Delaney Saxton was handsome, clever, and terribly kind. And she, fool that she was, cared for this man, a man who looked upon her as a possession, as a thing to do with just as he pleased.

“I don’t intend to drink brandy all night,” she heard him say from behind her. “You have five minutes, Byrony.”

She jerked off her chemise, petticoats, and underthings. She was reaching for her nightgown when she felt his hand on her bare arm.

“No,” he said. “I want you now.”