Married At Midnight (25 page)

her bodice. Victoria's heart slammed to a halt, but she didn't pull away.

The pad of his thumb just barely grazed the peak of her breast.

Fire seemed to blaze from the place he touched so fleetingly, but now she knew what she so longed for.

Time stood still

while those devil fingers circled and teased first one nipple, then the other, until those soft pink crests stood thrusting and

erect. Her breath was but a ragged tremor.
Miles,
she thought yearningly.
Oh, Miles
...

But there was more. No protest found voice as he tugged loose the drawstring of her bodice. The neckline of her gown was swept from her shoulders, exposing the rounded softness of her breasts. He stared down at her, at pink swelling flesh that no man had ever seen before.

Victoria's eyes locked helplessly on his face. She prayed that she would find favor in the eyes of her husband. But all at once his features might have been carved in stone.

"No," he muttered, as if to himself. And then again, with a fierce bite in his tone: "This isn't right. Dammit, this isn't right."

He nearly flung himself from her.

She felt his withdrawal like a blow. Stunned and confused, Victoria sat up slowly. "Of course it is," she said faintly. "We—we're married!"

His jaw clenched hard. His gaze veered away from her. "It's time we left," he said curtly. His profile was stark and unyielding.

Her fingers were shaking as she tried to retie the strings of her bodice. He didn't want her, she thought numbly. She'd made a fool of herself for nothing. She had
thrown
herself at him for nothing.

At last she was ready. Through eyes that were painfully dry, she stared at him. At a loss for words, for understanding, she struggled for both. "Miles," she said, very low. "Miles, please tell me—"

"We're leaving, Victoria.
We're leaving."

His voice sliced through her as cleanly as a knife. Despair clamped tight around her breast, raw and bleeding. Choking

back tears, Victoria picked up her skirts and ran toward the curricle, her heart in shreds.

Not one word passed between them the entire way home.

Once there, Victoria fled to her room. Only then did the tears come, slow and scalding.

At first Victoria was devastated . . . little wonder that she avoided Miles over the next few days—or did he avoid her?

It was only later, when she could react to the incident with her mind and not her heart, that she realized .

..

His kiss had not lied. He had felt something for her. She hadn't imagined the fire in his kiss, the longing in his arms.

Something was holding him back. That was the only answer. Yet what could it be?
What?
Another woman? She didn't

believe it. She
couldn't.

Her husband was a quiet, private man, a man who would not reveal his every side for all to see; she had concluded that Miles was not one to trust lightly. Yet neither would she have deemed him a man of secrets. So why was it only now that he had spoken of his home in Lancashire?

It was odd ... or was it? Perhaps it was only that the days had swept aside the boundaries between them.

Only now the barriers were back, as staunchly formidable as ever.

Still, she was determined not to sit home and wilt away. When an invitation to a ball given by Lord and Lady Devon arrived one morning, she decided she would attend the event, to be held the next week.

Supper that night was a dismal affair. Yet Victoria took quiet note of Miles's attention upon her, his regard unsmiling—and enigmatic. Yet once— once—she caught the flare of some unknown emotion on his face ... He stared at her with eyes that seemed to burn her very soul.

Hope burgeoned within her. As a footman removed the roast hare she'd hardly touched, she managed a bright smile.

"We received an invitation today from Lord and Lady Devon. They are giving a ball the Thursday after next. I should very much like to attend."

His reply was brief and to the point. "Then do so."

A pang swept through her. Gone was the man who had held her fast against him, whose mouth had covered hers with a

passion unbridled and uncontrolled, a hunger fierce and unchecked. Everything within her cried out the injustice—she hated

the cold, indifferent stranger he had become.

Her smile slipped. Icy-cold fingers linked together in her lap, for she was not prepared to let the matter rest so easily. "Miles," she said softly. "Will you attend with me?"

"I think not, Victoria. You are fond of such affairs. I am not."

They spent the rest of the meal in strained silence. Victoria pleaded tiredness soon thereafter. She excused herself and fled

to the sanctuary of her bedchamber, blinking back tears.

She did not sleep. In anguished turmoil, she paced the length of her room, back and forth. But one thing was clear ... This

could not go on.
They
could not go on like this.

It seemed she had but one choice.

Miles had come upstairs some time ago; she could still hear him stirring in the room next to hers. Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she tapped on his door.

He opened it. A winged black brow arched. "What is it, Victoria?" His tone was gruff, his manner impatient.

Her eyes were riveted to his face. His expression was remote and scarcely encouraging.

"May I come in?" she ventured.

He wanted to refuse. She could see it in the flicker of his eyes, yet he opened the door so she could step within. She

advanced several paces, then turned to face him, thankful he couldn't see her knees trembling.

"I don't mean to intrude," she said quickly, "but I thought we might. .. talk."

"Oh? And what is on your mind, Victoria?"

Her eye ran over him nervously. She was still fully dressed, while Miles wore only a maroon velvet dressing gown. Loosely belted at the waist, there was a generous slice of bare chest exposed. Her stomach fluttered, for she had the oddest sensation he wore not a single stitch beneath. Her mind balked.

Did he
sleep
naked? Victoria couldn't help it; her imagination ran away with her. His body would be like his chest, all long, hair-roughened limbs. And all she could think was that he would be as breathtaking
without
benefit of clothes as he was in his most elegant attire . . .

She gestured vaguely. "I know our marriage did not start off well," she said, her voice very low. "But I'd begun to think it was not such a mistake after all—and not so very long ago." She paused, but Miles said nothing. He merely remained where he was, his hands at his side, his expression impassive.

Victoria swallowed, forcing herself to go on. Faith, but this was the hardest thing she'd ever done!

"Indeed, Miles, I-I thought things were progressing quite well. I-I thought everything had changed between us. That day in the country, when you—you kissed me. Or"—her voice fell, no more than a wisp breath of sound—"have you forgotten?"

His tone was harsh. "It
should
be forgotten."

In but an instant her wistful longing was shattered. Her control grew perilous. It was all she could do not to run crying from

the room. "Why should it be forgotten? You—you act as if you are ashamed of what happened."

The cast of his jaw was rigid. "It shouldn't have happened, Victoria. Need I say more?"

Pain was like molten fire in her lungs. "Yes," she said raggedly. Recklessly. "Yes! Why is it wrong to—to desire me? To

kiss me? To hold me? Miles, I-I don't understand."

Her voice caught as she struggled for words, for composure. Then suddenly it was all coming out in a rush. "I-I wanted you

to kiss me, Miles. I wanted you to touch me and—and never stop. I wanted to be your wife in... in every way. Oh, Miles,

I-I thought you wanted me, too!"

His features were cast in stone. "I think you forget, Victoria. If I had not stopped, there could be no annulment. Did you consider that?"

Victoria stared at him unblinkingly. Her lips were trembling so that she could hardly speak. "Is that it?"

she whispered.

"You still wish an annulment?"

Miles said nothing. He merely stood there, his posture wooden, his eyes downcast.

She persisted. "Do you want an annulment, Miles? Do you?"

Time slipped by. And in that deepening silence, she could almost hear her heart breaking . ..

Her throat clogged painfully. "You do. You do, but you don't have the courage to tell me to my face.

Look at me, damn you." Her chin climbed high. Tears shimmered in her eyes, tears that betrayed the cost of her jagged cry. "Look at me and
tell
me!"

He looked at her. For one heart-stopping, frozen moment, their eyes collided ... and what she saw there

—what she
didn't

see there—shredded the last of her control.

He didn't need to tell her. It was over, she thought brokenly. She meant nothing to him. She never had...

She never would.

She rushed forward with a low, choked sob. Escape was her only thought. But in her headlong flight, her fingers were

clumsy. She twisted the doorknob frantically, but it refused to open . ..

Then suddenly
he
was there, a looming presence at her side, a hand on her arm.

"Victoria—"

"Don't!" she cried. She tore herself away and whirled on him. Suddenly her eyes were blazing. "Just leave me be," she whispered fiercely. "Do you hear, Miles Grayson? Just leave me be!"

The latch finally lifted. The door opened. Victoria fled blindly down the hall to her chamber. She flung herself on the bed,

her heart bleeding.

In the morning her pillow was still wet with tears.

But she was dry-eyed and determined. She was a woman scorned, a woman who would not offer herself again. No, she

would not beg or plead ...

She, too, had her pride.

Nor would she wile away in misery.

She saw little of her husband, and soon the day of Lord and Lady Devon's ball arrived. In an attempt to boost her spirits,

she had indulged herself with a new ball gown. Though she was not given to pettiness, it had proved immensely satisfying

when she'd informed the seamstress the bill was to be sent to her husband.

She was waiting in the entrance hall for the carriage to be brought around when Miles suddenly appeared.

Eyes the color of storm clouds flickered over her. Only moments earlier her maid had commented that she'd never seen her mistress appear more entrancing. The gown was of white satin shot through with shimmering silver threads that brought out

the highlights in her hair. The style was off-the-shoulder and daringly low cut; it emphasized the pale fragility of her neck and shoulders.

Her heart quavered, for despite the odds, she had prayed nightly that he would tear down the barriers he'd erected between them; that he would choose to alter their stalemate.

But all he said was, "Going out for the evening, countess?"

Summoning an icy strength, Victoria met his regard head-on. "Yes. If you recall, we were invited to Lord and Lady Devon's ball. You told me you didn't wish to attend."

Miles made no reply, but he did not appear pleased.

She took a deep breath and prayed she wasn't about to make a horrendous mistake. "Do you disapprove of me going alone, Miles?"

"It's hardly the first time you've done so. Why should I disapprove?"

But his expression revealed otherwise.

Some devil seized hold of her. "Oh, and by the way"—she smiled sweetly—"please inform the staff there's no need to wait

up for me. I shall undoubtedly be quite late."

She experienced a certain grim pleasure at seeing the lightning change in his expression. She could almost hear the crack of thunder in the air. Relishing her brief moment of triumph, she picked up her skirts and swept outside to where the carriage

now awaited her.

* * *

"Damn!" With an exclamation of disgust, Miles pushed himself away from his desk. He'd just spent the last few hours tending to his correspondence— or trying to. His efforts had proved quite futile.

He strode to the side table where he poured himself a generous glass of port. He grimaced as the brew slid down his throat.

No doubt Victoria was having the time of her life. He had no trouble picturing the scene that was surely even now taking

place at Lord and Lady Devon's ball. No doubt she was surrounded by half a dozen young pups, eagerly fawning over her.

Or perhaps she was with that cad, Count DeFazio!

The thought that DeFazio might be helping himself to his wife made him clench his teeth. Not that Miles could blame the oily-tongued Italian rake. When Victoria had come down the stairs tonight, he'd felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. Her gown set off to perfect advantage the gleaming slope of bare, slender shoulders. She'd looked particularly delectable, and

he'd felt a stab of pure possessiveness—along with no little amount of male pride— that this woman was his.

That's right, you pompous ass,
sneered a voice in his head.
She's yours. So why aren't you with her?

His lips twisted. "Why indeed?" he said aloud.

He had no one else to blame but himself. He could be with her now, this very moment. He
should
be with her. Moreover,

he
wanted
to be with her.

But it wasn't so easy, he argued silently, for he was still struggling with his dilemma.

Do you want an annulment, Miles? Do you?

His insides twisted in dread remembrance. Dear God, he couldn't say yes. He couldn't say the words.

Yet how could he

say no ...

I-I wanted you to kiss me, Miles. I wanted you to touch me and
—
and never stop. I wanted to be
your wife in .. . in every way. Oh, Miles, I-I thought you wanted me, tool
The memory of that night still haunted him. He could still hear her, her voice raw. And he could still see Victoria, her face

so pale, fighting back the tears she thought he didn't see.

His heart squeezed. He'd never meant to hurt her. God, if only he could, he'd make it up to her .. .

You were so convinced she was shallow and vain,
jabbed a voice in his brain.
But you were wrong.

You know it and

still you refuse to see it!

Long fingers tensed around the glass. He
was
a fool, he admitted at long last, for these last few weeks had been a revelation. Victoria was strong-willed and spirited, even a bit headstrong, but not wild. A bit reckless perhaps, but most assuredly not rebellious. The admission provoked a slight upward curl of his lips. She had a bit of a temper, but no less than his own.

His smile withered. She wasn't like Margaret. She wasn't!

But experience had left him wary, and it was that which held him back. There was so much at stake—

too much to allow

for another mistake.

A pang of guilt shot through him as he thought of Heather. He'd been gone from Lyndermere Park too long already. It was. time he returned home to Lancashire. To Heather. Oh, he'd sent letters and gifts he knew would entertain and cheer her, but

he knew how terribly she missed him when he was away ...

Which only brought him full circle. What was he to do with Victoria?

Take her with him to Lyndermere? Or leave her here in London? Everything within him rebelled at leaving her behind. But it wasn't just her reaction to country life that he feared. What about Heather?

What would Victoria think of Heather? That was his foremost concern—he could not allow Heather to be hurt as Margaret had hurt her.

He should have told her, he thought heavily. Perhaps he should have told her long ago and let fate take its course.

His gaze sought the clock on the wall. Just after eleven. The ball was in full swing. Victoria wouldn't be home for hours ...

What was it she'd said?

Please inform the staff there's no need to wait up for me. I shall undoubtedly be quite late.

Lord, but she'd been so cold ... but no colder than he had been to her.

It was then that an awful thought crowded his mind—and his heart.

Had he lost her? Had he?
You fool,
the voice inside him chided.
You've no doubt driven her straight
into the arms of

that scoundrel DeFazio. And you have no one to blame but yourself
No. No. He couldn't lose her. He
wouldn't.

His glass slammed down on his desk. He strode to the corridor and threw open the door. "Nelson!"

The servant hurried out from the kitchen. "Yes, my lord?"

"Please see that my evening jacket is laid out. I shall be joining the countess at Lord and Lady Devon's ball."

"Very good, my lord." Nelson smothered a smile and trotted away. There was a considerable amount of wagering going

on belowstairs regarding the outcome of lord and lady's current state of affairs. He had the sudden feeling a rather tidy sum

would soon line his pockets . ..