Page 17 of Impassioned
As if she’d heard his thoughts, she clarified, “In bed, I mean.”
Constantine couldn’t think of a single word to utter. Instead, a garbled stream of nonsense stole past his lips. “Er, buh, no, why, I, just, ah, erh, argh.”
“I think I heard a no in there?”
Who was this woman who looked like a siren and possessed a confidence he’d never once glimpsed in her?
“Yes,” he managed, sounding as though he was being choked—and really, he felt like he was too. “I mean,no. Of course I don’t prefer men. I bid you good evening.”
He spun about and left her chamber, closing the door more forcefully than he meant to as he rushed to get away from her. When he was back in his room, he latched the door and leaned back against it.
What the absolute bloody hell had just happened? Why had she asked him that? How had she even known to ask such a thing at all? What was goingonwith her?
He pushed away from the door and stalked toward the hearth. Once there, he pivoted and marched right back. He completed this circuit several times, his mind tumbling.
She thought he wanted to bed men? Absolutely not. He’d honestly never given that any thought—it just didn’t apply to him. From even before the time his father had purchased his first sexual experience at the age of fifteen, he’d firmly fantasized about women.
Fantasized? Did he actually do that? Yes, on occasion, but he was admittedly not as driven by lust as most gentlemen. He’d attributed that to his extreme sense of propriety and sensibility. He refused to be ruled by his baser instincts, and he was a model of self-control. While other gentlemen suffered the negative effects of gambling, drinking, and all manners of excess, Constantine was not beleaguered by such vulgar impulses. It was why he hadn’t taken a mistress.
Lucien would argue Constantine suffered from an excess of self-righteousness, and perhaps he was right. He would also insist that Constantine was lifeless and tedious, and in desperate need of excitement.
Perhaps he was right about that too.
Constantine looked toward his wife’s bedroom. He imagined her doffing the beautiful dressing gown and slipping between the bedclothes. Had she been nude under that gown or was the undergarment simply so filmy and slight that he’d been able to see her form?
Suddenly, Constantinewasexcited. And eager to demonstrate to his wife just how much he desired a woman in his bed. Not just any woman—her.
He stalked into the sitting room. A moment later, he stood in front of her door, his hand poised to knock.
A soft sound carried to his ears, making him lean forward so that he nearly pressed himself against the wood. Was she…moaning?
Oh God. She wasn’t…?
Sucking in a breath, he stood motionless as he strained to hear. The bed creaked and there was another sound—a deeper moan. Good Lord, he couldn’t—
Constantine sealed his ear to the wood, desperate to make out the slightest sounds. There. Moaning, a whimper, another, a soft cry. At some point in the last few moments, his cock had gone painfully and irrevocably hard. But she couldn’t be pleasuring herself. Could she?
At last, a louder cry engulfed him, making his body shudder with want. He finally drew a breath, now panting because he’d gone so long without. Pushing away from the door, he braced his hand on the frame, his head bowed as he fought to regain his infamous and currently absent self-control.
When his breathing was finally regulated, he stood straight. He heard something new. Laughter? Yes, pure joy, from the sound of it.
Constantine stared at the door for a long moment before returning to his room. His life suddenly seemed upended, unrecognizable, untethered. Why hadn’t he gone into her bedchamber as soon as he realized what she was doing? It seemed she was not at all the meek woman he’d thought her to be. She’d changed. But how?
Perhaps you never really knew her. Perhaps everything you thought you knew about her—about marriage—is wrong.
What if he was the one who was afraid? And if that was the case, what in the hell was he afraid of?
One thing was certain: he was still painfully erect and if he didn’t frig himself, he would be sorry. Wounded hand, be damned.
After a mostly sleepless night, Constantine found himself at his brother’s house the following morning. He paced in Lucien’s library as he waited for his brother to join him so he could ask for help.
Constantine stopped pacing and stared at the window that looked out to the small garden at the rear of the terraced house. Was he really so desperate as to seek his brother’s counsel? There would be no end to Lucien’s taunts.
Starting toward the door, Constantine stopped short as his younger brother appeared in the doorway. An inch taller and with dark hair that matched their father’s, Lucien was the more handsome, more charming, and, overall, more liked brother. He was always surrounded by friends and admirers, while Constantine preferred solitude and anonymity.
Dressed in a dark red banyan over black pantaloons, Lucien prowled into the library with a subtle smile quirking his mouth. “Shouldn’t you be at church?”
“I wanted to see you, and there’s no chance you would be there,” Constantine retorted.
