More unhelpful memories flooded back, of the rest of the evening, the romance of the château’s Great Hall, illuminated by thousands of candles and sprays of hothouse flowers. And that waltz with Maxim, as he had banded his strong arms around her, gathered her close and led her effortlessly through the steps of the dance so she didn’t stumble or fall.
The twist of panic in her belly tightened. How could he have managed to make her feel so cherished, so adored, when none of it was real?
Everything he had done had been for the benefit of their audience, so why hadn’t it felt that way? Was she really so desperate for affection she could be fooled by romance and spectacle—and the glow of desire in his rich brown eyes?
She pushed the memories into the furthest reaches of her brain. She had to remain a realist, or she would be destroyed at the end of all this. The way she had been destroyed as a child.
She went to pick up the heavy silver brush on the dressing table and clashed fingers with Antoinette, who had returned from the bathroom.
The maid laughed. ‘I can brush madame’s hair, if you would like?’
Cara smiled at the young woman in the mirror, who was so much more sophisticated than she was. ‘Would it be okay if I did it myself?’
‘Of course.’ Antoinette smiled. ‘Would you like me to leave you to bathe?’
Cara nodded, desperate to be alone as her gaze strayed to the large four-poster bed which dominated the bedroom. She needed to get her thoughts in order before... Well, before Maxim arrived tonight, assuming he was coming. The comment he had made when she’d reached him at the altar had sounded like a joke. So why couldn’t she stop fixating on it...and wanting desperately for it to be real?
‘Should I return to help you dress for your wedding night?’ the maid asked boldly.
‘I think I can handle that,’ Cara murmured, almost choking on her embarrassment. ‘But thank you so much for your help this evening, Antoinette.’
The maid grinned, making her look very young. ‘You are welcome, madame. I think Monsieur Durand chose very well for his wife.’
Before leaving, Antoinette laid out a gossamer-thin piece of lace on the bed then added with a sparkle of humour, ‘The couturière left this for you to wear tonight. But as Monsieur Durand did not take his eyes from you all evening, I do not think you will need it for very long.’
‘Right...thanks, Antoinette.’ Cara’s blush incinerated her cheeks as the maid left. And the pulse of need between her thighs—which was always there—pounded even harder.
Brushing the last of the wild flowers out of her hair, she laid the brush on the dressing table with trembling fingers and headed towards the bathroom. A claw-foot tub stood in the centre of the lavish room, facing tall French windows which looked out over the dark fields of vines beyond the estate’s gardens. Slipping off the robe, she climbed into the steamy, fragrant bathwater, but as she soaked tired muscles, trying to loosen the kinks caused by this overwhelming day, and the last overwhelming week and a half, the throbbing ache between her thighs strengthened and the panic intensified.
She had already lost too much of herself during tonight’s events. If only she had more experience. Should she risk sleeping with Maxim? Was she even capable of denying herself that pleasure? And if he did come to her tonight, how did she remember that this marriage was one of convenience, not love?
Maxim tapped gently on the door to Cara’s suite of rooms. No reply. Was she already asleep?
But as he contemplated returning to his own rooms across the hallway, the sensual tension that had been tormenting him throughout the day—ever since she’d stepped off his private jet that morning—clawed at his gut again.
He didn’t feel rational, or focused. He felt desperate—driven by a craving stronger than he had ever known.
Every time he had got a lungful of her scent today, each time he’d seen the heat warm her cheeks when she’d glanced his way, the hunger for her had increased. Their first dance had been torture, as her body softened in his arms and she’d allowed him to lead her in the steps—while all the time he had been thinking of another dance he wished to lead her in.
Every single thing about his wife turned him on. But was that really so surprising?
He had searched for five long months to find her and then forced himself to leave her for ten days while preparations for their marriage were made. And during all that time he had dreamed about her continuously—sweaty erotic dreams which had turned his hunger into something more than it was ever meant to be.
He wasn’t a man used to having to deny his natural urges, and every one of them had been focused on Cara for months. And now she was his wife, was it any wonder he wanted to consummate their marriage? Surely they both deserved something more from this union than simply security for the child? Madame Moreau, the Parisian obstetrician he had hired, had confirmed what Dr Karim had said in London. Cara and the child were healthy; there was nothing to fear from sexual intercourse.
Damn it, stop second-guessing yourself. You can hardly satisfy this hunger from the hallway.
He knocked again, then tentatively opened the door, wondering if she was asleep. As he entered the room, the light coming from the bathroom illuminated the empty bed, and a scrap of something lacy and insubstantial laid upon it.
Just the sight of the negligee and the thought of Cara’s full curves barely concealed by it had the heat surging into his groin.
He could hear splashing in the adjoining bathroom and smell the heady fragrance of flowers.
He cursed softly to himself then walked across the room, unable to resist the pull of a desire so strong it had been driving him crazy for hours, days, weeks...hell, even months.
He stood in the bathroom doorway to absorb the sight of his bride in the free-standing tub unobserved. Her heavy breasts were misted with moisture, while damp tendrils of hair clung to her high cheekbones.
He groaned.