Who Wants to Marry a Duke - Sabrina Jeffries Page 0,70
into their marriage.”
“So, once again, not an ‘unhappy’ marriage you’ve ‘seen firsthand.’ I wager you’re just using that as an excuse for why you continue as a carefree bachelor.”
He tensed. Offer for her, you arse. That’s what she wants.
Damn his conscience. Instead, he said, “Trust me, I’ve witnessed plenty of unhappy society unions from the viewpoint of various married women’s beds. They thought being bedded by me would make up for the misery of their marriages. They thought wrong.”
“‘Various married women’s beds’?” A pained expression crossed her face. “How many?”
Why must he keep blathering things that only made the situation worse? He definitely didn’t want to talk about how many women he’d bedded. Not with her, anyway. “Enough to make me skeptical of my prospects for happiness with the typical society bride. The young ladies trying to capture my affections only wanted me because I’m a wealthy duke. They never cared about me in particular. For that matter, neither did any of those married women. I was always just a means to an end.”
She eyed him askance. “How can you be sure of that? With the young ladies, I mean.”
“I just am.” He shifted to lie on his side, facing her. “Must we talk about this now?” Slipping his hand over her breast, he pressed a kiss to her lips. “I can think of any number of things more enjoyable to do.”
Despite his fondling of her bountiful breast, she seemed to hesitate. Then with a forced smile, she slid her hand behind his head to pull him back for another kiss.
He was safe. He would offer for her, just not at this very moment. Not while they still had these few hours alone.
Scoundrel. Blackguard. Reprobate.
Yes, he was all those things. And he meant to be them a short while longer. There was plenty of time later for offering marriage.
Chapter Thirteen
As she awakened, Olivia looked for Thorn, but he’d left her bed. And judging from the bright sunshine flooding the room, that was probably wise of him. Still, there was no reason for her to rush around, now that he was gone.
She pulled the covers up to her chin with a sigh of pure contentment. Thorn had made love to her twice. And though he’d left her rather sore after the second time, she still couldn’t help feeling like a woman. Not a girl anymore, although obviously she hadn’t been a girl in some time.
A woman, yes. His woman.
With a quick pang, she turned her head to look at his pillow. That’s when she remembered that somewhere during their second time, they’d climbed under the covers. But now it was almost as if he’d never been here.
She thrust out her chin. Nonsense. He’d been here, and he’d behaved as if she was special to him.
You mean, like last time? When your mother had to blackmail him into offering marriage?
“Hush,” she said aloud to her saner self. “Let me enjoy this a while longer, will you?”
Suddenly, her temporary lady’s maid burst into her bedchamber. “Oh, thank heaven you’re finally awake, miss. Your stepmother has come, and she’s spitting mad. She’s with His Grace right now in the drawing room and asking for you.”
It took a moment for that to sink in, but when it did, panic replaced her delicious haze of satisfaction. Mama, here?
Dear Lord. Something must be wrong. Otherwise, how had Mama known that Olivia had come to Rosethorn? And Thorn was with her mother? This just got worse and worse.
Olivia was about to leave the bed when she realized she was completely naked, which the maid was bound to find suspicious.
So she told the young woman, “Would you mind calling for a pot of coffee? I’ll never make it through a conversation with my mother otherwise.”
“Of course. But you should probably hurry, miss. His Grace seems a bit . . . um . . . annoyed at Lady Norley.”
“No doubt,” Olivia muttered.
As soon as the maid had gone out into the hall, Olivia leapt from the bed, found her nightdress, and dragged it on. Then she froze as she spotted last night’s clothes draped over a chair. She knew she hadn’t done that, which meant that he had.
She ran into the sitting room to look at the windowsill where he’d undone her chignon. There was nary a hairpin to be seen. He must have gathered them all and put them somewhere.
Sure enough, when she returned to the other room, she found them on her dressing table. Her heart sank. He’d