Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

TWENTY-ONE

Brent stared wistfully down at her sleeping face, then slowly, resolutely, pulled away. She stirred, said his name, and he stilled. He felt her warm hand glide downward and sucked in his breath. “No,” he said, grabbing her hand.

Byrony blinked away the sleep, but the dreamy, soft feelings still held her. “I missed you,” she said, stretching against him.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, twisting away from her.

“Oh no, not yet. It’s still so early, and don’t you always want—” She broke off. She’d wanted to tell him that she enjoyed their early mornings together, enjoyed how, since that first morning, he’d always awakened her with his lovemaking. What was wrong?

He’s probably exhausted from spending all those hours last night with his mistress.

She was coldly awake now. “I didn’t hear you come in last night,” she said. “Were you very late?”

“Late enough,” he said, his body warring with his mind. Maggie’s words had haunted him a good hour before he’d finally fallen asleep. Pregnant. Marriage was too new to him to consider creating a son or daughter. It was damned terrifying, as a matter of fact. What if she were already pregnant? He’d dismissed it because he’d wanted to. After all, hadn’t he made love to her only that one time? Of course he’d ignored Saint. But there was no excuse, no logic at all for what he’d done since they’d been married. It took Maggie’s sarcasm to penetrate his brain. It shook him, and he quickly pulled away from Byrony and rose. The room was chilly and he shivered as he pulled on his dressing gown.

“Brent?”

He didn’t turn until his dressing gown was firmly belted at his waist. “Yes?”

“I don’t understand.”

No, you probably don’t, he wanted to tell her. You’re used to me falling all over you in the mornings, aren’t you? But he wouldn’t again, not until he’d found out how to prevent conception.

“Nothing to understand,” he said easily. “I’ve got a lot to do today and want an early start.” He didn’t mean to look at her again, at least not until he had a firm grip on himself, but he gazed briefly over his shoulder as he headed for the washbasin and his razor. He would have had to be a blind man not to see the pain and confusion on her face. He cursed softly.

“Byrony,” he began, his voice desperate to his own ears, “please, sweetheart, I—Would you like to take a ride with me to the ocean today? If the fog clears, it will be beautiful, and we could stop at Russ Gardens, perhaps visit the racetrack —”

“You are probably too busy. Maybe Maggie could—”

“No. That is I won’t be too busy. I want to go. All right?”

“If that is what you wish.”

“I believe I’ve told you before that I don’t particularly care for your whipped-puppy routine,” he said, frowning at her lowered head. He watched the bedcovers slip a bit and considered the odds on making love to her only one more time.

Her chin went up. “Very well. When do you wish to leave?”

He thought quickly. Celeste usually slept very late, that is, if she’d spent the night with him. He hadn’t seen her since he’d married Byrony. He supposed he could ask Maggie about contraception, but he shied away from that. He didn’t think he could stand the patronizing smirk she’d doubtless give him. You, Brent Hammond, he could just hear her, you who have rutted your way West don’t know how to prevent conception? And she’d preach, he didn’t doubt it for a moment, about his responsibilities, about his selfishness—

“How about after lunch?”

She nodded. She’d seen the myriad shifting expressions on his face. So, she thought, feeling numb, he no longer wanted her, he wanted his mistress.

Byrony watched him go through his now familiar morning routine. “I’ll have Caesar bring up your breakfast,” he said, bending down to kiss her cheek. “Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

She made a noise that he chose to think an affirmative.

“Byrony,” he said, “how do you feel?”

She looked at him, startled.

He tugged on a lock of hair behind his left ear, and cleared his throat. “That is, ah—When was your last monthly flow?”

She stared at him as though he’d asked her when she’d last traveled to the moon.

“When, Byrony?”

“Just before we were married,” she said, not meeting his gaze.