Page 23 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
All in all, it had been a trying day. First, his plans had been thwarted by the weather, and his cravings had been worse still. He had felt like a caged bear, prowling the house in search of an escape.
Then this ridiculous dinner with his wife. Bad enough that he had entered the room to find her bent over, her plump derrière in the air, the material of her dress clinging to its every rounded curve. He was but a man, and when she turned, he had not yet succeeded in banishing the inevitable thoughts that sprang from the image.
After Helena, he had vowed never to have interest in another lady, but the years of abstinence had only made him increasingly acquainted with his hand—and now, it seemed, lust.
A poor choice of direction for his mind to take, considering she was not only his wife, but soon to be his estranged former wife.
Then had been the dinner itself—an unmitigated disaster. Neither of them, he suspected, had truly wanted to dine with the other, and she had been so obviously angry with him.
Now this. Her face in his neck, her breasts plastered across his chest, and her arm closing instinctively around his neck.
He closed his eyes and prayed the pain in his hand would prevent his body from reacting.
“Oh,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
He inhaled again. “It’s all right.”
She leaned back, which had the unintended result of shifting her backside rather closer to his manhood.
Think of anything but that.
“What were you saying?” she asked.
“Sorry?”
“Before I fell.”
“I—” He shook his head. If he had been about to say something, he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was now. Nothing important, no doubt. Nothing as important—or pressing—as her body against his.
It had been far too long. That was the trouble. While his mind remained promised to Helena, his body had other ideas. Damn his libido. And damn her for being so beguiling, all withoutknowingshe was.
That was the worst of it.
She peered at him now with an expression of confusion and concern, as though his lack of engagement with her question was a reflection of his mental state andnotthe fact that he had a soft woman in his arms for the first time in seven years.
“Lydia,” he said, his voice a little strained. Despite his best efforts, there was a situation unfolding underneath her beautifully rounded derriere, which he was utterly incapable of preventing. “May I suggest you get off?”
“Get off?” For a second, she just blinked at him, as though she had forgotten—entirely—where she was. How she was.
If only he could be so lucky.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened—a rather glorious hazel green in that moment—and her cheeks fired as she scrambled back. “I am so sorry!”
“Stop apologizing,” he grumbled.
“I mean it. I had no intention of—well, I hadn’t thought I would fall, but if you had just let me examine your hand, none of thiswould have happened.” She raised the back of her hand to her burning cheek, and the gesture was so thoughtlessly sweet that he reached up to grasp her wrist with his good hand.
“Don’t shrink from me,” he murmured, attempting to keep his voice gentle. That was not something he’d had much practice with. Helena had been the gentle one, and she had brought out the gentle side in him. After her death, all those parts had frozen over, eroded away, or simply melted in the face of his overwhelming grief.
But Lydia, he knew, did not deserve to pay the price of that cruelty.
“I am not a monster,” he uttered.
She looked down at where his fingers wrapped around her wrist. “I never thought you were,” she replied, but her voice was subdued.
“No?” He raised both brows. “Let us be clear. You do not want to leave this house.”
“It has become my home,” she said immediately.
