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Isabel kissed him again, and Rhys crushed her body to his, rubbing her soft curves against his hardened length.
Isabel drew away, breathing heavily. “Until tonight then.”
* * *
Rhys stalked to his study and resolved not to think about his wife for the rest of the day. If only his mind was so accommodating.
Instead, he sat behind his desk, looking at his ledgers with an empty gaze, thinking about his wife.
What was it about Isabel that was so alluring?
During the day, Rhys could not get the woman out of his head. During the night, he’d lasted an embarrassingly short amount of time before losing control.
But he could not deny that it was beyond just physical attraction. He couldn’t keep his thoughts away from her. He always thought about her when he was away, but he’d chalked it up to missing his home, his daughter, and everything else that he associated with them.
Now that he had spent the previous day at home, he couldn’t keep fooling himself like this. All day, he had kept hoping he’d catch a glimpse of her. And the night without her was pure torture.
Rhys couldn’t deny the obvious any longer. He was beginning to fall in love with his wife.
He heaved a sigh. Now he needed to ensure that she fell in love with him, too. Or at least was not inclined to leave him. And to that end, he needed to keep their passion fresh within their marriage.
Isabel had had at least one lover before Rhys. And Rhys was certain that what lovers did was different from the marital bed within polite society. He wasn’t certain how different, but he had heard wild stories of shameless pursuits by many a member of society.
In fact, he’d heard most of the stories from a person who was currently residing under his roof.
Viscount St. Clare, the previously most notorious rake in the country and currently the most devoted husband to his wife, walked into Rhys’s study right at that moment.
He sauntered toward Rhys’s desk and plopped in the chair opposite his. “Are you busy?”
“No.” Rhys eyed the viscount curiously.
“Oh, good. I find myself suffering from an uncharacteristic bout of ennui.”
“Let me guess, your wife left with my marchioness and our daughter, so now you are bored.”
St. Clare grinned. “You are incredibly astute. Are you going to offer me a drink or do I have to get it myself? Actually,” he said, getting up, “Never mind. I shall do it myself.”
True to his word, he went to the side table and poured them each a drink.
“It is truly refreshing to see you happily married after years of debauchery,” Rhys noted.
“I can say the same about you. Only in your case it would be the years of being a hermit. I’d say we did a good job finding a wife for you.”
Rhys scoffed. “I do not remember you doing much work at all.”
“What do you mean?” St. Clare exclaimed in an offended manner. “We invited you to the ball and dropped your wife at your feet.”
Rhys chuckled. “Well, whatever it was, I have to say that I am indeed content with my lot.”
“Are you?” The all-too-perceptive viscount raised his brow.
Rhys cleared his throat and tugged on his cravat. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?” St. Clare livened up immediately as he took a sip of whisky.
“Do you treat your wife like your mistress?”
St. Clare raised a brow. Any other man would be sputtering his drink out of his mouth in surprise at the question. Not St. Clare. “No, I treat my wife a lot better than I have ever treated any of my mistresses.”
