Page 49 of The Duke's Daring Bride

His hesitation must’ve registered, because her cheerful expression began to waver.

“Alistair?”

Of course he didn’t answer.

“Can I—I mean, if you don’t want to kiss me, that’s fine. I didn’t realize you…”

She trailed off, swallowing whatever words she’d been trying to say, and he felt like even more of an arse for embarrassing her.

Well, he could give her this, at least.

Lowering his head, his lips sought hers.

For a moment, Alistair thought she might pull away, might hesitate.

But she was brazen, this new wife of his, and after a moment she returned his kiss with the passion and joy he knew she couldn’t manage to keep hidden.

He’d intended the kiss to be quick, perfunctory, polite. Fulfilling a request.

She was, after all, merely a new addition to his schedule. He had a plan for his life, one which didn’t involve frivolity or loss of control. His bride would be welcome in his household, the same as his mother and sisters and servants, and she could find her own amusements. There were plenty of them, with balls and a paper and a new fortune. It wasn’t necessary he change his life for her.

On Wednesdays, he reviewed the finances for the London townhouse in the morning, and in the afternoon he wrote correspondence regarding the welfare of children in the East End. That was what he did. Every Wednesday. That was what Wednesday meant.

There wasn’t room in his life for spontaneity or boldness or kissing in his study.

But…

Olivia tasted of sunshine and laughter and sweet berries. She tasted of shouting and teasing with friends and songs and a million things he’d never allowed himself to say.

Was it any wonder he couldn’t stop? Couldn’t let her go?

He kissed her in desperation. In need.

And he didn’t like it.

Lies. Ye fooking love it.

Well, aye, of course. Kissing Olivia was doing wonders for his arousal. But he didn’t want to enjoy her this much. He had been happy with his life the way it was.

Wasn’t he?

The woman in his arms gave a sexy little whimper, which had the equivalent effect as a bucket of cold water over his head, reminding him of how he’d failed her last night.

With a silent snarl, Alistair forced himself to cease pleasuring her with his tongue—cease finding pleasure in her untrained, thoroughly erotic responses. He pulled away.

And she just stared up at him in bemusement, lids lowered halfway, those warm eyes glazed with passion, her lips bruised from his kisses and her cheeks red from his whiskers.

She looked well-kissed. She looked well-claimed.

This was his bride.

His.

A fierce stab of pride hit him in the gut, and he tried to ignore it.

“Good morning,” she murmured yet again. He wondered if she realized she was repeating herself.

And there was nothing he could say. Would say. He stared down at her, not knowing what she saw when she looked up at him.

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