she had found as Southwick’s wife. He was a wealthy man. She had wanted for nothing of a material fashion. Marrying him had made her a viscountess in her own right. As far as Hyacinth’s family had been concerned, it was more than enough. She ought to have been grateful.
Once, in the early days of her marriage, she had left Southwick, returning to Eversham Manor and—she had supposed—the loving bosom of her family. Southwick had come for her two days later, and her father had seen Hyacinth off with the stern warning that she must never again bring shame upon her husband by abandoning him.
“Thank you,” she told Tom now, a sudden sting of tears in her eyes at his compassion taking her by surprise. She blinked furiously. “But enough of such serious matters. The past is where it belongs. I would far prefer to leave it there.”
Tom inclined his head. “You play beautifully, Hyacinth. Some men are not worth the skin they were born into, and I loathe that you found yourself shackled to one. However, I consider myself fortunate indeed that you have joined me tonight. I find myself famished. What of you?”
The hunger stirring within her could not be satisfied with a ten-course meal, but she refrained from saying so. “Yes, of course.”
“Excellent.” He offered her his arm. “Brandon’s chef has prepared a veritable feast for us this evening.”
“Brandon’s chef?” she repeated, frowning as she wondered why the Duke of Brandon’s chef would be in Tom’s kitchens. Unless…
“Indeed.” Tom began guiding her from the music room. “This home belongs to him. We have his blessing in using it as we wish for the next fortnight.”
Ah, that made sense. If anyone would be in possession of a home strictly used for assignations, surely it would be the debonair duke. Relief she had no right to feel washed over her.
Do not grow too attached to him, she warned her heart as Tom led her to dinner.
This is temporary.
One fortnight was all she dared allow herself. Anything more was dangerous to her newfound liberty. And she must protect that at all costs.
She was skittish, his Hyacinth.
Dinner had passed companionably enough. She was an intelligent woman and speaking with her—listening to her husky voice, hearing her opinions—had been a pleasant diversion. She was in favor of women’s suffrage and the reformation of married women’s property law. As was he. She spoke knowledgably of poetry and the great writers of their day. She was also unafraid to laugh at herself when the situation arose. The music of her mirth was as charming as everything else about her.
But pulsing beneath every passing minute, lurking under every interaction, was the heartbeat of desire. The sure knowledge of what was to come.
Tom decided, as he led her to the bedchamber following their repast, that he would have to proceed slowly. Whatever the particulars of her marriage with Southwick, it was more than apparent that the union had been a hated one on Hyacinth’s part.
Tom had no personal knowledge of Viscount Southwick—he did not recall their paths ever having crossed. But he did seem to remember rumblings about Southwick’s family history, now that he thought upon it. Some rumors of madness in the bloodlines, unless he was mistaken.
There was no doubt in his mind that Hyacinth’s marriage was the reason for her wariness. If Southwick were not already dead and buried, Tom would have been sorely tempted to beat the bastard for treating his wife so cruelly. Her words rang bitterly in his mind.
I have no desire to be beneath anyone’s thumb again.
Tom would do his utmost to make her forget all about her past suffering and pain. To show her how desirable and lovely she was. To woo her and seduce her. To make her his while he could. To prove to her that not every man sought to clip a lady’s wings. That some wanted their women to fly.
But all his good intentions—to proceed with caution, that was—fled the instant they crossed the threshold to the bedchamber and the door closed behind them. Because one moment, she was quiet at his side, their fingers intertwined. And the next, her arms were around his neck. Her mouth was on his. Supple, pliant, demanding.
Hungry.
She tasted of the delicate sweetness of the iced orange cake they had enjoyed for dessert. He was instantly hard, his cock straining against the fall of his trousers. He cupped her face and angled her head, kissing her back with far more