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Lady Carstairs, however, refused to be silenced. David would need to pay a visit to Lord Carstairs and impress upon him the importance of shutting up his bloody wife.
The click of the door disturbed his thoughts, forcing him to turn.
About time.
The sight of Andromeda standing before him struck David dumb. His gaze ran over every remembered curve of her body, searching for some sign of welcome in the gorgeous blue of her eyes. He was disappointed to find none.
Christ, I’ve missed her so much.
She dropped into an elegant, exaggerated curtsy, her skirts fanning out around her. “Your Grace.”
David moved toward her, inhaling the soft scent of lavender, remembering the way she’d felt in his arms. The sense of completion he’d found only with her. He had sown his share of wild oats. Kept a mistress when he’d felt like it. But bedding a woman had always been no more than the release of physical need. Not so with this one woman whose virtue he’d taken on the floor of his study. Desire for Andromeda rushed through his veins, forcing his heart to thump painfully beneath his ribs.
He reached out to tuck a stray bit of hair behind her ear, a reflex borne of his overwhelming need to touch her.
Andromeda flinched, stepping away from his fingers.
Still angry.
“Why have you come, Your Grace?”
Frustration bloomed inside him. She wascompromisedand could be with child. Everyone was whispering about them, thanks to Foxwood and Lady Carstairs. Her reputation was in danger. And his aunt had drawn his attention to an item in one of the gossip columns implying Andromeda was in trade. As a modiste.
Even Andromeda would need to admit she couldn’t go about designing dresses for the other ladies in theton. He’d have to put a stop to her hobby immediately, though he applauded her ingenuity. She could design and create to her heart’s content. But she couldn’t actuallybea modiste.
“You know why I am here, Andromeda. We must marry.” Greedily, his eyes strayed to the gentle swell of her breasts and delicate line of her neck. He thought of tasting her again. Burying himself inside her. Lacing his fingers with hers and just speaking to her.
The last desire was the fiercest.
Andromeda raised a delicate brow at his declaration. “Must we?”
Did she not understand what it cost him to come to her? By the look on her face, the answer was no. And she didn’t seem to care. Taking a deep breath, David measured his words carefully, not wishing to make the situation worse. “We parted on bad terms, Andromeda, and that was not my intent. I wish to apologize.”
“Apologize? Do you even know what for, Your Grace? Or are you only throwing words out at me in an effort to placate me? I’m fairly certain it’s the latter.”
Damn her.“I used an unfortunate choice of words in the study. I only meant to convey—”
“How grateful I should be that despite so many flaws in my lineage, you are willing to overlook my imperfections and marry me? Tell me, how many of my deficits did you overlook when you took my virtue on the floor of your study? I suppose I should be pleased my meager charms blocked such from your mind long enough for you to bed me.”
The rejection shouldn’t have stung so badly; he’d been subjected to years of disapproval from Horace. But having Andromeda tell him she didn’t want him was far worse. Did she have any idea how he’d struggled with this? With her? He’d apologized. Why couldn’t that be enough?
“Wewillmarry.”
She shook her head. “No. We will not.”
“Excuse me?”
“I refuse your most generous offer, Your Grace. Pith will show you out.”
“A poor choice of words was used,” he hissed. “I misspoke.” His jaw tightened, feeling Andromeda slip through his fingers like grains of sand.
“Did you know, Your Grace, I liken myself to one of the paintings or frescoes you are so proud of; beautiful and aesthetically pleasing until you notice a flaw in the canvas. Or a crack in the tile. Perhaps the colors aren’t as glorious as they once were. You ignore it for as long as you can, but every time you view the painting, the imperfection begins to gnaw at you more. You have it reframed. Restored. But it doesn’t matter becauseallyou can see is theflaw.”
“Andromeda—”
“Someday,” her voice grew thick with emotion, “you will grow tired of pretending you don’t see the imperfections you find in me. Will you then ask the servants to take me down, cover me with a cloth, and relegate me to the attic?”
“You are not a fucking painting,” he roared, his control finally snapping.
