The Stranger I Married (7 page)

“I am horribly disappointed that your errant spouse is not at home,” the Duchess of Sandforth complained.
“Mother.” Isabel shook her head. “I cannot believe you rushed over here just to ogle Gray.”
“As if I wouldn’t.” Her Grace smiled with the wide grin of a naughty cat. “Bella, you should know by now that overwhelming curiosity is one of my vices.”
“One of many,” Isabel grumbled.
Her mother ignored that. “Lady Pershing-Moore came to call, and you cannot imagine how dreadful it was that she knew every minute detail of Grayson’s appearance, while I did not even know he was in town.”
“The only dreadful thing is that woman.” Isabel paced the length of her boudoir. “I’m certain she has filled as many gossip hungry ears as she could manage in one day.”
“Is he as fine as she says?”
Sighing, Isabel admitted, “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“She swore the way he looked at you was indecent, is that true, too?”
Isabel paused, and stared at her mother, gazing into eyes of rich, dark brown. The duchess was still considered a great beauty, though her auburn hair was now liberally shot with silver strands. “I am not talking about this with you, Mother.”
“Why not?” Her Grace replied, affronted. “How delicious! You have a stunning lover, and a young husband who is even more stunning. I envy you.”
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Isabel sighed. “You shouldn’t envy me. This is a disaster.”
“Ah ha!” Her mother leapt to her feet. “Grayson does want you. About time, if you ask me. I was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t a bit touched.”
He was touched in the head, in Isabel’s opinion. They’d known one another for years, and lived together for six months with nary a spark. Now it was a conflagration whenever she merely laid eyes on him. On second thought, perhaps she was touched too. “I need to find him a woman,” she muttered.
“You’re not a woman? I was certain the doctor told me you were.”
“Mother, good grief. Be serious, please. Grayson needs a mistress.”
Moving to the window, Isabel moved aside the sheers, and stared out at the small side garden. She couldn’t help but remember the morning he’d stood below the window of her townhouse, and begged her to admit him. Then begged her to marry him.
Say yes, Pel.
Another memory, one fresher in her mind, was from yesterday afternoon when Gray had stood behind her in this exact spot, and made her want him, which had ruined everything.
“What does his needing a mistress have to do with him wanting to bed you?” the duchess asked.
“You would not understand.”
“You are correct about that.” Her mother came over, and set her hands on her shoulders. “I thought you had learned something from Pelham.”
“I learned everything from Pelham.”
“Don’t you miss that passion, that fire?” Her Grace spread her arms wide, and spun around with the exuberant carelessness of a young girl, her dark green skirts twirling around her. “I live for it, Bella. I crave those indecent looks, and thoughts, and actions.”
“I know you do, Mother,” Isabel said dryly. Her parents had long ago decided to find their romances outside the marital bed, a state of living they both seemed quite happy with.
“I thought perhaps you had set aside those silly dreams of lifetime love when you began to take your own lovers.”
“I did.”
“I don’t believe so.” Her mother frowned.
“Just because I think fidelity is a sign of respect, does not mean I attach it to love, or the hope for love.” Isabel moved back toward her escritoire, where she had been working on menus and a guest list for her upcoming dinner.
“Bella, my sweet.” Her mother sighed, and returned to the chaise where she poured herself a cup of tea. “It is not in a husband’s nature to be faithful, especially handsome and charming husbands.”
“I wish they wouldn’t lie about it,” Isabel said crossly, shooting at glance at the portrait on the wall. “I asked Pelham if he loved me, if he would be true to me. He said, ‘All women pale in comparison to you.’ And foolish chit that I was, I believed him.” She threw up her hands.
“Even if they have the best of intentions, it is impossible for them to resist all the light-skirts who fall into their beds. Wishing for beautiful men to act against their nature will only lead to heartbreak.”
“Obviously I have no desire for Gray to act against his nature, or I would not be actively working toward procuring him a mistress.”
Isabel watched her mother drop three lumps of sugar and a ridiculous amount of cream into her tea. She shook her head when her mother lifted the pot in silent query.
“I fail to see why you don’t enjoy his attentions while he is willing to give them to you. Good heavens, the way Lady Pershing-Moore was going on about his appearance, I think I would take him myself if he were interested.”
Closing her eyes, Isabel released a long-suffering sigh.
“You should take lessons from your brother, Bella. He is far more practical about such matters.”
“Most men are. Rhys would be no exception.”
“He has made a list of marriageable females and—”
“A list?” Isabel’s eyes flew open. “Now that is too much!”
“It’s perfect. Your father and I did the same, and look how content we are.”
Isabel held her tongue.
“Is it tenderness for Hargreaves that holds you back?” her mother asked softly.
“I wish it were. This would be so much simpler.” Then she could laugh off Gray’s sudden preoccupation with her, and deal with him the way she dealt with any overzealous swain— with a smile and a dash of humor. She found it very hard to smile and be humorous when her nipples ached and she was damp between the thighs.
“We rub along well, Gray and I. I like him, he’s great fun. I could live with great fun, Mother. For a lifetime. I could not live with a man who had wounded me in some fashion. I am softer than you, and bear scars from Pelham.”
“And you think finding him a mistress will make him less appealing? No, don’t answer that, darling. I know you find attached men unattractive. An admirable scruple.” Her Grace rose, and came to her, setting her slender arm around her daughter’s waist and looking over the notes. “No, no. Not Lady Cartland.” She gave a delicate shudder. “I would wish a pox on a man before I’d wish her on him.”
Isabel laughed. “Very well.” She dipped the quill and wrote a slash across the name. “Who then?”
“Wasn’t he with someone when he left? Besides Emily Sinclair?”
“Yes...” Isabel thought for a moment. “Ah, I remember. Anne Bonner, an actress.”
“Invite her. He didn’t break it off due to boredom, so perhaps there is still something there.”
A sharp pang of loneliness took Isabel off guard, and her hand paused above the parchment long enough to create an ink drop. “Thank you, Mother,” she said softly, grateful, for once, to have her parent with her.
“Of course, Bella.” The duchess leaned over, and pressed their cheeks together. “What are mothers for, if not to help their daughters find mistresses for their husbands?”

Isabel lay on her bed, and tried to read, but nothing could hold her attention. It was late, just after ten, and she had stayed home as Gray had asked. The fact that he had not taken her up on his requested boon was his fault, and if he thought he could collect later, he was sorely mistaken. She would not be affording him the option later. Canceling her plans for one evening was enough of an imposition, especially when he didn’t even have the courtesy to show up.

This was, of course, what she had hoped for, that he would find his pleasures elsewhere. This was exactly what she wanted. Everything was going well. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to hold a homecoming dinner after all. What a relief. She could set aside the planning, and direct her attentions to living her life as she had before her husband returned.

She let out her breath, and considered going to sleep when she heard a sound from the boudoir. Surely it wasn’t excitement she felt, as she tossed aside the book. She was simply investigating. Anyone would if they heard strange noises in their suite.

“Hello, Pel,” Gray said, standing in the gallery in only his rolled-up shirtsleeves and trousers. Bare feet, bare throat, and bare forearms. With his thick, dark hair damp from a recent bath.

Dastardly.
“What do you want?” she grumbled, upset that he would come to her dressed, or undressed as the case may be, in that fashion.
He arched a brow, and lifted his arm, bringing a small basket up to her eye level. “Supper. You promised. You cannot withdraw now.”
She stepped back to let him in, and tried to hide her blush. Failing to see the obvious basket because she was ogling him was mortifying. “You missed dinner.”
“I didn’t believe you would want me.” The doubleentendre was clear. He stepped into her room, and she could not help but breathe in his scent as he walked by. The size of her satin-draped boudoir shrank to embrace him, and enclosed them together. “Supper, however, was guaranteed.”
“Are your only pursuits those that are guaranteed?”
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be here.” Gray sat on the floor by the low table, and opened the basket. “You won’t chase me away with your ill-humor, Isabel. I waited all day for this meal, and I intend to enjoy it. If you’ve nothing charming to say to me, put one of these pheasant sandwiches in your mouth, and just let me look at you.”
She stared at him, and then he lifted his gaze and winked one of those blue eyes at her. Her descent to the floor was only partially due to courtesy. The rest was due to suddenly weak knees.
He pulled out two glasses and a bottle of wine. “You look lovely in pink satin.”
“I thought you weren’t coming.” She lifted her chin. “So I changed.”
“Don’t worry,” he said dryly. “I had no illusions that you dressed to entice me.”
“Rogue. Where have you been?”
“You never used to ask me that.”
Isabel had never cared before, but she would never say that aloud. “You used to volunteer information, now you share nothing.”
“Remington’s,” he said around a bite.
“All evening?”
He nodded, and reached for his glass.
“Oh.” She knew of the courtesans there. Remington’s was a bastion of male iniquity. “D-did you enjoy yourself?”
“You aren’t hungry?” he asked, ignoring the question.
Lifting her wine, she took a large swallow.
Gray laughed, the sound pouring over her like warm liquid. “That’s not food.”
She shrugged. “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked again.
His look was pure exasperation. “I would not have stayed as long as I did if I were miserable.”
“Yes, of course.” He’d bathed, and changed his clothes. Isabel supposed she should be grateful that he did not come to her reeking of sex and perfume, as Pelham had done a few times. Her stomach roiled at the thought, though the image in her mind was of Grayson and not Pelham, and she moved up to the chaise, lying on her back to stare at the tented ceiling. “No. I am not hungry.”
A moment later she was inundated with the smell of Gray—that of starched linen and sandalwood soap. He sat on the floor beside her, and caught up her hand in his own.
“What can I do?” he asked softly, his callused fingertips drifting over her palm, sending heated frissons across her skin. “It pains me that my presence distresses you so, but I cannot stay away, Pel. Don’t ask me to.”
“And if I did?”
“I could not oblige you.”
“Even after tonight’s amusements?”
His fingers stilled, and then he gave a low chuckle. “I should be a good husband, and set your mind at ease, but I’ve got just enough of the rapscallion left in me to want you to suffer a bit, just as I will be suffering.”
“Men who look like you never suffer, Gray,” she retorted with a snort, turning her head to look at him.
“There are men who look like me? How disheartening.”
“See how our relationship alters when you change your role from friend to husband?” she complained. “Lies, evasions, things left unsaid. Why do you want us to live like that?”
Gray ran a hand through his hair, and groaned.
“Can you answer me that, Gray? Please help me to understand why you wish to ruin our friendship.”
His eyes met hers, filled with the bleakness she’d felt around him yesterday. Her heart swelled with emotion at the sight. “God, Pel.” He set his cheek against her thigh, his dark hair dampening the satin. “I don’t know how to talk about this, and not sound maudlin.”
“Try.”
He stared at her for a long time, his long eyelashes shielding his thoughts and casting shadows upon his cheekbones. The fingers that stroked her palm stopped, and entwined with hers. The simple intimacy was like a physical blow. For a moment, she found it hard to breathe.
“After Emily died, I despised myself, Isabel. You’ve no notion of how I wronged her—so many ways, so many times. I couldn’t help but see what a waste it was for a woman like her to die over a man like me. It took me a long time to come to terms with the self-loathing, and realize that while I could not change the past, I could honor her by changing who I was in the future.”
She tightened her grip on his hand, and he squeezed back. It was then she felt the unrelenting curve of a ring on his finger. Grayson had never worn his wedding band before. That he wore it now gave her a jolt that made her shiver violently.
He nuzzled his face against her, making her gasp at the resulting flare of longing. Misunderstanding her distress, he said, “This is dreadful. I’m sorry.”
“No... It’s not that. Don’t stop, I want to know everything.”
“It is a miserable task attempting to change one’s character,” he went on. “I think whole years passed without finding anything worth smiling about. Until you walked into the study yesterday. Then, in that one moment, I saw you and felt a spark.” He lifted their joined hands, and kissed her knuckles. “Then later, in this room, I smiled. And it felt so good, Pel. That spark turned into something else, something I haven’t felt in years.”
“Hunger,” she breathed, her eyes riveted to his impassioned face. She knew the feeling, because it gnawed at her now.
“And desire, and life, Isabel. And that’s from the outside. I can only dream about what it would be like from the inside.” Gray’s voice deepened, and turned husky with want, his eyes now free of the abject torment she had witnessed in them when he’d first arrived. “Deep inside you, as far as I can go.”
“Gray...”
His head turned, his hot, open mouth pressing against her upper thigh, burning through the pink satin of her robe and night rail. She tensed all over, her spine arching gently in a silent plea for more.
Tormented, Isabel pushed his head away. “After you have slaked that hunger, what happens to us then? We could not go back to what we had before.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you never found that you can no longer eat a food you used to crave? Once hunger is appeased, the dish you gorged on becomes unappetizing.” She sat up, and slipped past him. Rising to her feet, she began to pace, as was her wont when agitated. “We would be truly estranged then. I would most likely choose a different property to live in. Social events where we meet would be damned uncomfortable.”
He rose to his feet, and followed her with his gaze. A gaze that was tactile in its intensity. “You see your former lovers everyday. They are sociable with you, and you with them. What makes me different?”
“I do not look at them over coffee in the morning. I do not rely on them to settle my accounts, and see to my welfare. They do not wear my ring!” She paused, and closed her eyes, shaking her head at the foolishness of her errant mouth.
“Isabel,” he began softly.
She held up her hand, and stared at the portrait on the wall. A golden god stared back at her, forever arrested in his prime. “We will find you a paramour. Sex is sex, and another woman would be far less messy.”
Her husband moved with such grace, she didn’t hear him approach. Gray’s encircling arms came as a surprise—one banding her waist, the other crossing her torso so a large hand could cup her breast possessively. She cried out as her feet left the floor, and he buried his face in her neck. The feel of his body was so hot and hard behind her, filled with strength, yet tender in its clasp.
“I don’t require your help to find sex. I require you.” He licked and nipped at the tender skin of her throat, and then he breathed her in, his arms tightening around her with a low groan. “I want messy. And sweaty and dirty. God give me strength, for I have been cursed with wanting that from my wife.”
Isabel burned at the feel of his erection, and then melted in his embrace when he ground it against her in near desperation. “No.”
“But I can be gentle, Pel. I can love you well.” His grip lightened, his fingertips softly teasing her nipple. She writhed in his arms, the ache between her legs nearly unbearable.
“No...” she moaned, wanting him with every breath in her body.
“See your ring on my finger,” he growled, obviously frustrated. “Know that I am yours. That I am different from the others.” Gray licked the shell of her ear, and then bit the lobe. “Want me, damn you. The way I want you.”
Grayson set her aside with a curse, and left the room, leaving Isabel to the warring halves within her—the part of her that knew an affair with Gray couldn’t last, and the part of her that did not care if it didn’t.