Grayson stalked the length of the card room, but the play held no interest for him.His thoughts kept returning to Kate, feeding his annoyance.Could he not leave her even for a few minutes?
He had always scoffed at those men who made cakes of themselves over the Season’s reigning beauties.But this evening he felt like one of them, chafing at the minutes he spent in any other company than Kate’s.
It was absurd.Ridiculous.Mortifying.Unconscionable.And he would not have it!
“La, Wroth, you look like a thundercloud!Whatever is the matter?That new wife of yours causing you trouble already?”An aging dowager eyed him with some amusement, and Grayson realized that his hands were balled into fists.Deliberately, he relaxed his fingers and fixed her with a contemptuous glare that sent her hiding behind her fan.
Stifling the unruly urge to knock her on her fat behind, he stalked away, toward where he had given Kate over to Lady Coxbury.Although he had been momentarily diverted, his initial problem remained.
This need for Kate was eating him up inside.
No matter how he might deny it, Grayson wanted her: her body, her scent, her soft voice, her quiet strength, her quick wit.Her elegance went bone-deep and had nothing to do with her attire.It was a grace of spirit.
She had become his addiction, and the more he fed it, the hungrier he grew.So he fought his desire, unwilling to give up the control he had wielded all his life.It was a trial such as he had never known.He could not avoid her, for he had promised to show her London, and he was not keen on leaving her to her own devices after his talk with Raleigh.
So he suffered the very tempting Kate all day and night.But he held firm, though he wanted her anywhere and everywhere: in the library, across the breakfast table.and off the darkened paths of Vauxhall.So far, he had given in only at night, rationalizing that any newly wedded man would not deny himself the pleasure of his marriage bed.
Pleasure.It was a feeble word to describe what he felt when she was in his arms.Grayson shuddered as his blood quickened in response, and he silently cursed his lack of restraint.
But it went deeper than sex.
Grayson knew that was only a part of his addiction.Like the primitive he feared he had become, he coveted every last inch of her, every whisper of her breath, every glance from those amazing eyes.And the milieu in which he had once moved so easily now seemed like a trap, designed to keep her from him.
Snatching up a glass from a passing servant, he took a gulp.Champagne again.The frothy liquid did little to assuage his appetites.Nodding coolly to a baron who tried to snare him in conversation, Grayson went on, his gaze traveling ahead, searching, despite his best intentions, for his wife.And when he found her, he halted abruptly, his heart thundering a protest.
Raleigh was right.
Too right.Grayson could have choked the man then and there as he faced the truth of the viscount’s predictions, for Kate was no longer under the relative protection of Lady Coxbury.Instead, the poppet was at the center of a small group of rakes, every one of them eyeing her low-cut gown as a starving man would a roast.
He should have known.Kate was a beautiful woman, and, as his wife, she would draw more than her share of attention.Perhaps it was her many charms that drew them, or, as Raleigh had suggested, the challenge of bedding a famous man’s spouse.Whatever the lure, they surrounded her and leered at her in a manner that set Grayson’s teeth on edge.
He shouldn’t care.Throughout the crowded rooms were many husbands whose wives were flirting with other men.He had never marked it before and should not now, for it meant nothing.Worldly-wise since childhood, Grayson did not blink at even the most outrageous behavior, yet his gnawing need for Kate made the sight of her with other men intolerable.
Drawing in a deep breath, Grayson told himself that she was handling her admirers with her usual aplomb.In fact, her manner was noticeably cooler than could be said of any of the other women, half of whom were falling out of their gowns in their eagerness to be noticed.
Not Kate.Still, it bothered him to watch her turning toward them, listening to them, gifting them with a smile… His fingers closed around the empty glass he still clutched tightly.
“I see your wife has made some conquests already.”
Grayson did not turn at the sound of Raleigh’s amused tone, his attention riveted on one particularly bold fellow, who leaned close to whisper in Kate’s ear.Was his breath touching her?Grayson’s hand tightened.
“Let me take that,” Raleigh said, prying his fingers loose from the crystal.“Can’t go around breaking these, Wroth.It’s a waste of perfectly good glassware, you know.”
Grayson hardly heard the viscount.He was intent upon the man who stood too near to his wife.Grayson had met him before, a disreputable character always chasing after the newest bit of muslin.Larkin was his name, but Grayson could think of other, more appropriate epithets.
While he watched, Kate inched away, but Larkin followed.When he reached over to lightly touch the bare skin of her shoulder, Grayson’s banked rage ignited.Throwing off Raleigh’s restraining hold, he stepped forward, ignoring Kate’s startled expression to put himself between her and Larkin.
“Don’t touch my wife,” he warned softly.
“I beg your pardon, Wroth.I didn’t realize you were so possessive,” the man said, smiling slyly.
Grayson fought down the primitive urge to beat the fellow to a pulp, though his hands itched to strike.“Touch her again, and I’ll kill you.”
He heard the gasps of the onlookers, but paid them no heed as he bowed slightly to Kate.“Shall we go?”
At her curt nod, he took her arm and strode through the gaping crowd, ignoring the expressions of shocked amazement that met his abrupt departure.Neither did he acknowledge a farewell from Raleigh, who stood staring thoughtfully after them.
He was too angry to notice.Another man had felt the smooth satin of his wife’s skin, and his newly awakened barbaric streak was crying for murder.He could do it, too.A duel would do no damage to his reputation; he was too powerful.
