Page 16 of Cold November Rake

"That I don't have an heir."

She pursed her lips. That was closer to the subject, she supposed.

"That thought only just occurred to you, did it?" She picked up a long, clean linen strip and pressed it against his skin, wrapping it around his torso.

Sutton drew a slow, painful breath. "I was being selfish in turning you away. If I had died tonight, my father's dukedom would have passed, in time, to my lazy, spoiled, gambling-addicted cousin. I have only a sister, and though my father is hale, my mother is past the age of bearing another heir. So this duty falls to me."

Temperance let out a bitter, quiet laugh. "So I am a job to be done? A duty hanging over your head?"

"Do you object to that?" Sutton asked, raising his brows slightly.

Temperance stared at him.

Yes, her heart screamed silently. She had a massive objection.

She wanted him to want her not because he needed an heir, but because he wanted her—the way she wanted him.

She yearned for affection, for gentleness, for the undeniable need a husband had for his wife.

But she knew she was being unreasonable.

She was the one who had proposed the cold deal of procuring an heir. She had masked her need for companionship, connection, and touch behind a duty she knew he could not refuse.

And now she was upset that he had agreed to the very deal she had proposed.

Temperance pushed down the ache in her chest, squared her shoulders, and met his gaze with an indifferent shrug.

"No," she said softly. "No objection."

Chapter Five

Florence

30th January 1816

Dear husband,

Since I have received no reply, I must assume you have chosen to stew in your hurt rather than build our marriage. I confess I do not know what is left for me to do about that.

My aunt has decided that sitting in one place does a body no good. She was an avid traveler in her youth, and now that I have arrived, she believes I shall make her the perfect companion. We depart within the week.

I shall write to you from our next stop. Should you write to Florence, I shall not receive your letters until we return, and I cannot say when that will be.

Your wife,

Temperance

When would you like to begin?" Temperance asked calmly.

For a moment, he had thought she would refuse. There had been a storm in her dark brown eyes when he proposed they begin work on an heir because he had nearly died. She had seemed rather insulted.

Perhaps he had misjudged her, because her features were now calm, her voice steady, as she asked when they should begin marital relations as though she were discussing a business arrangement. To her, it probably was.

When would he like to begin?

Now. Right now. Right here.

From the moment she stepped into his bedchamber, all he had wanted was to strip her of that hideous nightgown, plunge his fingers into her golden hair, spread her on the bed, and bury himself inside her.