One Wicked Night (32 page)

Serena’s hopes died in a swift crash. “What can we do now?”

Lucien shrugged. “Without proof, we can only wait until Marsden makes his next move. Hopefully, we will catch him
before
he tries to harm you and the baby again.”

She nodded, her body shaking with disbelief, confusion, awareness, and despair. Cyrus was gone, his killers dead as well, and with them, their best chance of proving Alastair’s guilt.

And she’d made a mess of their marriage.

“Lucien, a-about last night . . .”

“We have nothing to say.” His voice held all the passion of a deep winter chill. “You got what you wanted, as did I. It means nothing.”

Serena drew in a deep breath and fought the fresh tears stinging the back of her eyes. Nothing. That was all their lovemaking meant to him. He viewed her as the whore who happened to be his wife. A whore like her mother. And maybe she was.

She closed her eyes. In the end, despite her efforts otherwise, she had turned out no better. Lucien had illustrated that fact with ridiculous ease. She wanted to hate him for it. Yet the fault lay entirely with her for wanting him, for giving in to his compelling seduction. That she cared for him only seemed a more cruel irony.

“So you took a bit more persuading? You decided perhaps that giving your virginity to me, a total stranger, would be a splendid idea when I had my fingers inside your wet little sex?”

Serena felt hot color creep up her face again, but refused to be intimidated. “Yes and no. Your touch was like nothing I had ever known. I had nothing to compare it with. You overwhelmed me.”

“An excellent strategy, sweetheart. Build up a man’s ego about his sexual prowess, so he will believe anything. Is that it?” His glacial green eyes mocked her words.

“Blast you, no! You won’t listen to me.” Frustrated hands curled into fists. “It was not the way you touched me that made me want you. It was the way you seemed to need me. I know Chelsea’s death had left you grief-stricken and lonely. And I was lonely, too.” Tears pooled in the corner of her eyes, and she looked at her husband’s tall, implacable form through a blurry, watery world. “I looked at you and saw a kindred spirit. Yes, you were handsome and persuasive. Your touch did set me aflame, though I tried very hard not to betray Cyrus.” She trembled. “I just could not bring myself to turn away from you.”

“Stop it,” he growled. “Not another word.”

“Lucien—”

“I will not have this discussion! I am a gullible fool when it comes to magnificent faces. I do not need any more reminders of that fact. Our marriage is reminder enough.”

Serena looked away from his damning expression. “If you despise me so much, have our marriage annulled.”

“We consummated it, if you’ll recall.” He fingered the cuffs of his coat stiffly. “Besides, there’s still our child and your safety to consider. There will be no annulment.”

A long silence followed. During the awful quiet, Serena interpreted the meaning between his words: His damnable sense of responsibility, not emotions, held him to her. What civility or understanding they might have had together, before her bungled confession, ceased to be relevant.

She wished she could cry again. Maybe if he could feel the real wet salt of her tears he would believe . . . But even as she thought it, Serena refused to make her feelings so transparent. Her fear of his contempt was too great.

His sudden sigh drew her gaze back up. He raked his fingers through tousled black hair. Serena repressed an urge to smooth a stray lock back from his forehead.

His mouth tightened into that grim, hard line Serena remembered from the argument prior to their lovemaking last night. Warning signals blared in her head.

“She tried to convince me she wanted to be my wife again. I declined naturally, being otherwise occupied,” he said acidly.

Fear and doubt exploded inside Serena. Did Lucien resent the fact they were married now that Ravenna was back? Perhaps he still yearned for the provocative beauty in the portrait that had once hung here and wished for his freedom, despite the woman’s past behavior.

A sense of defeat settled over her as she watched her husband walk away without so much as a goodbye.

****

Lucien stared at the amber liquid as he swirled it in his glass late that night. The Irish whiskey stopped its circular flux when he ceased his movements.

Lying on his bed, he propped the glass against his bare abdomen. His gaze drifted to the door. Her door.

He could open it and take her. He could press his mouth to her trembling pink one. He could fondle her, arouse her, lift her nightrail and bury himself inside her. Hell, it was supposed to be his husbandly right.

The portal between them remained closed, and after the explosive way she affected him the night before, he would keep it as a barrier between them for many excruciating nights to come. He refused to lose his head to a deceiving woman again, much less his heart.

But he was hard and aching with the thought of her beneath him, wrapping her legs around him. The memory of his uncontrollable arousal and devastating release fueled his desire. Blood coursed violently through him at the thought of having Serena again in his bed.

He had to get control of himself. Now. Yes, her touch, her body, could take him to the precipice of heaven, but he would not storm her door. He needed distance—lots of it—between them. Perhaps avoidance would drive her from his thoughts. Maybe long nights without her touch, without the temptation of her presence, would allow him to think straight again.

You’re a fool,
he thought in self-contempt. When he had been married to Ravenna, she had maintained a terrible hold over his lust—until he had learned of her betrayal.

That was not the case with Serena. He burned for her even in the face of her deceptions. Even as he wanted to hate her.

He couldn’t run from the truth anymore. He desired his wife beyond explanation, in his bed, by his side. Why wouldn’t she leave his head? He swore softly. God, what a tangle.

With shaking hands, he reached for the decanter from the bedside table and poured another glass of liquor. Within seconds it, too, was gone. He glanced at his bedside clock, which read nearly three in the morning. Six drinks in twenty-two minutes.

No amount of alcohol he poured into his system would erase the truth. Despite Serena’s deception, his desire for her would not disappear as conveniently as his lust for Ravenna had.

In his mind, he saw Serena’s pale, tear-streaked cheeks as he had seen them earlier this morning, tearing though his heart. Her words rang in his head,
“You were grief-stricken and lonely. I was lonely, too . . . I could not turn away.”

He paced. She had been so smug toward Alastair, so damned self-assured at the solicitor’s office when she had announced her pregnancy. Serena had taken his seed, used him to ensure Warrington’s fortune did not fall into Alastair’s hands, twisting his emotions all the while.

She had only insisted she was innocent of premeditated seduction to placate him. Her reasons for doing so were unclear, however. Still, the cynic inside him suspected she had a cause; she just had not revealed it yet.

He buried his forehead in his palm with a tired sigh. What if her tearful words had been truth? Perhaps she had made love with him the first time out of sheer desire and need. Was that even possible?

Lucien reached for his glass and poured another drink. Niles had been telling him for years that he made hasty decisions, often based on less than complete information. Had he judged Serena at the snap of a finger, without really listening to her pleas? Maybe his hard-headed temperament had prevented him from considering that in her passionless marriage, she might well have been lonely.

No. Last night, she had made her intentions to conceive perfectly clear. And he was a fool to care for her beyond the fact she carried his child and bore his name.

Confused, Lucien grabbed his glass; he swallowed his seventh drink in half an hour. The familiar warmth curled in his belly, but still, he experienced no numbing relief from his thoughts.

What now? He couldn’t bear living with Serena through an eternity cloaked in anger and accusations. Even if she had plotted to rob him of his child, retribution would serve no purpose. As he had told her earlier, they were married for better, for worse . . . forever.

A twisted part of him rejoiced in that fact.

He sighed. Regardless of his feelings, falling into the trap of attempting to build a happy marriage again was not an option. Such fruitless efforts were too painful. He must keep his distance. Serena possessed a power to hurt him that Ravenna never had. The realization was frightening.

But shouldn’t marriage be more than cold silences and hot passions, if for no other sake than the child’s?

He glanced again at her door, squelched once more the urge to walk through it and claim her. She wanted a celibate marriage, at least until the birth of their child. That had been their agreement before their marriage, an agreement he had violated. Another big mistake, one which kept her in his thoughts. A mistake he would not repeat until he had his passions under iron control. Until having her in his bed meant nothing more to him than blessed release.

He ignored the voice in the back of his head that said he would be waiting forever.

A multitude of visions all rose to Serena’s mind, of Lucien laughing, grieving, aroused. With effort, she pushed them away. She understood his motivations for their marriage now. But that hardly made their marriage a reality beyond mere legality. Despite that fact, she wanted him again, fiercely, in every way a woman wants a man. Clearly, she had not escaped her mother’s blood to experience such urges.

Worse, Lucien didn’t seem to want or even miss her. She doubted he ever lay in bed in the next room and desired her while she ached for him.

Foolish, useless, hedonistic thoughts.

He thought every word she uttered was a lie. He had taken her body and walked away without a backward glance. To him, she was nothing more than the mother of his unborn child, legally his wife. Never his love. And for the protection of her fragile heart and self-respect, she would not share Lucien’s bed until after the birth of this child, no matter how he seduced or tempted her with his charm and smiles.

Easier said than done. Their lovemaking two nights ago had been magical. Cataclysmic. The steely warmth of Lucien’s body atop hers, his mouth persuading her with sweet kisses that brought back a rush of memories and a thrill of pure desire . . . All of that seemed near impossible to ignore.

As she sat in the bath minutes later, Caffey returned with calling cards from her grandmother and Lady Bessborough indicating they would come round in a few days to discuss her reintroduction to the
ton
, following the “scandal.” Next, she picked up a missive from Mr. Vickery of the Runners indicating he finally had a lead he was investigating. The final missive was secured with wax, but bore no seal, nor any distinguishing marks. Curious, she tore it open and in unfamiliar handwriting read: