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  As he turned, he caught sight of the door to the bathing room. It stood ajar. But surely it was too late for a bath. Yet he could see light flickering from within the room.

  Yes, she was probably in there. Preparing for bed. He should stand here and wait. Or perhaps leave.

  Instead he found himself walking toward temptation. He had the right. She was his wife.

  But as he gazed into the room, as he watched his wife, with the flames of several candles creating wavering light, he couldn’t help but think it might have been better not to know exactly what she was denying him.

  She’d piled her hair on top of her head. Not in some sort of stylish coiffure. But in a manner that more closely resembled the untidiness of a bird’s nest, and yet it was so incredibly enticing. Damp, springy tendrils fell along her neck, around her face.

  Not that he was looking directly at her face. Her back was to him, as she stood in the copper hip tub. And what a lovely back it was. Her backside was well-rounded, and it was all he could do not to groan as she bent over and soaked a cloth in the water circling her calves. Straightening, she dropped her head back, lifted her arms, and created a waterfall that rained down over her sleek body. His gaze shifted to the mirror and he watched as the droplets rolled along her curves, slid into her valleys, only to tumble back down into the water. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, as though she were in ecstasy, and he wondered if she were imagining a lover’s hands caressing her glistening skin where the drops continued to fall.

  She opened her eyes. They widened slightly, no doubt at his reflection now clearly visible in the mirror, and he wondered when he’d moved farther into the room.

  He knew women who might have screamed at the unexpected appearance of a man in the mirror before them, who might have scrambled to cover themselves. But she did little more than meet his gaze, her hands clutching the wet cloth between her breasts, pushing them up, reshaping them as he longed to. It was obvious her breath had quickened.

  She was magnificent standing there, defying him, challenging him. Proud in her stance. Un-afraid.

  Everything within him tightened to the point of pain. Everything within him yearned to reach out, to touch her, to take her within his arms.

  He didn’t know if he’d ever wanted any woman as much as he wanted her at that precise moment. He didn’t want to be the first to look away, but if he didn’t, he would take her. There, in the bathing chamber. Tonight. That very moment.

  He spun on his heel and stormed from the room, before he did something that would cause him to lose all he’d given up his pride to obtain.

  Kate sank into the tub, trembling uncontrollably. She’d never in her life been witness to such…hunger. It had thrilled, excited, and terrified her all at once.

  She’d fully expected him to charge across the room, take her in his arms, and ravish her unmercifully. The most frightening aspect of all was that she doubted she would have protested.

  Dear Lord, to think he could stir her desires with only a heated look. No, it was more than a look. It was as though he’d captured her, as though he’d held her hostage. She’d been able to do little more than remain standing and allow him to have his fill of her.

  She buried her face in her hands, but it did no good. She could still see Falconridge’s gaze traveling the length of her body. Oh, how she’d almost turned to face him. How she’d almost dared him to look, dared him to touch. But he’d appeared to be a man standing on the precipice of desire.

  That he’d walked away astounded her. Not only because he’d turned aside his yearning for her, but because she was fairly wishing that he hadn’t. What would it be like to be touched by a man who gazed at her with such intensity, who looked at her as though he would die if he didn’t possess her?

  Even Wesley had never looked at her like that.

  Would the passion generated between her and Falconridge be enough to make her no longer desire love?

  With a shaking hand, she reached for the towel, stood, and began to dry herself. When had her skin become so sensitive to touch? How could his gaze alone cause her to reach such awareness? She thought she might ignite into flames.

  When she was dry, she slipped her nightgown over her head. Her toes curled against the floor with the sensation of the cloth whispering along her flesh. She felt a tightness coil between her thighs. She needed release, but possessed too much pride to ask it of her husband—a man she’d denied for want of something greater than passion.

  And now she was suffering because of it.

  She peered into the bedroom, grateful, as well as disappointed, to discover her husband wasn’t about. She darted a quick glance at the bed, imagined him there—

  Shook her head. No, she wouldn’t think of what might happen between them at some point.

  She sat on the sofa, pressed herself into the corner, brought her legs up, and hugged them tightly. She’d decided to prepare her own bath, dismissing Chloe earlier, because her maid had worked so hard unpacking all of her trunks, putting away her things. Preparing herself for bed had seemed a small enough matter after the tall footmen Jenny had encouraged her to hire had carried up the heated water.

  She’d certainly not expected Falconridge to walk in on her. And now her mind was filled with all sorts of carnal images.

  How was it that she could even contemplate allowing into her bed a man she didn’t love?

  But considering it, she was.

  Urging Obsidian on, Michael rode at a reckless pace across the rolling hills. A madman. With his cloak billowing out behind him and the rain slashing at his face and shoulders. He’d not bothered with a hat. He’d barely bothered with his clothes. Trousers, boots, a shirt more unbuttoned than buttoned, and a cloak.

  He’d needed to distance himself from his luscious wife. He wanted to bury himself deeply within her. He wanted to become lost to passion, his troubles set upon a distant shore. He wanted to be free of the burdens that plagued him.

  Damnation, but he should have insisted on Jenny. He should have stood his ground, instead of settling for a woman who could do little more than satisfy his financial needs.

  Bringing Obsidian to a halt at the crest of a hill, Michael dismounted and with the wind buffeting him, he stared out at his land, his legacy, barely visible in the moonlight.

  She wanted love, damn her.

  And yet she’d stood there, enticing him with her curves, with her dips, and hollows. Growling, he dropped his head back and welcomed the rain pounding at him. Felt the drops gliding over his flesh, imagined them gliding over hers.

  She tormented him with what he could not possess. He was a fool to think flowers, chocolates, and citing her favorite color would earn him a place in her bed. He should simply insist, demand his husbandly rights…

  But dear God, the thought of her willingly turning to him, holding out her hand, beckoning him…wanting him as much as he desired her…

  And he’d begun to desire her as much as he desired the money that came with her, money for which he had to beg her favor.

  He lowered his head. He wanted her body, he wanted her money. She wanted his love. Their relationship was unbalanced. She’d been dictating the terms. He’d been trying to please her. Perhaps it was time he began playing by his rules. He didn’t have to earn her love.

  He simply needed to entice her with something she desired more.

  Kate tossed and turned for what had seemed hours. She told herself it was the thunderous storm crashing outside, but the truth was, she feared it was the storm raging inside her body as it sought surcease. It had been so very long since she’d felt these stirrings—if she’d ever truly felt them this intensely.

  The first time Wesley had kissed her, her body had grown as warm as an oven baking bread. But she’d never felt that heat from something as distant as a…look. She was tempted to invite Falconridge into her bed, to risk his anger when he discovered the truth—

  She threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed. She wouldn’t
compromise her integrity or her belief that a woman should only welcome into her body a man whom she loved or at the very least a man who loved her. She wouldn’t let her flesh have control over her heart.

  She snatched up her wrapper from where she’d left it earlier at the foot of the bed and drew it around herself. There was plenty to occupy her within this household, to keep her mind from wandering down dangerous paths. Nothing dictated she only look over matters during the daylight hours. In truth, looking over the books in the middle of the night would ensure she had no disruptions.

  In her youth, she’d fallen asleep many a night while sitting on her father’s lap, watching in fascination as he manipulated numbers and figures until he made sense of them. For her, dealing with numbers served as effectively as any bedtime story or glass of warm milk. They forced her to concentrate as nothing else did. She could become lost in them, until eventually dealing with them would wear her down and she’d sleep the slumber of the dead.

  Based on the manner in which the residence had been kept, she could only deduce that the books would be equally in shambles and need to be set right. Since sleep eluded her, she might as well get started on them.

  Taking the lamp, she stepped into the dark hallway. She cast a quick glance at the door which led into her husband’s chambers. No light spilled forth from beneath it. Damn him for finding sleep so easily. Damn him for disturbing her so easily. Damn him for…

  Lord, she could stand there all night cursing him to perdition and she’d accomplish nothing. What she should do was march into his room and stare at him…

  Only she feared if she looked at him as he did her, he’d not tremble as she had. He’d merely draw back the blankets and invite her in.

  She had an unsettling feeling she’d eagerly accept the invitation.

  She spun on her bare heel and hurried soundlessly down the stairs, one hand gliding over the banister while the other held the lamp aloft to guide her steps. The house was eerily quiet, which made the rampaging storm seem that much more sinister.

  And cold, the house was so cold. As though it had never known warmth. As though it had never known love. She couldn’t imagine delightful laughter echoing along the hallways. She imagined this house always as quiet, as ominous as it was now.

  She staggered to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, considered returning to the sanctuary of her room, but she was so tired of retreating, and she’d been retreating ever since Wesley had been torn from her life.

  Deep within her heart, she knew her parents had done what they’d thought was best for her. They loved her. She’d never questioned that. But how was it that they failed to understand her needs when it came to men? All she wanted was to be adored—for herself. Perhaps it made her shallow, selfish but she knew young men had always looked at her calculatingly…all except Wesley, who’d not even realized she was wealthy until he’d proposed.

  Wesley had wanted her, not her money. The same certainly couldn’t be said of Falconridge.

  And for good measure, she cursed him again before continuing on to the study. He’d shown her the room earlier and waved it off as though it were of no consequence. Little wonder the man found himself in financial straits. He obviously spent far too much time in bedchambers and not enough time scouring over his ledgers.

  She didn’t like the prick of jealousy she felt over the thought of him in bedchambers. It was actually more than a prick. It was more like a stab, a stab accompanied by anger. Dear Lord, if these emotions swelled within her, what might her husband feel with the knowledge that his wife had entertained a man…

  If only he’d come to see her before their wedding day…if only she’d not hidden away…if only her parents had never interfered…

  She opened the door to the study and the musty scent of abandonment puffed out into the hallway. Evidence lingered everywhere testifying to the fact Falconridge cared so little about this residence. So why were they here? To put things to rights, obviously.

  But what sort of man would allow it to come to this at all? And he’d certainly not done without in London.

  This room, she decided, would be aptly named The Nothing Room. It was large but sparsely decorated. The desk, the chair behind it, two chairs angled before it. An enormous table in front of the window. Beside it was a copper bucket housing scrolls of parchment. She crossed the room to the desk and set the lamp near the corner, where it only served to illuminate the dusty surface. Behind the desk were shelves where ledgers served as anchors for spider webs. Fortunately, those horrid creatures appeared to have abandoned the room as well.

  Kate reached for a ledger, stirring a ball of motes. She sneezed, rubbed her itching nose, and put the ledger back. She should get a cloth and wipe away the evidence of abandonment. She released a deep sigh. She needed an army of servants to get everything squared away.

  One step at a time. She’d get a rag, wipe down the desk, then the ledgers, and then she’d set to work. She’d not be discouraged. Instead she would embrace the challenge. Surely, it would keep her from thinking of her husband.

  She lifted the lamp and turned toward the door. The light struck the nearby table and its gleaming surface.

  Gleaming? Was there actually a portion of this room that didn’t appear neglected?

  She walked over to the table. It seemed ordinary enough. Except for the can that had once contained beans and now housed an assortment of pencils and various rulers. What was this table used for? Did Falconridge write here? No, more likely, he drew.

  Was her husband an artist?

  She was surprised by the flicker of excitement at the prospect. That talent might explain his moodiness. Weren’t creative sorts generally more melancholy than most?

  Was he desperate for her money so he could establish an art gallery? What fun that would be! She loved the arts.

  She shifted her attention to the rolled parchments sitting in the copper bucket. She reached for one and immediately drew back her hand. These were possibly his drawings, and he’d not elected to share them with her.

  She should wait for an invitation. Tomorrow, she might innocently mention how much she’d enjoyed touring the National Art Gallery. And from there, he might offer to show her his drawings. Or not. Most likely not.

  To hell with waiting for an invitation. Patience had never been her strong suit.

  She lifted out a scroll, pulled the string forming the bow that held it secure, and slowly unrolled it across the table. It wasn’t art. Not really. But it was a drawing. An outline. Of a building. A cottage. Extremely detailed with numbers carefully written that seemed to indicate measurements. She could hardly fathom the amount of time and patience it had taken to draw something this exact, this precise.

  It was almost as though he had plans to build—

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  Kate spun around. Her husband stood there, as dark as the tempest rampaging beyond the walls. His wet hair curled, no semblance of civility to it at all, which seemed appropriate since he hardly appeared civilized.

  Her heart pounded so hard she was surprised she could still hear the distant thunder. Her mouth had grown dry, her throat felt as though she might strangle.

  He strode across the room, fury in every step, until he stood so close she could see droplets of water on his eyelashes, a dampness to his skin. He didn’t carry the scent of a man who’d been bathing. Rather he smelled like wet leather and horse—

  “Answer me, woman, what are you doing?”

  Answer him? The arrogant man. Kate Rose no longer answered to anyone. She’d paid a high price for that freedom. She had no plans to take it for granted now.

  “Were you out in the rain?” she asked.

  “Not that it is any of your concern, but yes. I went riding.”

  “What is it with you and riding in the rain?”

  “It was either ride Obsidian in the rain or ride you in the bathing room—”

  The crack of her palm against his cheek
echoed through the room.

  “How dare you! How dare you be so crude when speaking of me, your wife. I daresay you shall spend a good deal of your life riding your horse as I doubt a time will ever come when I shall harbor enough affection for you to allow you to ride me.”

  His eyes darkened, his breathing grew more harsh, his jaw tightened. “How is it that I want you at every turn? How is it that a woman with so much fire would choose love over passion?”

  “I’m not choosing love over passion. I’m choosing love before passion.”

  Raking his hands through his hair, he dropped his head back. “I swear before God, you shall be the death of me.”

  Of all the words he could have said at that moment, those were the very last she’d expected. She despised that he could prick her anger and her curiosity in equal measures. “Why?” she heard herself asking when she’d have rather held her tongue.

  Shaking his head, he lowered his gaze to her. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  As though he’d lost whatever fight had been in him, he reached past her and began rolling up the parchment she’d spread over the table. “These are personal. They don’t concern you. I would ask that you leave them be.”

  “Do they represent buildings you’d like to have built?”

  “Some do. Some are simply a…fool’s fancy.”

  “I’m surprised you had the funds to hire an architect. Or will I find myself paying for his services in the morning when I settle accounts?”

  “You’ll not find yourself paying for these pitiful efforts.” Keeping his back to her, he dropped the scroll into the bucket. “I believe we’re done here.”

  “I don’t think they’re pitiful. From what I saw they were very well done. I wouldn’t mind looking at all of them.”

  He swung his head around, studying her as though he doubted her sincerity.

  “Perhaps another time, madam. In case you’ve not noticed, it is well into the middle of the night. Any sensible person would be abed.”