Scandals Bride (Cynster 3)

Which was how Catriona heard it-that and rather more. To her, it rang as the prelude to his informing her that he was leaving-the polite patter of the executioner before the axe fell.

So she held her own calm like a shield over her weeping heart and smiled, a little weakly, back up at him. "No. There's really nothing for you to do."

Looking down, she forced herself to go on, forced herself to play the role she'd spent hours rehearsing-the role of acquiescent wife. "I daresay you'll be heading to London soon-Huggins heard this morning that the roads to the south are all open, at least as far as Carlisle."

Her head throbbed, her stomach churned, but she continued in the same, lightly distant, tone: "You'll be anxious to see your family, I expect. Your stepmother must be waiting…" She nearly choked, but swallowed just in time. "And, of course, there'll be the balls and parties."

She continued to enter the figures she'd been transferring from scraps of paper into a ledger-and didn't look up. She didn't dare-if she did, the tears she was holding back would spill over, and then he would know.

Know what he mustn't. Know that she didn't want him to go-that she wanted him here, forever by her side.

But she'd thought it all through very carefully; she had to-absolutely had to-leave him free to leave her. There was no point in binding him to her-to the vale-with ties that would only be resented.

If she could have, she would have stopped herself from falling in love with him, from being in love with him, but it was far too late for that. Even knowing he was leaving, she still couldn't help but wish that she had been the one to change him-the one to focus all his inherent, unconscious qualities-his innate care, his protectiveness, his absentminded kindness-so he became the man he could be.

Her consort.

The Lady had been right-he was made for the position-the real position-but no one could force him to take it. That was a decision he had to make himself, and she couldn't interfere. She had to let him go.

And hope, and pray, that one day he might want what she could give him.

"It must be quite grand," she said, determined to make it easy for him, and easier, therefore, for her, "being in London with all the swells, going to all the balls and parties."

She felt his gaze leave her; a moment of silence ensued. Then he shifted. "Indeed."

She looked up, but he merely inclined his head, his lips lightly curving, and didn't meet her eyes. "I daresay I'll enjoy the balls and parties."

He turned from her and strolled, languid as ever, from the room. Catriona stared at his back, then stated at the door when he closed it behind him. And wondered at his tone, wondered whether her own sensitivity had made her imagine a deep bleakness behind his words.

He'd tried a last throw of the dice-and lost. More than he'd known he had bet.

She had told him there was nothing for him here-and he had to accept her decision. And if he'd needed any urging to leave the held of his defeat, her lightly distant tone as she'd dismissed him and all but wished him on his way had provided it.

Richard didn't know how they had come to this-to this brittle state where it took effort to remain in each other's company. He didn't know-he couldn't imagine-he couldn't even think straight. He couldn't even breathe freely, there was an iron vise locked about his lower chest-every breath was a battle.

How they would get through the night, he hadn't any idea. For the first time since they had married, she was later to bed than he. He waited in the dimness, lit only by the dying fire, and wondered if she really was tending the recently born child and its mother or- avoiding him.

It was nearly midnight before the door opened; she glanced at the bed only fleetingly, then went to the fire. Richard nearly spoke-nearly called to her-but couldn't think of what to say.

Then he realized she didn't intend sleeping in the armchair, she was simply undressing before the fire.

He watched her-hungrily. Let his eyes feast on her neatly rounded limbs, her skin pearlescent in the fire's flickering light. Drank in the sight of her back, the sleek planes achingly familiar, the globes of her bottom a remembered delight. He stared at her long fire-gold mane as she shook it out, spreading it over her shoulders, as if he could burn the sight into his mind.

Then lost what little breath he had when she turned and, naked-with that glorious unconsciousness she'd displayed from the first-walked to the bed. To where he lay waiting in the dark.

He tensed-expecting her to be tense, too-expecting her to hold herself distantly as she had all day. Instead, she lifted the covers, slid beneath-and slid farther, straight into his arms.

For one moment, his heart stood still, then his arms closed about her. She lifted her lips-he hesitated for only a second before he took them.

Took her-took her mouth as she offered it, took her body as she freely gave it.

If he could have thought, he might have seized the opportunity to ruthlessly, calculatingly, tie her to him with passion-to make her burn so achingly long, so excruciatingly hot, that she would never be able to bid him adieu. Or if she did, would suffer tortures every night without him.

He didn't think-but yet he did. Loved her with such passion, such distilled, poignant force, that she cried. Cried tears of sheer delight, of bliss too great to contain.

All he wanted was to fill his mind, his senses, his heart and soul with her-so inside, she would always be with him.

As he, wherever he was, would, in his mind, always-ever more-be with her.