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the duration of dinner, but he’d wanted to
give Victoria time to prepare herself for his visit, so he’d gone off to his
study.
    The trouble was, once alone, his conscience had set in, the
very conscience he’d no longer thought he possessed. He cursed and tossed back
a bit more of his drink, disgusted with himself. Returning to the country had
turned him maudlin. Somehow, over the course of the week he’d been at
Carrington House, he’d grown to like his wife. He even admired her for her
skills at running his household and for her strong will. Back in London, he
hadn’t considered the particular conundrum in which he now found himself so
precariously mired.
    He was poised on the precipice of success. In just a
sennight, he had wooed his wife into accepting him in her bed again. He should
be thrilled. Christ, he should be stripping her out of her naughty French
undergarments and sliding inside her sweet little cunny right now. He shouldn’t
be hiding away in his study.
    With his ultimate goal so close at hand, he wasn’t supposed
to be feeling empathy toward his wife. She was a means to an end, a necessary
duty. He definitely wasn’t supposed to be so achingly attracted to her. Bloody
hell, feeling anything at all most certainly was not part of his plan.
    Yet, he did.
    Yes, he liked her. He liked the way she was so tiny compared
to him and how she smelled of orris root and the way she pursed her lips when
she was mulling over something and the way she held herself with quiet grace
when she entered a room. He liked her snapping eyes and her long, luscious
blonde hair, and good Lord he positively loved her ample bosom.
    This was a strange development indeed. Of all the women he’d
flirted with and bedded in his life, and it was an admittedly lengthy list, he
could honestly say he hadn’t truly liked many of them. Perhaps he hadn’t even
liked any of them, now that he thought on it.
    A conundrum indeed, one of the worst sort. Victoria was
waiting for him in her chamber, willing and ready. And yet here he lingered in
his study with a tumbler of spirits, realizing he harbored an alarming tendre for his wife. He tossed back the remainder of his brandy and soda water. It was
foolish to linger any longer like a callow virgin on his wedding night.
    He was no callow virgin, and he’d already had his wedding
night. But he had a bothersome feeling that what awaited him would leave him
forever changed.
    * * * * *
    Victoria had dismissed Keats. She wore only a silk wrapper
and a few dabs of orris root at her throat and wrists. William had told her he
preferred the scent.
    William.
    Her husband.
    It seemed so odd, so improbable, that the man whose presence
she eagerly awaited was the same man who had wed and abandoned her, the same
man she’d sworn she’d never forgive. Her mind told her she was the biggest sort
of ninny. Had she learned nothing from the five months of loneliness and
swirling scandal she’d had to face alone? Perhaps not, for all she could think
of now was the devastating way he’d looked at her for the duration of dinner,
as if he’d devour her if he could.
    He had kissed her as if he were a starving man and she the
feast before him. He touched her and set her aflame. She wanted him very much.
At that thought, a solid series of knocks sounded on the door joining their
chambers together.
    Despite knowing he would be coming to her, she gasped, a
bout of nerves gripping her. She tightened the belt at her waist and consulted
her reflection in the looking glass. Her hair was down, a curling golden sweep
of locks to her waist. The lamp light was low and golden, bathing the chamber
in a romantic glow. Perhaps she didn’t look pretty, but neither was she
hideous. She was very petite, particularly without the encumbrance of her gown
and underpinnings. She hoped he would not be disappointed. It had been so very
long.
    Another knock interrupted her worried contemplation.
    She took a deep breath. “Enter.”
    The