Page 41 of Defending the Duke (The St. Clairs 4)

It didn’t matter. His movements brought a delicious feeling and she met every thrust. He increased the speed and began to plunge deeper and deeper into her. His hand came between their joined bodies and teased something that drove her to the edge of madness. Then Laurel was falling, falling, falling. He thrust one last time and then shouted his own cry, collapsing on her. Quickly, he rolled away and she came with him. For a moment, she forgot the harsh words that had been spoken between them, only relishing the feel of his arms about her and him still inside her.

It didn’t last. He took her shoulders and moved her away. He slipped from the bed and found his dressing gown, shrugging into it and belting it. Without a word, her husband left, returning to his rooms as he’d said he would. All the happiness and wonderment she’d felt soured within her. Laurel beat her fist into the pillow, cursing him.

*

Anthony returned tohis bedchamber. He could still smell Laurel on his skin and cursed.

She just wasn’t on his skin—she’d wormed her way under it.

He paced aimlessly. He’d gone to her tonight and made love to her simply because she had forbid him to do so. He needed her to understand that this wasn’t some partnership. They were not and would never be equals. She was nothing more to him than the woman who would bear his children.

Or so he told himself.

Instead, he wanted nothing more than to charge back into her bedchamber and make love to her again. He would never do that. She couldn’t learn that he was fast becoming obsessed with her. A woman who knew her husband was besotted with her was a man who would lose any power he had over her. No, Laurel was not going to make him dance to her tune. He was the man. He would be leading in any dance they engaged in, be it in or out of bed.

Oh, but her body. Its satin skin and tempting curves. He swallowed at the memories just created between them. Laurel St. Clair was different from any woman he’d ever bedded. No, not just any female. Laurel was now his. His duchess. His wife. Yet it was the St. Clair in her which tempted him beyond reason.

He’d given in to her demand and not kissed her mouth. He wouldn’t do that again. The only reason he had was so that she would let him to make love to her. Anthony had feared after their argument that she might press for an annulment and return to her family. He couldn’t allow that. He’d needed to make her his—and he had. But the next time, they would kiss. For hours, if he wanted them to. Laurel was his wife. She was to be subservient to him in every way.

Yet he didn’t want to break her spirit. It was one of the most attractive things about her.

He threw off his dressing gown and fell into bed, doubting that sleep would come. Surprisingly, he woke hours later, dawn still a while away. He must have been tired. He fought the urge to return to his new wife’s bed. He needed to retain the power in this marriage. Going to her again so soon would show her how weak he was. In fact, he wouldn’t touch her tonight. Let her see what she thought of that.

Anthony dressed without ringing for Monkton. He went to the stables, the sun just peering over the horizon, and saddled Bucephalus himself. He was eager to see Linwood and rode around the estate for two hours before returning to the house.

This time, Monkton awaited him, as did a hot bath.

“When I saw you were gone, Your Grace, I took the liberty of checking at the stables. I knew you would need a hot bath when you returned from your ride.”

“You anticipate my every need, Monkton. That will be all.”

He shucked off his clothes and eased himself into the steaming water. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, savoring the warmth surrounding him. Then he slid beneath the surface and came up, his fingers pushing his hair away from his face.

“I would like to see the estate today.”

He opened his eyes to find his wife standing there.

---