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fester into disgust, and destroy the entire family.
    Alexandra stared at the burgundy brocade bed canopy above her while the scent of the snuffed beeswax candle remained a lingering reminder of one man’s penchant—her husband’s—for walking away without looking back.
    The bridegroom she had thought sacrificed to the wages of war, relinquished to the vaporous vagaries of perpetual rest, had been, quite impossibly, returned to her. A literal miracle, she had discovered upon hearing Reed Gilbride’s story. And yet, despite the wonder, Bryceson Wakefield had, once again, deserted her. He had left her alone in the center of his bed, steeped in hurt, shock and disappointment.
    All the time he undressed her, she had anticipated undressing him the same way. She anticipated more kisses like the one they shared in the carriage. She expected the leisure and the right to kiss her husband whenever and wherever she chose. She ached to kiss the scars on his face, to press her lips to all his scars, to all of him, and she wanted the same intimate attention from him.
    After nearly two years of marriage, she was long past due his husbandly ministrations. As his wife, she had fulfilled every single requirement, save one, the marriage bed, that lack not having been her choice. She deserved a marriage, signed, sealed and consummated.
    She wanted to go and shake him, scream and rant, but Alex bit her lip and tightened her fists, aware that she must conquer her tendency to be precipitate; else she would rush from the room with admonishment in mind and end up ravishing her husband as he slept.
    ‘Twould not do to let him see how much she wanted and needed him. If she had learned one thing about the male of the species, young or old, it was that if a female’s attention was difficult to secure, then a male continued tenaciously in her wake, attempting to secure it, or her. By the same token, she had observed that while males could be encouraged by any sign of interest, however slight or fleeting, they soon lost enthusiasm for the chase, if the female appeared easy or eager to be caught.
    Well Bryceson Wakefield, Duke of Hawksworth—her husband, by God—would not be losing interest in her any day soon; she would see to that. She was due a wedding night, Alex mused, and she would have one … despite her bridegroom’s detestable reason for marrying her.
    When she had learned the truth of it, she had nearly expired, herself, of sorrow. ‘Twas not said to her face, of course, but behind her back, by some of his friends, after Bryce had first left for the war.
    She could have stepped away when she heard her name, of course, as she might have done downstairs when she heard Hawk’s, but she had not. That first time she eavesdropped, she learned that Bryce married her so she would care for his family while he went to war. One of his cronies said she would do anything for her husband’s pat on the head, “which is all poor old ‘Bry’ could bear to give her.” They said “It was too bad he had not lived long enough ‘to bed the beauty’ she had become.”
    To the devil with beauty. What did looks have to say to anything? ‘Twas Hawk’s love she wanted, plain and simple.
    Unlike the scores of women who had always flocked to the proud, handsome-as-sin Bryceson Wakefield, Alex had loved him despite his magnificence. All the while he had been trying to prove his worth to his father, and to himself, if he but knew it, Alex had loved the kind and gentle soul who dwelt inside the quintessential rogue.
    Was she the only one who glimpsed that gentle man? Or had she been as blind to his faults as others were blinded by his beauty?
    She wished she knew.
    She was sorry, for Hawk’s sake, that his legendary good looks had been marred, but she hoped that without the outer trappings of perfection, he would discover and come to appreciate the good and gentle man he was.
    That man, she yearned for, body, heart and soul.
    That man, she loved.
    Though