Page 62 of A Wicked Kind of Husband

And he could still taste her, still feel her body curved against his as she slept. “You were drunk. It doesn’t count.”

Why in blazes had he started a discussion about kisses? Especially since she had declared her hand: She wanted him to kiss her, impregnate her, and go. Of course she would go. Everyone always did. Only his work was reliable.

If he went now, he would save them both a lot of heartache.

He did not move.

“If I kissed you now,” she said, in a voice like rose petals, “would that count?”

The sensible part of his brain tried to wrest back control, to ward her off. Insult her, mock her, tease her, leave her.

But the sensible part of his brain was silenced by the sight of her, as she swallowed nervously, gripped her skirts, and then smoothed them down. Then she took one step toward him, two, three…

She moved slowly. He had time to escape. But suddenly she was right in front of him. Standing this close, in the daylight, he began to understand the trick of her eyes: They were a mix of golden-brown and green and he could look at them all day. Except that he also wanted to look at her cheeks, soft as petals and warm as life, and her mouth, those plump, curved lips that had caressed his last night.

Desire stirred with an eager savagery. Time to stop lying about why he had followed her up here.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. DeWitt?”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she said with some asperity. “Although I should not need to seduce you. The door to my chamber is open. You may come in any time you like.”

“You can start by making it sound more appealing than inviting the vicar’s wife for tea.”

“Oh.”

She looked so sweetly uncertain that he almost relented. Then her face brightened.

“I’ll wear my nightcap,” she offered.

The laughter caught him unawares, as did the surge in desire. She looked so pleased with herself for making him laugh that he couldn’t resist catching her face in his hands.

“It’s working already,” she said softly. “I’m making excellent progress.”

He leaped away, clasped his hands behind his back. He roved around the room, aiming for the exit, the stairs, his study, yet somehow missing the door on each circuit.

“Would it be so dreadful?” Hurt threaded through her voice and sliced through his chest. “Iamyour wife.”

“You didn’t enjoy the wedding night.”

“That doesn’t matter. But if you need to enjoy it, tell me what to do. I am happy to do my duty.”

Duty. He hated that word. Bloody polite-speak for “I’ll suffer through it in the hope there’s a child at the end.”

He slumped against a wall. One way or another, he had to decide. He made decisions every day but he could not make this one.

What she wanted from him: A child. What he wanted from her: To lose himself in her welcoming warmth. End result: Cassandra lying still under the covers in the dark, gritting her teeth, thinking only of the children she would bear. And once she had what she wanted, sending him away and leaving him alone again. And if she did get with child…Oh sweet mercy, then what? Then what? Then what? That was the chant of his heart as it thumped in his chest.

Then everything would change, and he did not want anything to change.

Suddenly, he was irritated with her.

“You’re difficult,” he snapped.

She straightened and gaped at him. “I am the least difficult woman in the world. You know where the bedroom door is.”

“Exactly.” Unable to stand still, he resumed his pacing. “You are accessible, available, and compliant.”

“Then I am easy, not difficult. You can take me as easily as—as—as a piece of candied lemon.”

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