Annette Blair - Scandalous Brides

Why neither of them spoke, Alex did not know. Perhaps Bryceson was too busy concentrating on his task while she was too busy appreciating and noticing everything about him. She knew only that his topaz eyes were warm, kind, loving. Here stood the gentle boy who’d tended scraped knees, extracted slivers from small hands and dried a lifetime of silly tears. She saw that his shoulders were broader, his arms stronger, his huge hands callused, his sable hair prematurely silver-gilt.

His demeanor no longer bore the mark of a young god, perfect of feature and seeking admiration, but of a soldier home from war, wounded and scarred, though striking still, and virile. So potently male that Alex lost her breath just watching him. As opposed to his former chiseled perfection, Hawk’s face now bore a hard, flawed quality, which gave him an aura of jeopardy, a provocation that would draw women like moths to a flame.

He was definitely older, though she could not yet vouch for wiser, but after overhearing his amazing story earlier, she surmised that he could hardly have escaped some degree of wisdom. She did know that he must have survived a great deal more than he would ever willingly reveal. “Your father would be proud of you,” she said without thinking.

“If I had died fighting Boney, perhaps, but I expect that he would have considered any man mustered home, broken, as a failure.”

“But you were not mustered home because you were wounded. The war ended.”

“Gideon guarded Napoleon all the way to St. Helena, and Reed is still one of Wellington’s aides.”

When put that way, Alex knew he was right about his fanatical father, but what could she say?

She was embarrassed she had mentioned the man, but she was even more embarrassed when Bryceson slipped his hands up her leg to unhook her garters, and she shivered and squeaked, because she felt the lightning shock of his touch to her core.

He looked up and quirked a brow. “I am not going to ravish you, Alexandra.”

After a stunned, silent moment, she sighed with resignation. “I am sorry to hear that.”

Bryce reared back, and after a similar moment, he shook his head. “Stand,” he said, and she understood why his men obeyed him, as did she. He untied the laces on her half-petticoat, slid his hands down her hips to push it to the floor, and she stepped out. Her second was a full-petticoat and he helped her out of that with entirely too much experience, in the same way he loosened and removed her stays, expertly and efficiently.

At a knock on the outer door, he turned to leave her standing in her new lawn shift, and again like an empty-headed porcelain doll, Alex waited and hoped for more.

When Bryce returned, he slipped her white gossamer night rail over her head, down her arms then he helped her into her matching wrap. “You will surely catch your death without both,” he said, a hot, hard glint in his eyes. “Or worse.”

The tardy promise in those last two words—along with his piercing gaze—shivered her to her trembling knees.

When she was dressed in the night rail made for her trousseau, Bryce neither stepped back to admire her or his handiwork, nor did he comment further on the exquisite finery—a disappointment. He simply peeled back the bedcovers and urged her into its feather-filled warmth. Heart pounding, Alex did as her husband bid, moving toward the center, expecting him to undress and slip in beside her.

Instead, he pulled the covers up to her neck, sat beside her on the bed and waited, with a disapproving frown, as she freed her arms. Then he took possession of her hand. “I am afraid this has been a long, tiring, and shocking day for you,” he said. “And I am sorry for all of it. Reed told me what he said. I am especially sorry that you heard, but perhaps it is best you know. Get a good night’s sleep now, for we have another long day ahead of us tomorrow, though hopefully, a much less alarming one.”

“But what about you? Are you not going to sleep?”

“I am having the settee made up as we speak. I will be fine there for one night. I have slept on worse.”

Alex sat up and saw by his arrested gaze that the blankets had fallen away and exposed her breasts to his view. She did not cover herself and he did not look away, not for several pulsing beats. For the first time, she had her husband’s full and blatant male attention while she was conscious and could appreciate it, and she was glad.

When he did look away, she sighed. “Bryce, this is your bed. You are too tall for that short sofa. Come, sleep beside me.”

FIVE

HAWK CURSED HIS trembling hands as he tucked Alex back into his bed and admired the cloud of cinnamon waves forming a silken halo upon her pillow. Had any man ever needed such willpower as he was compelled to call upon at this tempting moment?

He regarded the siren for signs of the sprite who had, in turn, shadowed and vexed him through their growing up years. While he was grief-struck by the loss of that child, he was intrigued, no small bit, by the emergence of the woman. His first reaction was natural, his second, both unacceptable and a clear threat to his sanity.

As he rose, he bent to kiss her brow. “Sleep. I command you.” Then he stroked her cheek, snuffed her candle and left the bedchamber, shutting the door behind him.

In the sitting room, Hawk discarded his cane, his frockcoat, and untied his cravat before pouring himself a brandy with palsied hands. He made an awkward, confined pace about the room, twice or thrice, the better to tire to the point of exhaustion.

As he helped Alex from her clothing, he had ached for her corresponding ministrations, her cool fingers against his heated skin, as he had touched her, for her tenderness to be directed toward his comfort, her gaze toward his face, when all the while, she had been unable to bear the sight of him and looked away, instead.

Why had she said she was disappointed he would not ravish her? Was she teasing? Was she that angry with him?

Perhaps he was making a horrendous mistake in letting her go… Once upon a time, she had liked him enough to marry him. Perhaps she had even wanted him, then.

Perhaps she wanted him still.

Hawk damn near laughed. Perhaps delirium had once again set in…

Was she toying with him? Being facetious? She had, after all, liked Chesterfield enough to marry him, as well.

Hawk cursed. Here he was worried about her, trying to do what was best for her, while she was shaking the foundation of his conviction and undermining his altruistic intentions. Why could he not sense what she wanted?

Likely not him. Not anymore. No, he must give her that annulment as soon as may be, and free her from his abysmal self, though not so soon that Chesterfield might still be unattached when he did.

That part of his plan, he must alter.

When he had returned to England, weak, scarred, and furious at fate, he assured himself that his family was well. And when he was convinced they were, he delayed notifying them of his return. He could not ask them to endure the daily reminder of his failure—his scars, his very presence.

He had gone to the aid of his sister-in-law, Sabrina, and of Gideon St. Goddard—another rogue of the club—the husband he secured for her when he thought he was dying.

To get himself declared alive again, Hawk petitioned the House of Lords, and parliament in general, even the Prince Regent and a score of his advisers and friends, Tory and Whig alike. Some, Prinny would have at his side, were it not for the mad King’s sane moments, had more influence than perhaps was good for England.

Since Hawk’s father’s solicitor was unavailable, he sought another to notify Baxter Wakefield, his cousin and heir, that he lived. Hawk did it all, anything and everything he could, to avoid facing his family with his disagreeable self. By then, he had concluded that for Alexandra’s sake, he must release her from their marriage.