Page 54 of A Whisper of Desire
Last night Maitland had stayed the night in her bed, and she thought they had turned a corner. She’d loved snuggling with him, falling asleep in his arms, knowing that in the morning they would make love. Dawn took that dream away. This morning she’d awoken early to find him already gone. She could have stayed in bed with him all day. They could have really talked, shared, and made love.
She understood her husband was a busy man with his large estates and his duty to the House of Lords. But he could have woken with her in his arms and, if nothing else, kissed her goodbye. She’d woken too early for him to be making calls on anyone, so why had he left her bed? All she could surmise was that, as like the past few nights, he’d been trying to avoid her, particularly when she was in her bed. He obviously didn’t desire her like she desired him. She could never have left him lying in her bed naked!
Every time she looked at Maitland she got that heated unfurling ache deep in her belly. When he bestowed upon her one of his infrequent smiles her heart raced and her mouth dried. When he touched her, even the brush of his elbow against her side, she grew damp between her thighs, wanting his touch there so much she almost combusted with need.
He, it would seem, could leave her bed as easily as you would leave a house marked with the plague. What hurt the most was she lay next to him—naked. Her charms had no effect on him at all.
He desired her when she practically threw herself at him—he could not hide his body’s reaction. He grew hard when she stood before him naked. Obviously he wasn’t consumed with want, like she was, the minute he saw her. Was there something about her body that did not appeal?
She wanted the look that Sebastian gave Beatrice. The look that says “I’m going to combust if I don’t get to taste you, love you, take you…right now.”
She wanted to know how to make that heated flare of interest appear in Maitland’s eyes anytime he saw her, when she looked her worst, when she was fully clothed, when they were in polite company, and, oh, definitely when they were alone.
They had so little else in common, but how did she get to know the man if he hid himself from her? This marriage would fail if they did not suit in the bedchamber either.
Rose was a woman almost all men looked at with want and desire. She would know what Marisa was doing wrong. She’d sent a note to Rose first thing, requesting help with an urgent but private problem, and had been surprised to get one back immediately, inviting her to breakfast.
Now that she was here, she didn’t know what she would say to Her Grace. She squared her shoulders, reminding herself that she too was a duchess, and walked up to the open door. Rose’s butler stood ready to take her cloak and muff. The weather had been chilly this morning, but not as chilly as her empty bed, she silently told herself.
As the butler announced her, Marisa thought,How cozy, one duchess chatting amicably to another.Rose’s welcoming smile, full of interest, sympathy, and humor, made her realize she was right in coming here. This woman oozed sensuality, which Marisa longed to replicate.
“Marisa, may I call you Marisa? It would be too funny referring to each other as ‘Your Grace.’ ” She rose and embraced her, kissing her cheek before offering her a seat.
“I thought we’d have breakfast in the drawing room, as it gets the sun. It’s starting to get colder in the mornings.”
“It’s a beautiful room. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I don’t know what you must be thinking.” Marisa took a seat and drew off her gloves.
“I was thinking that I’d wished I’d had a friend I could talk to when I first married. Portia was still unwed and I didn’t want to scare her. Sexual congress with a man old enough to be my father was not pleasant.”
Marisa suddenly realized her problem seemed so insignificant compared to what Rose must have gone through.
“I feel so silly coming to you when my problem is one you’ll probably laugh at and suggest I’m lucky for it.”
“Before we get too serious, let’s enjoy some food and a good cup of tea. I always find things look less problematic with a strong cup of tea in hand.”
Marisa smiled and accepted a plate with eggs and ham. They chatted as if they had been friends forever, Rose telling her about Portia and Grayson’s wedding ceremony. Slowly Marisa’s muscles relaxed and the tension headache throbbing in her skull diminished.
Once the food had been cleared and they both held a cup of tea in their hands, Rose asked the question Marisa needed to hear. “So, what can I help you with?”
On a sigh she exclaimed, “My wedding is the opposite of yours. I’ve married a man I don’t know, that’s true, but he is handsome, virile, kind, and also a mystery.”
“You’re right. He is nothing like my husband. My husband was a mean-spirited and miserly, unhappy little man. So I assume you’re not going to ask me how to make it hurt less when he grunts on top of you.” Rose’s smile died on her last sentence. Marisa reached for her hand, but she shook her head. “I rarely think of those days now. Not when I now choose who grunts on top of me, or under me, or behind me.” She laughed wickedly.
Marisa put down the cup she held and covered her face with her hands. “I don’t abhor the marriage bed.” She hesitated and she peeked at her new friend. Rose’s eyebrows rose. “It’s just—how do you make a man want more of it?” she said in a rush.
Confusion marred Roses face. “More of it? More of…sex?”
Marisa couldn’t speak so she merely nodded, her face flaming with embarrassment.
Rose seemed speechless. She took a long sip of tea before asking, “How often does he come to your bed?”
“He’s never come to my bed—”
“You mean you have not consummated your marriage?”
“Oh, yes, we have.” She looked around the room anywhere but at Rose. “It’s just that I have to initiate our couplings.”
Rose’s mouth hung open. “He doesn’t initiate sex?” At Marisa’s nod, she asked sternly, “Do you want the truth”—she held up her hand before Marisa could answer—“even if it is not what you wish to hear?”
