Before Cathy could protest or attempt to escape, he crossed that final inch between them. He did not ask. He merely took what he wanted. What he needed. His mouth descended on her with a raw, insatiable hunger burning away any of the fury he felt at the insult he thought he sent her way all those five days. He was not giving her a gentle kiss. No. She deserved something else. She needed to be claimed again.
Initially, the stubborn woman fought by pressing her lips tightly. Her body remained rigid beneath him. Then, when his hand slid to the nape of her neck, tangling with her luscious curls, she whimpered.
The sound became both of their undoing, as she clutched his waistcoat and pulled him closer to her. He felt her tremble in his arms, as they continued to kiss, tongues lashing against each other and breaths melding. It was like taking more from his very own soul.
He pulled away, but not because he wanted to. He wanted to hear what she had to say, even as his arms refused to let go of her. He kept her grounded by pressing his forehead against hers as they tried to catch their breath.
“Now, tell me you felt nothing,” he challenged. He was surprised at how raspy his voice sounded. How thick.
Cathy did not respond. She only continued to stare at his collar, as if she were trying to regain her balance. He knew what she was doing. She was already distancing herself from the act.
No. Do not do that.
“Look me in the eye, Cathy,” he commanded. “Look at me and tell me that the kiss meant nothing to you. If you can tell me honestly that there was nothing, not even a spark, then I will leave you in your requested solitude. The remainder of this marriage shall be spent in quiet separation.”
His heart ached as he said those words. He already somehow suspected what she would say, but he had to give her freedom. He let his thumb graze her swollen lower lip.
Tristan gazed into her eyes. He needed the truth from her. “But if you felt even a fraction of—”
She had already tensed in his arms, her passionate face turning into a mask of indifference. She pushed him gently.
“I felt nothing, Your Grace,” she said steadily. “It was a physical reflex. I might be Miss Priggish, but apparently my body is still human. Nothing more. It could have happened with anyone.”
Tristan’s ears rang at that response, and he felt numb all over. He stared at her, looking for signs that she would change her mind, but there was nothing.
“I see,” he choked out.“Very well, then. I shall respect your wishes.”
He then turned to leave his new wife’s bedchamber, hoping he would forget the touch of her lips on his.
Chapter 11
“Stop squinting at the ledgers, Cathy,” Madeline admonished. “If you keep this up, you will require spectacles—huge ones—later on. You will have permanent lines on your forehead before you turn thirty.”
Cathy did not look up from the ink she was inspecting. Her quill had found a graceful rhythm, finding solace in the scratching sound.
“I must finish this, Maddy,” she replied. “My forehead is fine, for now, and I have no care for what people say about my appearance. It will always be my height that will have everyone in a flutter. But this? This ledger shows a miscalculation on the wheat.”
“Can’t His Grace’s men handle a few tithes? You are on your honeymoon, and you are worrying about us?”
“Maddy, you know me. I did not marry the Duke for the fun of it,” Cathy said quietly, as she set the quill down only to rub the ink stain from her fingers. “The scandal would have ruined us, and after Papa left us, we would have been destitute. Butyesterday, I made it clear to the Duke that this is nothing more than an arrangement.”
Her voice was calm, and she took care to look more cheerful. However, she could still remember the loss, the physical pain she felt when she told Tristan that she did not feel a thing during their kiss.
A lie.
She lied to him. While she had no experience kissing other men, she knew that part of the attraction of the kiss was him. He offered a dangerous pull that she had to avoid as early as possible.
“He is a duke,” Portia said, “not a gaoler. However, sometimes, it feels that he is, given the way you flee Baxter Hall every morning. You appear to be escaping something akin to the Tower of London!”
“I am not fleeing,” Cathy said. The lie tasted exactly as bitter as it had the last three times she had said it. “I am here because someone must manage the effects of Papa’s debts. The Duke’s name is an effective shield, but it cannot balance an account on its own.”
“Is that truly all it is?” Portia asked, without looking up from her book. For someone who rarely participated in conversations, she had an irritating habit of saying the most piercing things when she did. “Because from where I am sitting, it looks considerably more like running away.”
“Portia,” Cathy warned.
“I am merely observing,” her sister replied serenely, turning a page.
Madeline leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes searching Cathy’s face with that particular brand of sunny persistence that was impossible to deflect. “Is it the kiss?”