He could not risk that love because having it ripped from him again would be a wound he would not be able to bear.
“Kiss me,” she said softly.
And so he did.
He kissed her passionately, slowly, and fervently to make certain that he did not have to think about the past. He focused on her body beneath his, the touch of her hands, the feel of her lips.
The way he could sense her heartbeat, for it was the only thing that would keep him present.
Catherine half expected him to leave her after a few moments.
After all, he had seemed to be away from her so often these days at work on the estate.
She knew she should give him permission to go about his duties. She could fend for herself. She had, after all, most of her life, but she wanted to be with him.
He was a duke and there was much to do, but she had hungered for his presence, for the touch of his strong hands. For the feel of her head resting against his chest.
And now instead of stealing away, he stayed.
He pulled her against him, allowing her head to rest over his heart. It was pounding slowly but firmly, strongly like a beat that would go on forever. She clung to his warmth, hating that she felt like clinging to him, but she did.
For, every day she’d begun to realize that her heart, her traitorous heart, had connected to him that first night in London, and she’d felt his absence over the last days here.
It had shaken her.
How was it possible that she’d come to care for him so much in such a short period of time? Was it a pathetic thing? She had known so little love in her life. Was she so unaccustomed to affection that she had mistaken his attention for more?
She wanted affection, and she did not like the idea of finding affection in the way that so many of the aristocrats of the ton did. She knew that so many, after an heir and a spare, went on to do whatever they pleased withwhomeverthey pleased. At least that’s what she had seen and observed as a courtesan in those rooms where scandal occurred.
Even the ladies of society did it.
But she did not want that now. It was not the life she had chosen. She wanted to be a great duchess, and that meant she wanted to be a great wife. But how could she be a great wife to him when, even though his body was here, she felt that his soul was absent?
He lifted his hand and stroked her hair gently back from her face.
“Are you content?” he asked.
“How could I not be?” she replied, tracing her fingertips over the hard muscles of his abdomen. “I have everything that I could wish.”
“That does not mean that you are content,” he said softly.
She pressed a kiss to his warm skin. “I would be a fool if I wasn’t.”
“Many of us are fools,” he pointed out. “Myself included.”
“No,” she breathed softly, closing her eyes as she drank in his masculine scent, trying to memorize it. “You’ve never been a fool, and I don’t wish to be. It’s one of the reasons why I married you.”
“To avoid being a fool,” he laughed.
“Yes, of course,” she riposted, snapping open her gaze and propping herself up so that her chin rested on her palm. “And of course, as your duchess, I will, as you said, have a certain independence that I did not have before. And my child will be able to do great things.”
“Then,” he said, his eyes searching over her face, “youarecontent.”
“Yes,” she said, “I am.”
But the words rang false in her ears. Sheshouldbe content. She had every reason, and yet there was an ache in her heart that could not be filled.
Chapter 20