Page 33 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
“What’s wrong?” she whispered into the darkness. “What demons are you fighting? If you told me, perhaps I could help.”
He gave no reply, as she had known he would not. There was nothing she could think to do to comfort him but ease his head onto her lap. Almost immediately, he quietened, no longer tossing his head from side to side.
“All you need is a little gentleness, hmm?” She kept her voice low so there was no danger of him waking up. Like this, her back was pressed against the sofa, and she yawned, feeling the weight of the day settle on her. “You know, when I came home, I had some thought of seducing you into allowing me to stay… but would you have given in? Would you have agreed to let me remain if I’d used my body to persuade you…?”
Again, no answer. All for the better—it felt good to give him her secrets now, but only so long as he never heard them.
Exhausted, she let her head fall back against the cushions of the sofa, and with her fingers still threading through his hair, she fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Alexander woke in a far better state than he had ever imagined he would. His head pounded, as was to be expected, but considering he was lying on the floor, he was not as uncomfortable as he might otherwise have supposed.
Drowsily, he reached for the bottle of Scotch, only to find it gone.
Odd.
He distinctly remembered having it in his hand. He reached a little further, but it was nowhere in sight.
For the first time, he cracked open his eyes. The ornate coving of the ceiling greeted him. Daylight streamed through the gaps in the curtains, illuminating the room enough that he could make out plenty of detail—including that there was no more light from his lamp. It must have burned itself out.
For the first time, another sound made itself known to him—a soft, regular rush of air that sounded remarkably like breathing. Then, as his mind finally awoke fully, he registered the softness under his head. Not a pillow, not precisely, but something other than the hard floor he had fallen asleep on.
He sat up so abruptly his head spiked with pain, and when he glanced behind him, he almost shouted aloud.
Lydia, soft in sleep.
Her breaths were slow and heavy, so quiet he had not heard them immediately, and for once, her face was utterly relaxed. Soft red curls tickled her cheeks, and her lush mouth had parted slightly as she slept. But her head was bent to one side, and he knew she would have a devil of a sore neck when she woke.
What was she doing here?
In his hungover, beleaguered state, he felt almost as though he must be dreaming. That gown, too—not any sort of gown a lady ought to wear for lying on the floor. He noticed, once again, that she had a rounded figure, voluptuous in the best of ways, and the neckline of her gown did little to hide that fact.
The burst of lust was raw and almost aggressive, waking up his body in new and unfamiliar ways. God, how long had it been since he’d lastwanteda woman like this? Yes, his body had needs, but they were always vague—the need for satiation. For release.
Never for a woman.
But now she was here, he wanted to know how her pretty lips would taste. If her bosom was as soft to the touch as it looked; if she would be pleased by him touching her there. How she might respond if he caressed her... All things he could have stood not to wonder.
Was there anything more painful than attraction to a woman he could not have? And especially not here, in the shrine he had erected for Helena.
Still, his body didn’t notice his objections, or at least seemed determined to dismiss them. He hardened, almost painfully, and the urge to touch her grew so intense that he curled his fingers into fists.
Not like this. Not when she was sleeping, and—
Not ever, damn it!
Furious with himself, he lurched to his feet and staggered to the window, throwing open the curtain to reveal hissing rain and melting snow. The world was a dreary, grey place outside, and he pulsed with desire that he could not abate.
A sound from behind him. Lydia, stirring, he supposed, from his disturbance.
“Oh…” she mumbled, the syllable thick with sleep. The sound of it made him ache still more. “You’re awake.”
“I am,” he said shortly.
“How do you feel?”
“I—” He turned to face her, seeing that she was sitting in a more upright position now, her curls a little mussed and her face still tinged with softness from her slumber. She watched him with heavy hazel eyes. “What do you mean?”
