“Frustrated want in general?” She folded her arms over her night rail. “Or frustrated want specific to me?”
Harbury made a low, growling noise in his throat.
Visibly, she swallowed. “I’m not sure if that constitutes an answer.”
Mercy yelped. Harbury turned his attention back to the bed. The pup ambled to the mattress’s edge and barked hopefully.
“No.” He pointed to the pillow. “Back.”
Mercy ambled back, made a full circle, huffed again, and sat down.
“Oh. My.Heavens.” Cassandra enunciated. “Doeseverythingsimply respond to your command?”
He ignored her. “Sleep.”
The dog curled into a tiny ball of white, brown, and tan.
“You’re very sure of yourself all of a sudden.”
“No, I’m not.”
He was unsure how to exercise his authority on the estate, and he was even more unsure how he should go about seducing his wife. Hewassure, however, of his intention to seduce.
As he swiveled back, his banyan fanned out around him. “And, to answer your earlier question”—he stalked toward the door—“you’re the one I want. Right now.” He pointed to her chamber. “In that bed.”
Her eyes widened. Then, she turned away. Had she just dismissed him or had she invited him in.Invited, he decided.
He crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him.
*
“Duchess.”
Cassandra had swiveled and was heading into the sanctum of her too-pink bedchamber. But, as Harbury used Cassie’s title as a low command, a claim of possession, tiny hairs on the back of Cassie’s neck stood at prickly attention.
In fact, her whole body came alive in the manner of an animal gravely alert to the hushed presence of a predator. But she was not a puppy in need of training. Nor a dog to be ordered to come and go ashe pleased.
She ignored him. Or, at least, ignoring him was what she’d intended to do.
Instead, some feral, excited part of her, oblivious both to the obvious danger and the need to take a stand, decided to turn and face her tormentor.
Harbury had come closer than she’d expected.
Close enough he didn’t need to fully extend his arm to cup one hot, bare palm against her cheek. His gentleness sharply contrasted his tone. His calluses brushed against her cheekbones. He was an oven alive with flame, warming her with his desire.
As if she needed much encouragement.
If not for her occasional, self-protective sparks of anger, she would follow Harbury around with a persistence even Mercy would find excessive. But before she relented, she needed him to know she would not be satisfied with carelessly scattered crumbs.
Slowly, he compelled her to lift her head. His eyes glittered, his lips appeared soft and inviting. The dimple in his chin just begged to be touched. She gazed into his face, feeling not just trapped, but hopelessly lost.
One should never, she decided, attempt a marriage of convenience with a man so inconveniently compelling. In a reflexive gesture, she placed her hands lightly against his chest. She had intended to push him away. But she didn’t push.
Instead, she became keenly aware of his muscles beneath her palms and the strength within those muscles. The rough protrusion of what must be his nipple scraped against the fleshy area just beneath her thumb, causing an increased heaviness in her breasts.
Her own nipples were already hard and aching.
Her forefinger twitched, and the fabric of his nightshirt bunched up between her fingers. Part of her hand landed on the exposed skin beneath his collar.
