his own glass dangling from his fingers. “I’m pleased one of us does.”
He’d woken this morning to the soft murmur of Cecilia crooning to Isabella, her husky voice weaving a spell around him until he’d drifted back to sleep, and dreamed of wide, velvety brown eyes, plump pink lips, and a stubborn, pointed chin. He’d been hard when he woke, his cock twitching insistently against his stomach, his entire body flushed with arousal.
It had been months since he’d felt even a twinge of desire for any woman, much less the dizzying rush of this morning. No, it had been longer than that—more than a year, since Cassandra had become so ill. If his betrothed had been the cause of such an eager erection Gideon might have rejoiced at it, but it wasn’t Miss Honeywell who’d inspired him to such unexpected rigidity.
It was Cecilia. Always Cecilia.
Cecilia, with her unpredictable tongue and those unexpected flashes of fire in her eyes. Such a pleasant, agreeable young woman, right up until the moment she wasn’t. She’d completely forgotten her place yesterday, and acted every inch the impertinent chit Mrs. Honeywell had accused her of being. A wiser man would have dismissed her for her insolence toward his betrothed’s mother, yet Gideon had let Cecilia stroll off without a word of reprimand.
And now there was the matter of this wholly inappropriate erection of his. Since its inconvenient appearance this morning, he’d struggled with alternate bouts of irritation, frustration, and yearning until he was half out of his head and couldn’t focus on a single thing.
His betrothed, for instance.
Haslemere snorted. “Oh, I think you know well enough what you’re about. There’s no sense denying it, Darlington. Anyone can see the way you look at Cecilia, and draw the obvious conclusion.”
Gideon’s face heated. “If you recall, it was you who urged me to keep Cecilia on instead of dismissing her.”
“I did, yes, but that was before I realized you’d developed a tendre for her.” Haslemere took a sip of his port. “Your infatuation with her is inconvenient, given you’re meant to marry another lady in less than a week’s time.”
“I’m aware of my obligations to Miss Honeywell, Haslemere.”
“Being aware of your obligations and reconciled to them are not, alas, the same thing. Your betrothed doesn’t seem to notice it, but I think Mrs. Honeywell has drawn her own conclusions about Cecilia. She’s a spiteful, vulgar, ill-mannered woman, but she’s not an utter fool.”
Gideon didn’t bother arguing the point. He’d caught more than one outraged glance from Mrs. Honeywell over the past few days. As for his betrothed, she either didn’t care, or didn’t notice his preoccupation with Cecilia.
It was difficult to tell with Miss Honeywell.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Haslemere.” Gideon let his head fall into his hands. Perhaps he shouldn’t have become betrothed again. The business of living what remained of his life had been a great deal easier from behind the walls of Darlington Castle.
Easier, but lonelier, and not really a life at all. Not for him, and not for Isabella. She needed a mother, and hopefully, in time, brothers and sisters.
Haslemere toyed with his glass, his gaze on the swirl of ruby red port. “Tell me, Darlington. Are you in love with Miss Honeywell?”
Gideon’s head snapped up. Love? No, he wasn’t in love with her. He’d chosen Miss Honeywell as his bride for a number of reasons, but not one of them had been because he loved her. He was under no illusions she loved him, either. Theirs was a ton marriage in every sense of the word. “She’s a decent lady, lovely both in face and temperament, and I believe she’ll be an affectionate mother to Isabella.”
He needed a wife, and Miss Honeywell wanted a fortune and a title. That was all. Gideon no longer expected anything more from a marriage than that.
“Ah, but that’s not what I asked you, Darlington.” Haslemere set his port aside and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I asked if you’re in love with her.”
Gideon ran a weary hand down his face, and wondered when everything had become so confusing. “No, I don’t love her, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything. This marriage is a matter of practicality, not passion. She’s uncomplicated, Haslemere, and her presence brightens up this dreary place.”
“I see. You’re determined to marry her, then?”
“Of course I am. Do you suppose I’d court and then offer for a lady I wasn’t prepared to marry?” A bitter laugh