Notorious (Rebels of the Ton #1) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,79

man who was paying calls.

Drusilla looked up from her thorough inspection of his body to see humor glinting in his eyes, his expression that of a man who was accustomed to female homage and comfortable with it. She was torn—alternately wanting to tear off his clothing and drag him into bed with her and wanting to beat him with a big stick for turning her into such a besotted slave.

Drusilla was not a violent person and the images—both images, actually—disturbed her.

He picked a speck of something from his sleeve. Drusilla could not get enough of his elegantly shaped, long-fingered hands. Yet again she was flooded by memories of how those hands had touched, opened, entered, caressed . . .

“If you continue to look at me like that, you will never leave this bed, Mrs. Marlington.”

She glanced up and met his darkened eyes, his slightly flaring nostrils telling her he knew what she was thinking.

Drusilla opened her mouth, but had nothing to say.

His sinful lips curved. “Ah, I have rendered you speechless. I would wager that is not a common occurrence.”

“No,” she agreed with a breathless laugh. “But you seem quite, er, adept at it.”

He eyed her from beneath lowered lids. “I look forward to showing you just how adept.”

Her entire body responded to his look like a well-trained pet. Only one night and already he knew how to command her with a look.

The realization horrified her. She was . . . pathetic. He was not in love with her. If not for the incident at the Abingdon conservatory, he would still be happily pursuing the Kitten. What must he think now that he realized he’d not needed to marry Drusilla, after all? He was a gentleman, so he would never show his true feelings, but she could imagine them. He was a beautiful man who enjoyed beautiful women and was now stuck with her.

We should make the best of things. His words echoed in her mind.

She lowered her cup with a clatter. “Would you be so kind as to ring for Fletcher?”

As dismissals went, it was less than subtle. His face—taut with passion only an instant before—tightened with something else.

A notch of concern appeared between his eyes, and he leaned forward. “Is aught amiss?” He laid a hand on hers, and Drusilla started and snatched away her hand as if she’d been burned. Her violent movement set the dishes clattering on the tray.

His eyes widened slightly as he sat back in his chair, his expression changing so rapidly she could not identify all the moods.

Drusilla opened her mouth to say . . . something, but—

He stood, his face a beautiful, impassive mask. “I apologize for keeping you. I shall send your maid directly.” He dropped an abrupt bow and turned away.

Frustration at her horrid, awkward behavior was thick enough to almost choke her. Once again Drusilla opened her mouth, this time to call him back—to stop him, to apologize, but what could she say? I’m sorry I am behaving stiffly, but I love you madly and have done for almost five years. I know you are probably in love—or at least were considering marriage—with somebody else, but I cannot be sorry you were forced to marry me. Even though I know it is hopeless, I am in danger of losing myself completely and becoming your creature. I never want to leave this bed if you are in it. When you touch me, I lose what little control I have. I adore and—

He stopped, his hand resting on the door handle. “Oh, incidentally, don’t forget we are joining a party at my stepfather’s box tonight. There were also a few invitations waiting below. I’ll have Parker bring them up and leave it to your discretion to sort through them and decide which are best.” He turned without waiting for a response, and the door shut with a soft click.

Drusilla looked down at her tray, her hunger having vanished as quickly as her happiness. Why did she have to do this with him? Why?

Self-preservation, you fool. He bedded you last night because he is your husband. If you think that means anything beyond the mere physical act—that he will leave whatever mistress or mistresses he most likely has and become your devoted lover—you are a bigger fool than I believed.

Drusilla knew her relentless inner critic spoke the truth. Gabriel Marlington was the epitome of masculinity. He fenced, shot, rode, and made love like a man who’d had plenty of practice in all