It's Beginning to Look a lot Like Scandal

“Thank you,” she murmured, fighting not to sink into the raw magnetism of him.

Her eyes widened when instead of leaving, he sank into the sofa beside her. Her pulse galloped, and she poured some tea with trembling hands. Why did he linger? He had always excused himself after being assured she was comfortable.

She threw him a small, quizzical smile and wrapped her fingers around the steaming cup, welcoming the warmth. The sensual lines of his mouth curved as he looked at her. He was so sinfully handsome and darkly seductive, he took her breath. Her womb clenched, and mortifying heat stained her cheeks.

“You have been withdrawing more and more as Mother organizes our nuptials. She informed me that she tried to plan your trousseau today, but you objected,” he said, his gaze not leaving her face.

Wariness crept through her as she met his gaze. “I… I… Her grace is very gracious, and I feel awful for being so boorish. But I needed a few moments, which I fear translated to me being ensconced in the library for hours.” She set her teacup down and clasped her hands.

He glanced at the folded letter beside her on the sofa. “Is that one of Maxwell’s letters?”

She winced and snatched up the letter, then crumpled it in her hands. “Forgive me…”

“Please do not, Emmeline.”

She swallowed at how he said her name. He always used her full name and not its shortened version. She sighed. “Yes, it is. There are times when I am compelled to read them all. It is as if I cannot stop myself,” she admitted.

A look of regret slashed his face and then disappeared. She frowned, contemplating what he could be regretful about.

“A day does not pass that I myself do not mourn for him. It is fitting that you remember everything about Maxwell. I know how much you loved him.”

She nodded. She glanced from the sword hung high on one wall, to the stained-glass windows that replaced half of the other wall, to the royal purple drapes, and finally to the massive bookcase behind him. She berated herself for being a coward, then met his gaze. “I cannot seem to escape the pain that is bottled inside. I lament that Maxwell was taken from me. From us.”

Marcellus shifted closer. “It has only been three months, Emmeline, and I imagine that you hurt even greater than I. Scream if you must,” he reassured her, his regard piercing and intent.

She smiled and tried to ignore the feelings he roused in her. Looking at him always made her feel hot and shivery all at once, which made her feel as if she had betrayed her beloved in some way, given she had them before Maxwell went away to fight in the war.

“I doubt I could have loved Maxwell more,” she said firmly. “I understood how close you were. But I thank you for such kind sentiments, Marcellus.”

“May I?”

Her heart jerked when he indicated the letter. A blush heated her entire body as she stared at him, scandalized. She had never shared the contents of Maxwell’s letters with anyone. A strangled groan trapped in her throat; she could not share the letters with the intimate details embedded in them. Yet darkness hovered in Marcellus’s eyes, which she wanted to ease. She gave the letter to him and started to eat, desperate for the distraction.

His eyes glinted, a smile creased his lips, and broad shoulders she’d not realized were tense relaxed. She observed his face as he read Maxwell’s words. A lock of hair drooped over Marcellus’s forehead. She had to restrain herself from testing if it felt as soft as it looked. He had always worn his hair in a queue, pulled back from his face and secured at his nape, whereas Maxwell had shorn his close to his scalp.

She had accepted marrying Marcellus. Wartime did not allow for extended mourning, but he was generous enough to accede to her wish for time. It was expected of her to grieve in silence and go about as if her whole life had not been uprooted. She knew she would mourn Maxwell for all her days, but his letters had made it clear: he had wanted her protected, loved by his brother.

Her hands trembled, the teacup rattled as she waited in agonizing silence for Marcellus to finish.

She had been shocked that he wanted to marry her. He proposed just one month past the death of Maxwell. Ravaged by grief and disbelief, she had slapped Marcellus. How could he have wanted to touch her when Maxwell had been her everything and she his? Then memory had teased; she had seen Marcellus the night Maxwell told her good-bye. She’d felt the caress of eyes watching her. Her gaze had shifted from Maxwell’s head buried between her legs to the arch doorway where Marcellus stood ensconced in the shadows, watching with a searing gaze of lust.

Shock had ceased her breath, and then arousal, painful and destructive, had surged, devastating her. All Marcellus had done was observe as Maxwell loved her with his tongue, and then, with languorous strokes, rode her deep and hard into the bed, but so slowly. Marcellus had seen as she lost all decorum and wailed in pleasure. She’d been scandalized and a little hurt thinking that Maxwell knew. But she’d often wondered if it had been her imagination, only her mind’s fevered fantasy. Maxwell had not spoken of it, and neither had Marcellus.

“You need to eat more.” His low murmur of concern had Emily lifting her eyes to his face. He still stared at the letter, but he was aware that she only picked at the food.

“I am full, thank you.” She tried to smile politely and failed.

“Eat more, or I will feed you,” he said in a firm tone.

She snapped her spine taut, meeting the calm resolve in his gaze. She flushed, knowing he was perfectly serious. She nodded and ate half of everything on the tray and had two cups of tea. He had become so adept at taking care of her needs.

Emily froze in startling realization. He’d been there when she received the devastating news and had been there in every moment since. He ensured she ate daily. Ensured her dearest friend, Leah, was situated most comfortably in the palatial country manor whenever she visited, for weeks at times, despite how stridently he protected his privacy.

He had done so many things to draw her out of her misery and self-pity, but she’d still been too self-absorbed in her grief to realize it until now. The late-night games of chess. The teasing as he taught her how to drive. His presence as he accompanied her to the hospitals where she nursed the wounded, never berating her for wanting to help in any way she could, never telling her that as a lady she should not dirty her hands, as her father had screamed.

He’d always been there, always protecting, always her secret desire and shame.

EMMELINE DID EVERYTHING in her power not to meet his gaze. Marcellus knew he had been very gentle with her, slowly easing her to his touch and his presence. He needed her with a visceral ache that had him gritting his teeth as his cock tightened painfully.