How To Seduce A Sinner

Chapter Twelve

The day after her wedding was turning out to be far more complicated, and emotional, than Dorothea ever anticipated. After a thoroughly embarrassing conversation with her husband, which ended with his abrupt departure, Dorothea was once again left to her own devices.

She had offended him with her comments about their wedding night. Offended, angered, and possibly wounded him. Well, wounded his pride. His feelings she barely understood, but his pride was obvious.

The harmony of their relationship was now strained and she worried it would not be easily restored. Married but one day and already facing a crisis. This was not what she had imagined when she agreed to be his wife.

A shuffling noise at the drawing room doorway startled her, and Dorothea wondered if Carter had returned. She turned, struggling to swallow, half hoping, half dreading his appearance. But instead it was Mrs. Simpson who stood hesitantly in the doorway, inquiring if this was a good time to consult her ladyship on the daily menus for the rest of the week.

Thinking it terribly bad manners to take out her peculiar mood on the hapless housekeeper, Dorothea dutifully agreed. She read through the splendid meals Cook had temptingly created for their pleasure, murmuring her approval in what she hoped was an authoritative manner. This was an unfamiliar task, made all the more challenging since she had no notion of what foods her husband preferred. But she trusted that his staff would be aware of his lordship’s likes and dislikes.

Mrs. Simpson’s grin of approval when she finished eased some of Dorothea’s nerves. She might have gotten off on the wrong foot with her husband, yet miraculously she had managed to make a favorable impression on the staff.

“Please convey my thanks to Cook for devising such an ambitious menu,” Dorothea told the housekeeper as Mrs. Simpson handed over the menus. “And compliment her on the lovely dinner she served us last evening. Lord Atwood and I enjoyed every bite.”

Another nod and smile of approval was soon forthcoming. Mrs. Simpson turned to leave, but paused a moment before departing. “Would you like to see the rest of the house today, my lady? I am at your disposal.”

“Why not?” Dorothea replied, decided it was as good a way as any to spend her day. Perhaps it might even distract her mind from her matrimonial dilemma and chase away some of her gloomy thoughts.

They started on the top floor of the mansion. The domestic quarters were clean, neat, and in good repair. Though they were simple and plain, Dorothea was impressed by the quality of furnishings, linen, and blankets given to the staff, along with the ample piles of fuel for their fireplaces.

The third floor contained two distinct wings of bedchambers. The east wing was reserved for family members, including the suites for the lord and lady of the manor. Thankfully Mrs. Simpson strolled by those closed doors and negligently waved her hand in their general direction, knowing full well that Dorothea had been inside both sets of rooms.

Dorothea clenched her thumb and forefinger on the bridge of her nose tightly to hold back her reaction as she scuttled past those doors. Highly doubting she could have entered Carter’s rooms, seen that bed, and kept her emotions level, she asked several pointed questions about the furnishings in the opulent suite reserved for the duke as they entered those chambers.

“It has by far the prettiest view of the gardens,” Mrs. Simpson declared. She pulled back the heavy gold velvet draperies to emphasize her point. “’Tis such a shame that the duke so seldom visits the estate. Why, it’s going on five years since we have last seen him.”

“I imagine he has other estates to attend,” Dorothea replied.

“To be sure. But none so fine as Ravenswood,” Mrs. Simpson said proudly.

They continued on to the west wing of the third floor, which also boasted an abundance of elegant, comfortable bedchambers. These were the rooms chosen for close friends and houseguests during house parties, Mrs. Simpson explained, and thus always kept at the ready.

“Is there a great deal of entertaining done here?” Dorothea asked.

“There was, back when the duchess was alive. We are all hoping with Lord Atwood married, the house will once again ring with laughter and good cheer. The staff does not mind the extra work involved and appreciates the opportunity to showcase their skills and dedication.”

Dorothea silently wondered if the rest of the servants truly were as eager to tackle the heavy workload of keeping guests happy. Back home, their cook and two housemaids complained mightily on the rare occasions there was a dinner party. Dorothea could only imagine the tasks involved when a dwelling of this size was filled with spoiled aristocrats and their servants making demands of the staff.

She had already seen many of the manor’s second-and first-floor rooms, but lacking anything specific to do with her day, Dorothea asked to see them again. The rooms were numerous and splendidly furnished, and Mrs. Simpson a knowledgeable guide. Dorothea’s mind could barely absorb the details.

There were two drawing rooms, both cavernous, though one was larger than the other, a music room filled with all manner of instruments, the majority of which Dorothea could not, nor ever hope to, play with any level of proficiency. A formal ballroom, a library, a study, a den, a morning room, a breakfast parlor, a private salon designed exclusively for the lady of the house.

She could barely absorb all the layout, let alone all the details Mrs. Simpson so easily imparted, but somehow Dorothea made all the appropriate responses to the housekeeper’s comments. Yet when they entered the long portrait gallery, Dorothea fell silent. Generations of noble ancestors seemed to stare down their noses as she paraded past them. Disapprovingly, Dorothea mused gloomily, glaring back up at the canvases.

How could she ever measure up to these proud, haughty aristocrats? What had she been thinking when she agreed to be Carter’s marchioness and, someday, his duchess?

Dorothea paused and stared up into the stern countenance of a Tudor lord, the first Duke of Hansborough. Henry VIII used to chop off his wives’ heads if they displeased him. Had that been the kinder decision? A swift end to the constant battle and bickering?

She let out a pathetic sigh. Preferring death to marriage? Oh dear, her gloomy mood truly had gone too far. Silently commanding herself to cease this foolishness immediately, Dorothea narrowed her eyes and glared at the portrait.

She was a resourceful woman. A determined female. This messy beginning to her marriage would work itself out. It simply had to, and she would accept nothing less than tranquility along with a dose of happiness in her life.

Bolstered by her determination not to be so easily discouraged, Dorothea invited Mrs. Simpson to take tea with her. They settled into the private salon reserved for the lady of the house, nibbling on crustless sandwiches and sipping strong, hot tea. It was the first meal since her wedding ceremony that Dorothea actually tasted.

“If I may be so bold as to ask, is there a Mr. Simpson?” Dorothea inquired, knowing the title of missus was often used as a courtesy with a housekeeper.

“Oh, yes, my lady. I was married for thirty years. Mr. Simpson died of the fever back in ’07.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” Dorothea cleared her throat. “Though I confess to being interested in hearing any wisdom you would care to impart on coping with a husband.”

The housekeeper looked startled and Dorothea knew she had blundered. Badly. The nobility did not share confidences with their servants. She tried a dismissing smile, hoping to drop the matter, but Mrs. Simpson surprised her by speaking.

“There is no simple answer when it comes to men. Husbands or otherwise.” Mrs. Simpson smiled fondly. “But I can tell you a bit about Lord Atwood. I was here when he was growing up. You couldn’t find a more thoughtful, considerate boy if you tried. He was always kind to everyone, even the servants, and there are not many aristocrats of any age who show consideration to those they deem inferior.”

Dorothea knew that remark was aimed squarely at the duke, a proud and haughty man. Fortunately, his son had not taken on the same superior manner. Her heart gentled when she imagined Carter as a young boy. Mischievous and smiling, always ready for an adventure. “Lord Atwood was an only child?”

“Yes, to his regret. He often expressed the desire for siblings, but it was not to be.” Mrs. Simpson took a dainty bite of her sandwich. “Though he would say he wanted a brother, not a sister. I believe having to endure the antics of the Alderton girls, who were spoiled rotten and always demanding the impossible, prompted that attitude. I daresay, one would need to search far and wide to find two bolder little girls. And they grew into a pair of high-spirited, forward-thinking young ladies,” she added in a lowered, confiding tone.

“Alderton? As in Lord and Lady Alderton?”

“Yes. They are the estate’s nearest neighbors. The families were close friends for many years. For a time there was even talk of Lord Atwood marrying the youngest daughter, but the two families had some sort of falling-out and ceased speaking to each other. They seldom meet now, and only if it is an event that involves the entire neighborhood.”

“Hmm. I wonder what could have caused such a rift?”

Mrs. Simpson shrugged and shifted on her chair. “The gossips have speculated for years, but no firm truth has ever been revealed. Some say it was a dispute over the property lines, while others contend it was Lord Alderton’s failure to honor a gambling debt.”

Dorothea lifted the heavy porcelain teapot and poured them each a second cup of tea. She remembered the dinner when she had been introduced to the duke and his disdainful remarks about Lord Alderton along with his gleeful delight in hearing the story of Alderton’s embarrassment when his corset strings had snapped during the ball. The reason for it might not been well known, but clearly bad blood between the two families existed. She tucked that piece of information in the back of her mind, theorizing it might come in handy someday.

“I suppose I shall learn how to manage my new husband on my own, but I know I will never master the running of this household without your able, expert assistance.”

There was a sound of jingling keys as Mrs. Simpson leaned forward. Her smile was broad and genuine. “I am happy to serve. I know we shall get on famously together, my lady.”

The footman arrived to clear their tea, and Mrs. Simpson left to attend to her duties. In quick succession, Dorothea reviewed and discarded what she would now do with herself. Writing letters to her sister, or even Lady Meredith, would be torturous, for she had no notion of what to say. A nap might be a good idea, since she had slept so poorly the previous night, but her mind and body were too restless for sleep.

She could not visit the neighbors, since she did not know them, nor pay a call on the vicar or the tenants without her husband accompanying her for the same reason. They had passed a prosperous-looking village on the way from Town yesterday, but Dorothea was not in the mood to shop. Nor did she have any coin on her person, though she imagined any purchases could easily be charged to her husband.

She settled on taking a leisurely stroll of the formal gardens. Only the early spring flowers had fully bloomed, but their fragrance and color were a soothing balm to Dorothea’s mood. She noted with an amused smile that the flowers in one particular bed were the exact yellow shade of her muslin afternoon gown.

It was new, as were nearly all the clothes she had brought with her, a flattering design boasting a low bodice, high waist, and puff sleeves. She especially liked the embroidered detail of tiny leaves in a vibrant shade of green around the neckline and hem. When Dorothea stood in the dressmaker’s shop having the garment fitted, Lady Meredith remarked that Lord Atwood would not be able to take his eyes off her when she was wearing the garment.

Yet that had hardly been the case when he had seen her in it earlier today. Carter had barely noticed the gown, except to imply how quickly he wanted it stripped from her body.

Dorothea turned a corner and there he stood, as if her thoughts had conjured him. He was dressed for riding, the polish on his knee-high leather boots gleaming in the sunshine. Her initial inclination was to turn and run the other way, but that smacked too much of cowardice. Instead, she plunged ahead, though she kept her gaze carefully focused on the gravel pathway.

“Lady Atwood.” He bowed.

“My lord.” She returned the formal greeting, punctuating it with a low, deep curtsy that brought a deep wrinkled frown to Carter’s brow.

For some reason, that pleased her.

“Are you having a pleasant day?” he asked.

“Delightful. And you?”

“I’ve been riding, seeing to the condition of the larger planting fields and talking with some of my tenants.”

She blinked in confusion. “I had no idea you took such an active role in the running of your estate.”

“You never asked,” he shot back.

She refused to take offense at his tone. No matter what, they would speak civilly to each other. “Mrs. Simpson has shown me the entire house, from the attic room to the cellar larder. It was all in first-rate order. I must commend you, my lord, on the dedication and diligence of your staff.”

“Carter,” he said forcefully.

Dorothea creased her forehead, hoping to appear deep in thought. Then she smiled. “And how did you find your lands? In as good repair as the house, I hope?”

One side of his lip twitched. “All is in excellent condition. My staff and tenants take pride in their work.” He lowered his head. “And I do pay them well, too.”

Dorothea grinned, the tension inside her easing at his lighthearted manner. “’Tis a very wise decision. I suggest you continue with the practice. From what I’ve heard, you can easily afford it.”

He gave her a crooked smile in return. “In addition to my tenants, I also happened across a few of our neighbors. I was besieged by no less than five invitations from the local gentry. Everyone is very anxious to meet you.”

Dorothea was surprised. “I thought everyone would be in Town at this time of year.”

“Spending the Season in London is a costly venture, as you know. Only those with daughters to marry or sons looking for adventure or a bride make the journey into Town.”

A few short months ago she was one of those searching females. Was that comment meant to be a jibe at her recent situation? No, she insisted silently, shaking her head. She would not read insult where none was given. Carter was not so petty.

“I would not want to shirk my obligations to the local society by avoiding them completely,” she replied.

As you are shirking your duty to your husband? He did not speak the words, but Dorothea swore she could hear them loud and clear.

“We are newly wed,” he said. “It should not cause great offense if we decline these social invitations.”

“All of them?”

His expression became serious. “Perhaps it would be politic to accept one. Tea with Mrs. Snidely, I think. She is a born gossip who will delight in broadcasting her opinions about you to the neighborhood, along with everything she can learn about us.”

Everything? Dorothea blanched. How amazingly humiliating. But their marital discord would be kept a secret. It was the way of the nobility. Dragging her eyes away from his, she said, “I’ll leave it to your judgment to decide about the invitations.”

“Very good.”

She clasped her hands firmly in front of her. The silence between them hung heavy. Dorothea could see the muscle in his jaw flexing as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. Such a handsome, strong jaw.

“Since Mrs. Simpson has already shown you the house, I could take you on a tour of the estate.” He hesitated. “I assume you ride?”

“Hmm.” The noncommittal answer seemed safest. She did ride, though not very well and generally at a snail’s pace. One glance at her husband’s strong thighs had Dorothea assuming his skill far exceeded hers. He would not be impressed when he saw her on a horse.

“I need to change into my riding habit,” she mentioned, hoping that would put him off the idea. Men hated to be kept waiting while a woman changed her clothing.

“I’ll meet you in the stables when you are ready,” he answered. “I need time to consult with my stable master on which mount will be yours when we are in residence.”

Neatly trapped, Dorothea had no choice but to agree. She took as long a time as she dared to change, then presented herself at the stables. The pleasant scent of horses and leather surrounded her the moment she entered. Not surprisingly, the stables were kept in pristine condition. Carter introduced her to Jack Kenny, the stable master. Middle-aged, with a trim build and a weather-beaten complexion, he was a short man who smiled often.

At his command, one of the younger grooms led a horse from the stall to the mounting block. Dorothea’s heart sank. The horse looked enormous. Tall, sleek, and prancing with energy. He seemed the kind of horse that would excel at leading a cavalry charge. She knew without a doubt if she tried riding him, she’d fall on her backside before they left the courtyard.

“What is his name?” she asked the groom as he put a sidesaddle on the horse’s back and began to cinch the straps.

“El Diablo, my lady.”

The devil? Carter had chosen a devil horse for her to ride? Obviously he expected her to be a dashing, hell-bent rider. He probably imagined them charging across the fields together, laughing, racing, jumping streams, fences, and hedges. Her spirits plummeted further. Was this yet another thing she would fail at so dismally as his wife?

“If you prefer, you can ride with me,” Carter offered.

Dorothea’s head snapped up, suspicions forming in her mind. One gaze at his face and she knew the truth. His innocent expression did not fool her for an instant. She would bet her last farthing that the stables were filled with much gentler, far more appropriate mounts for her to ride.

“Your horse hardly looks tame,” she retorted, eyeing the great black beast as he snorted and pranced about the stable yard, presenting a great challenge to the strong groom who was holding his reins.

“Caesar is a well-trained brute,” Carter responded with a fond tone. “Large enough to easily carry us both on a leisurely ride.”

“He seems all spirit and temper,” she said, unsure how she felt at Carter’s attempt to manipulate her. It was a relief not to have to try to prove her equestrian skills, since they were so limited, and yet she had some pride.

“Under the right conditions, Caesar is as gentle as a lamb.” Carter’s eyes measured her. “Come and say hello to him.”

Dorothea approached the horse. He looked at her curiously, but stayed quietly in place. She reached out and slowly stroked his neck. He reared his head, swished his tail, and blew through his nose. She turned back to El Diablo. Pride or no pride, the choice was clear.

“I suppose I shall try my luck with you on Caesar.”

The charming smile Carter bestowed upon her reached his eyes. She was still fighting to regain her breath when he put his hands on her waist and easily lifted her onto the front of his saddle. Then he swung up behind her and placed one arm tightly around her midriff. “Is this better?”

“It is, as you well know,” she answered primly.

He bent his head and touched his lips to her ear. “At least give me credit for discovering a way to hold you in my arms.”

She was trying to think of a snappy retort when he tightened the circle of his embrace, forcing her back against his front. She was now surrounded by his muscular arms, his strong, hard body at her back. A wave of pleasure washed over her, and Dorothea felt a sense of security unlike anything she had ever known. It warmed her body, but also her heart.

All thoughts of being prim and distant flew out of her head. She took a deep breath and sank deeper into the curve of his warm strength. She settled her shoulders against his chest and tucked her gloved hands around his forearm.

“Ready?”

She could hear the amusement in his voice. Turning, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Not too fast, please. I should hate to topple off and drag you down with me.”

A teasing light danced in the depths of his eyes. “I have not fallen off a horse since I was seven years old. But I assure you, dear wife, if something does go amiss, I will endeavor to make certain that I take the full brunt of the impact and have you land on top of me.”

Dorothea squeezed the hard, solid strength of arm. “You are hardly a soft cushion, my lord.”

He shifted behind her, adjusting his position so that her hips nestled tightly against his thighs. Dorothea stiffened, but then she forced herself to relax and let the sensations flow around her. They set off at a brisk pace.

The warmth and strength of Carter’s body pressing against hers coupled with the undulating motion of the horse mimicked far too well the rhythm of making love. A memory that might have agitated and distressed her, but instead it slowly began to awaken her desire.

She heard Carter’s breathing change, turning deep and quick. Wicked, sensual thoughts formed in her mind. For an instant she allowed herself to consider the ridiculous impulse that swirled in her head-was it possible to make love while riding on a horse?

“Pardon?”

His breathless voice startled her and her entire body went rigid. Saints above, did I speak those thoughts aloud?

“The lake,” Dorothea squeaked, knowing she must sound like a half-wit. “’Tis very pretty.”

“Not just pretty, but functional.” She felt his breath caress her cheek. “It’s stocked with fish.”

Dorothea ran her hand self-consciously across the skirt of her riding habit. Her legs felt warm and heavy and she knew if she did not regain control of herself quickly, she was going to regret it.

“Do you like to fish?” It was hardly an interesting topic, but it provided a diversion from her physical dilemma.

“’Tis difficult to find the patience for it.” He placed a tender kiss on her neck, in the sensitive spot directly behind her ear. “Regretfully, I was never disciplined enough to appreciate the concept of delayed gratification.”

Carter lifted his arm and Dorothea panicked, wondering where he was going to place it. She scrambled to think, trying to decide how to react. The kiss had sent pleasant shivers down her spine. He was her husband and she needed to learn to accept his touch without reservation.

Determined to be cooperative, she let her head drop back against his shoulder. And waited, her breath held.

But instead of giving her a teasing caress, Carter waved at the workers in the field, who returned the greeting with enthusiasm. She felt her face heat with embarrassment, along with a flat, disappointed feeling that made no sense at all.

Recovering her emotions, Dorothea sought to concentrate on the surroundings and ignore the physical distraction of her handsome, muscular husband. They rode through fields of grazing cattle and sheep into the deep green meadow. Carter was congenial and charming, pointing out sights of interest, telling her a story or two from his childhood. By the time they returned to the stables a few hours later, Dorothea was smiling and relaxed.

Yet by evening, her fragile sensation of contentment had vanished. At dinner, she struggled to do justice to Cook’s sumptuous meal, but her appetite, and nerve, completely deserted her. Carter, she noted with a tinge of annoyance, ate with obvious relish, complimenting each dish. At least she had been successful with the menu, though the lion’s share of the credit belonged to Cook, since she had devised it. Dorothea had merely approved the selections.

“Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?”

Dorothea placed her dessert fork on the edge of the plate near her barely eaten slice of cake and gave her husband a weak smile. “If you wish.”

He leaned close and his breath fell gently against her hair. “Unless you prefer to retire?”

“To my bedchamber?”

“I believe it is more comfortable than residing in the stables.”

She could feel her forced smile begin to tremble. “Alone?”

There was surprise in his eyes at her direct challenge. Clearly he had not expected her to bring up the overshadowing topic that clouded their every interaction. Yet Dorothea simply had to know what was happening. Would he come to her chamber tonight?

“I assume you would prefer your privacy and therefore shall honor your wishes to wait before I return to your bed.”

Carter put his arm around her waist, leaned down, and kissed her softly on the lips. Her mouth sagged open before she somehow managed to close it. Kisses were wonderful, marvelous, melting. But they led to other things she was not as eager to embrace. She pulled back, just a fraction, and he obediently released her lips.

“Sleep well, Dorothea. I will see you in the morning.”

Then, with a cryptic smile, he turned and walked out of the room.

Carter regretted his words, and actions, the minute he exited the room, for it seemed as though he was leaving all the sparkle and life behind him. But it was better this way. More than anything, Carter wanted Dorothea to find deep pleasure in their marital bed. He wanted her satisfied, replete, and contented. And he knew that would take time.

A single look at her tonight in her gauzy gold silk evening gown had left him breathless. The bodice was so low that one small tug would have exposed her nipples. Her glorious pink nipples that tasted like the sweetest nectar.

He had spent the majority of dinner with a rock-hard erection, shoveling food he barely tasted into his mouth as if that would somehow quench his hunger. Naturally it had not. The only thing that would appease his appetite was a naked, panting, eager wife, writhing in his bed.

He was terribly frustrated, in body as well as mind, but the commitment had been made, the course set. Carter cleared his throat, admonishing himself to stop this self-inflicted torture. Restraint was the order of the day. They had made progress today, and the last thing Carter wanted was to jeopardize this promising start. He could hardly credit that after their disastrous morning conversation they were able to banter and tease, even relax for a time together on their afternoon ride.

She was not a naturally cold woman; there was fire and passion inside her, and he was determined to have an ardent, receptive woman in his bed. Since she had already experienced intercourse, and been unimpressed with it, a slow seduction was needed.

He could see that limited physical contact was already heightening her interest. A stolen kiss, a single heated caress, an occasional brush of his fingertips on her exposed flesh left Dorothea breathless and intrigued. Soon her awareness of him would be so excruciating she would come apart at the very idea of being near him. And then they would both burst into flames.

Another restless night and Dorothea was up at dawn, an occurrence that would have shocked her sisters and anyone else who knew how she relished her morning sleep. She expected a solitary breakfast, but Carter surprised her by awaiting her in the morning room. He drank a second cup of coffee while she ate her toast.

They conversed pleasantly, discussing their plans for the day, and Dorothea agreed to another afternoon ride. When she was finished with her meal, he signaled one of the footmen, and the servant soon returned with a large basket. Placing it on the table, Carter slid it slowly in front of her.

“For you.”

Feeling petty because her first reaction was suspicion, Dorothea carefully lifted the wicker lid. Two soulful brown eyes set into a ball of fluffy golden fur stared up at her. At her smile, the little creature began wagging his tail madly, along with the majority of his hindquarters.

“Oh, my!” Dorothea exclaimed, picking up the squirming puppy and tucking him beneath her chin. “He’s adorable. Is he really meant for me?”

Carter smiled. “We have a great many dogs about the estate, but I thought you would enjoy having a companion that was exclusively your own.”

“Oh, Carter, he is a delight. Thank you.”

Carter reached over to stroke behind the dog’s ears. “He should grow to a respectable size, as any worthwhile dog should. One thing I can’t abide is a woman carrying a dog about and treating it like an infant.”

“You mean like the Dowager Countess Hastings?” Dorothea held the puppy between her two outstretched hands, then brought him close enough so their noses were touching. The animal went into near spasms of joy as he began licking her face.

Carter released a sigh of annoyance. “I swear, the dowager stuffs her pet with treats until the poor creature is so fat he can barely stand.”

“I suppose that is why her footman carries him about on a pillow.”

“A red velvet pillow,” Carter corrected with a snort of disgust. “I was at a picnic one afternoon and the dowager nearly swallowed her tongue in apoplexy when her servant brought the pug to her on a plain, ordinary white pillow.”

“I vow I shall never do anything so ridiculous. Anyway, it looks as though my darling puppy will not fit on a pillow for more than a month or two at most.”

“Especially if you keep feeding him.”

Ignoring his words, Dorothea continued to offer the puppy the remaining scraps of egg from Carter’s plate as she cuddled him. When the meal was finished, the animal licked her hand in gratitude. He next gave a huge yawn, curled himself in a tight ball against her chest, and promptly fell asleep. Smiling, Dorothea settled him back inside his cozy basket.

“I know what you are tying to do,” she said to Carter as she nestled the blanket around the dog. “And in all fairness, I should tell you that it will not work.”

“I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean.”

A faint smiled played on her lips. “You know perfectly well what I mean. My new puppy is a bribe. Creative and heartfelt, I’ll grant you that, but a bribe nevertheless.”

“A bribe for what? Your affection? Strange, I thought I already had your regard. Or was I mistaken?”

“Of course not. You know that I care for you. I would not have married you if it were otherwise.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“He is a bribe to bring me into your bed.”

Carter tossed a puzzled glance down at the basket. “Why would that be necessary? You are my wife, my property. You have already told me, in no uncertain terms, that you will do your wifely duty. Hence I have no need to waste my money on a sure thing.”

His voice turned husky. “I can command you now to lie on your back and spread your legs. Or turn you onto your hands and knees so I may take you from behind, thrusting deep inside as your inner muscles cling to me, sheathe me in their warmth and wetness.”

Dorothea stiffened at the image. She looked into his eyes, heavy-lidded and burning, and lost her ability to speak.

His voice deepened to a low, seductive tone. “Remember how it felt to have my hands on you? My mouth, my tongue? Your hips arching to meet my touch, your body trembling with release?”

Dorothea could feel the muscles in her throat contract, but she didn’t speak, didn’t utter a sound. The torrid images conjured in her mind by Carter’s passionate words left her speechless. She feigned an indignant expression, yet doubted her husband was fooled.

“Lady Atwood, I was wondering-oh, I do beg your pardon.” Mrs. Simpson’s steady voice, tinged with embarrassment, came from the doorway. “I’ll return later.”

“There’s no need, Mrs. Simpson,” Dorothea said in a rush. “Lord Atwood was just leaving.”

Carter’s eyes flared a deep molten blue. Half expecting him to shout at Mrs. Simpson to disappear, Dorothea waited, unsure what she preferred-for him to respect her wishes and depart, or to get her alone and give in to the smoldering desire he was stirring between them.

“Yes, do come in,” Carter finally intoned. “I want Lady Atwood to complete all her household duties this morning so she may devote her undivided attention to me for the remainder of the day.”

Then with an irresistible smile tugging at his lips, he favored Dorothea with an elegant bow and quit the room.