Sylvia Day - The Stranger I Married

“And yet we never do,” Gerard said dryly. “As you so often point out to us, we are constantly shaming him.”

Her brows drew together in a glower. “It was my responsibility to be both a mother and father to you all, to teach you how to be like him. I realize you think I have failed, but I did the best I could.”

Gerard held his retort, his mind filling with memories of whippings with leather straps and hurtful words. Suddenly eager to be alone, he said, “I am more than willing to take Spencer in hand, but I will do so here, in my house. I have my own affairs to attend to.”

“‘Affairs’ is an apt description,” she muttered.

He put his hand to his heart, deflecting her sarcasm with his own. “You disparage me unjustly. I am a married man.”

Her gaze narrowed as she assessed him. “You have changed, Grayson. Whether that is a good thing or not remains to be seen.”

With a wry smile, he rose. “I have a few arrangements to make in anticipation of Spencer’s arrival, so if we are done…?”

“Yes, of course.” His mother fluffed out her skirts as she stood. “I have my doubts about this, but I will present your solution to Spencer and if he agrees, so will I.” Her voice hardened. “Keep that woman away from him.”

His brow arched. “My wife does not have the pox, you know.”

“That is debatable,” she snapped, departing the room in a flounce of dark skirts and chilly hauteur.

Gerard was left with both relief and a sudden longing for the comfort of his wife.

“I warned you.”

Rhys looked down at the top of his sister’s head. Standing beneath a tree on the Marley rear lawn, they were alone and apart from the other milling guests. “She is perfect.”

“Too perfect, if you ask me.”

“Which I did not,” he said dryly, but silently he agreed with Isabel’s assessment. Lady Susannah was poised and collected. She was a beauty, and yet when he had spoken to her, she reminded him of a moving statue. There was very little life in her.

“Rhys.” Isabel turned to face him, her dark red brows drawn together beneath her straw hat. “Can you see yourself being a friend to her?”

“A friend?”

“Yes, a friend. You will have to live with your future wife, sleep with her on occasion, discuss issues relating to your children and household. All of these things are much easier to accomplish when you are friends with your spouse.”

“Is that what you have with Grayson?”

“Well…” The line between her brows deepened. “In the past, we were close acquaintances.”

“Acquaintances?” She was blushing, something he had rarely seen her do.

“Yes.” Her gaze drifted, and she suddenly seemed very far away. “Actually,” she said softly. “He was a very dear friend.”

“And now?” Not for the first time, Rhys found himself wondering what the arrangement was between his sister and her second husband. They had always seemed happy enough before, laughing and sharing private looks that said they knew each other well. Whatever their reasons for seeking sex outside of their marriage, it was not because of lack of charity with each other. “The rumors suggest that you may soon have a marriage that is more…traditional.”

“I do not want a traditional marriage,” she grumbled, her arms crossing beneath her bosom, her attention coming back to the present.

He held up his hands in self-defense. “No need to snap at me.”

“I did not snap.”

“You did so. For a woman who just rolled out of bed, you are remarkably testy.”

Isabel growled. He raised his brows.

Her glare lasted a moment longer and then it faded into a sheepish pout. “I am sorry.”

“Is Grayson’s return so trying?” he asked softly. “You are not yourself.”

“I know it.” She released a frustrated sounding breath. “And I have not eaten since supper.”

“That explains a great deal. You were always grumpy when hungry.” He held out his arm. “Shall we brave the throng of dour biddies, and fetch you a plate?”

Isabel covered her face with a gloved hand and laughed.

Moments later she stood opposite him at the long food tables, loading her small plate unfashionably high. He shook his head and looked away, hiding his indulgent smile. Moving a short distance from the others, Rhys pulled out his pocket watch and wondered how much longer he would have to bear this odious affair.

It was only three o’clock. He closed the golden door with a click and groaned.

“It is the height of bad taste to look as if you cannot wait to depart.”

“I beg your pardon?” He spun about, searching for the owner of the lyrical feminine voice. “Where are you?”

There was no reply.

But the hair at his nape was suddenly on end. “I will find you,” he promised, studying the low hedges that lined his left and rear sides.

“To find implies that something is hidden or lost, and I am neither.”

Gads, that voice was sweet as an angel’s and sultry as a siren’s. Without care for his tan-colored breeches, Rhys plunged through the hip-high shrubs, rounded a large elm, and found a small sitting area on the other side. There, on a half-circle-shaped marble bench sat a petite brunette with a book.

“There was a pathway a little further down,” she said without looking up from her reading.

His gaze raked her trim form, noting the worn toes of her slippers, the slightly faded hem of her flowered gown, and the too-tight bodice. He bowed and said, “Lord Trenton, Miss…?”

“Yes, I know who you are.” Snapping the book closed, she lifted her head and studied him with the same thorough perusal he had given her.

Rhys stared. He could not do otherwise. She was no great beauty. In fact, her delicate features were unremarkable. Her nose was pert and covered with freckles, her mouth just as any other female mouth. She was not young or old. Nearing thirty would be his guess. Her eyes, however, were as pleasing as her voice. They were large and round and a startling blue with yellow flecks. They were also filled with keen intelligence, and even more intriguing, a mischievous sparkle.

It took him a moment to realize she said nothing.

“You are staring,” he pointed out.

“So are you,” she retorted with a straightforwardness that reminded him of Bella. “I have an excuse. You do not.”

His brows raised. “Share your excuse with me. Perhaps I can make use of it as well.”

She smiled, and he suddenly found himself uncomfortably hot. “I doubt that. You see, you are quite the handsomest man I have ever seen. I confess it took my brain a moment to reclassify my previous notions of manly beauty, in order to fully process yours.”

He returned her smile in full measure.

“Stop that,” she said with a chastising wag of an ink-stained finger. “Go away.”

“Why?”

“Because you are affecting my ability to think properly.”

“Don’t think.” He moved toward her, wondering what she smelled like and why her clothes were worn and her fingertips stained. Why was she alone, reading, in the midst of a gathering? The sudden flood of questions and the overpowering need to know the answers puzzled him.

As she shook her head, glossy dark curls drifted across her pink cheeks. “You are every bit the rake they say you are. If I did nothing to sway you, what would you do?”

The impertinent chit was flirting with him, but he suspected it was unintentional. She was truly curious, and that unabashed quest for knowledge piqued his jaded interests. “I am not certain. Shall we find out together?”

“Rhys! Damn you,” Isabel muttered from a short distance away. “You will not collect from me if you have run off.”

He stopped mid-step and cursed under his breath.

“Saved by Lady Grayson,” the girl said with a wink.

“Who are you?”

“No one important.”

“Is that not for me to decide?” he asked, entirely too reluctant to leave her.

“No, Lord Trenton. That was decided long ago.” She stood, and collected her book. “Have a good day.” And before he could think of a reason for her to stay, she was gone.

Isabel paused in the foyer of her home at the sound of masculine voices. One was rushed and urgent. The other, her husband’s, was low and unwavering. The door to Gray’s study was closed or she would have peeked, out of curiosity. Instead, she looked at the butler who was collecting her hat and gloves. “Who is with Lord Grayson?”

“Lord Spencer Faulkner, my lady.” The servant paused a moment, then added, “He arrived with luggage.”

She blinked, but in no other way did she betray her surprise. With a nod of dismissal, Isabel went to the kitchen to make certain the cook was aware of the extra mouth to feed. Then she went upstairs to take a short nap. She was exhausted, both from a night spent with very little sleep and an afternoon of chatting inanities with women who spoke unkind things about her behind her back. Rhys was supposed to have been both support and a distraction, but he himself had seemed distracted, his gaze wandering restlessly over the guests as if he were looking for something. Like a way to escape, she imagined.

With the help of her abigail, Isabel stripped down to her stockings and chemise, then took down her hair. Within moments after lying on her bed, she was asleep and dreaming of Gray.

Isabel, he breathed in a voice filled with sin. His mouth, hot and wet, moved across her exposed shoulder. His stroking hand was equally hot, the callused palm causing a delicious friction even through the silk that covered her legs.

Her heart warned her to refuse him, and her arm lifted to push his touch away.

I need you, he said roughly.

Her blood thrummed with eagerness and she whimpered, every nerve ending alive and waiting for the pleasure he could bring. She could smell him and feel his warmth. His ardor radiated outward, igniting hers. It was a dream, and she did not want to wake up. Nothing she did here would affect her.

Her hand dropped away.

Good girl, he praised, his lips to her ear. He lifted her thigh and set it over his. “I missed you today.”

She came to consciousness with a start.

And found a very hard bodied, very aroused Grayson at her back.

“No!” Struggling, Isabel squirmed out of his embrace and sat up. She glared at him. “What are you doing in my bed?”

He rolled to his back and tucked his hands under his head, completely unabashed about his obvious erection. Dressed in an open-collared shirt and trousers, his blue eyes sparkling with both devilry and lust, he was unbearably handsome. “Making love to my wife.”

“Well, cease.” She crossed her arms under her bosom and his eyes dropped to her breasts. Her blasted nipples replied with enthusiasm. “We had a bargain.”

“Which I never agreed to.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Bring that mouth over here,” he murmured, his eyelids lowering.

“You are dreadful.”

“That is not what you said last night. Or this morning. I believe you said, ‘Oh God, Gray, that is so good.’” His lips twitched.

Isabel threw a pillow at him.

Gray laughed and shoved it under his head. “How was your afternoon?”

She sighed and shrugged, her body achingly aware of the man who sat so close to her. “Lady Marley had a breakfast.”

“Was it pleasant? I confess, I’m surprised you managed to lure Trenton to such an event.”

“He wants a favor.”

“Ah, extortion.” He smiled. “I love it.”

“You would, you wicked man.” Catching up one of the pillows, she reclined opposite him. “Perhaps you could fetch my robe?”

“Damnation, no,” he said, shaking his head.

“I have no wish to incite your already considerable appetite for sexual congress,” she said dryly.

He caught up her hand and kissed her fingertips. “The mere thought of you incites me. At least this way, I also have a charming view.”

“Was your day better than mine?” she asked, making every effort to ignore how his touch burned her.

“My brother has come for an extended visit.”

“I heard.” Gooseflesh spread across her skin as he stroked her palm. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? Not precisely. Apparently, he is running amok.”

“Hmm…Well, he is the age for it.” But studying Gray, she could see he was disturbed. “You look so grave. Is he in trouble?”

“No.” Gray fell onto his back again and stared up at the ornate ceiling. “He has not yet run up any great debt or angered someone’s husband, but he is certainly on a steady course in that direction. I should have been here to guide him, but once again my own needs came before anyone else’s.”

“You cannot blame yourself,” she protested. “Any wildness on his part is natural for boys his age.”