Page 83 of Cold November Rake

She was tired of pretense.

She wanted him to be himself with her, the way he was with his parents, with Marie, with the Tyrones: teasing, protective, patient.

She loved that he cared for his family and friends, for Whitlow, and for every servant in the house, down to the boy who blacked the boots.

He couldn't make his own hot drink or sew his own wound, but he would sooner have gone without and suffered immense pain than rouse a servant from bed in the middle of the night.

He helped his friends in every way he could. He was a protector. A paladin.

A generous, gentle man.

And he never asked anything in return.

He was one of the purest people she had ever known.

It didn't hurt that he was also devastatingly handsome, built like a Roman statue come to life. Unlike a statue, he was warm and real, with the most unusual flame-red hair, always tousled, and a beard that prickled her skin wherever it touched. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, and a dimple appeared when he smiled, making him look young and boyish.

Of all the things she loved about him—and they would have to compete for first place on her list—the one that made her knees give out was his silky baritone voice. That, and the predatory grace with which he moved through a room, and the way he looked at her, his eyes hooded with hunger⁠—

What on earth was she doing?

She clenched her thighs together against the tingle between them. How had her thoughts pivoted back to her husband?

She couldn't remember the last time she had thought about anything for five minutes without her mind finding a path back to him.

She slid the diary into the vanity drawer, picked up the fan lying beside it, and fanned her heated skin.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Come in," she said, without turning.

The door opened. There was a pause, long enough that she turned to see why.

Sutton stood on the threshold, dressed in his evening black, a snowy cravat knotted at his throat, one hand still on the door. His sky-blue eyes darkened to storm gray beneath lowered lids, and he looked at her in a way that made warmth pool low in her belly.

What was he doing to her?

For a moment, neither of them moved.

She stared at her gorgeous husband—at the breadth of his shoulders, the perfect fit of his coat, the veins on his ungloved hand, his long, sinful fingers—and swallowed.

"You should have sent for me earlier," he said at last, his voice a shade lower than usual. "We might have taken a few minutes to... attend to the matter of the heir."

Her heart gave a great, absurd leap, and her entire body tingled with need.

"We have a few minutes," she said breathlessly.

He laughed, warm and low, shaking his head. "Not with my mother waiting downstairs. She would be through that door in a heartbeat if we were not out immediately."

She stood and set down the fan, her lips curved in a pout. "What if I am having trouble with my gown? Or hair? Surely we can be delayed a little."

He crossed the room to her, so close that she could smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin. He leaned in and nipped her earlobe.

Temperance gasped, her fingers closing around his arm.

"All in due time, mo chridhe," he whispered. Then he straightened, his face smoothing back into composure, and held out his arm. "For now, let us go and be a respectable couple."

It was a different kind of cruelty to tease her like that and then return to his cool, composed self. Temperance did not know how he did it.