Page 120 of Wicked Highland Heroes

Chapter Eighteen

Eve walked beside Lady Rushton as if in a dream. No, not a dream, a nightmare. How bad was the situation? She was married to a man she barely knew, but, heaven help her, she had fallen in love with. His long list of paramours indicated that many women were affected in the same manner—and no doubt many more would be added to his conquests. And that, she realized with painful intensity, was the problem. Well, one of the problems. She wanted him, and he’d made it clear he wanted her. But that was where it always ended for him.

She and the marchioness climbed the stairs to another story and through a labyrinth of hallways that left Eve dizzy. At last Lady Rushton stopped in front of a room and opened the door. She entered first and Eve followed.

“This is the parlor,” the marchioness said. A fire burned in the hearth, and the room was furnished with two couches, two chairs, a small desk and sideboard stocked with liquor. She crossed to a door on the left and entered the room. “This is the master bedroom, with the lady’s room here.” She walked past a massive four-poster bed to another door and Eve followed into a smaller, but just as lavishly furnished, room. The burgundy quilt had been turned back on the bed and a settee was located in front of the crackling hearth fire. “There is a tub behind the screen there.” The marchioness pointed to the left corner near the hearth, where stood a magnificent painted Chinese screen with gilded leather. An ornate pedestal work table with a silk workbag sat against the wall to the left of the bed.

“This is too much, ma’am,” Eve said.

She laughed. “Not at all. The suite is perfect for you and Erroll. You are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

How long would that be? Would Lord Rushton keep his promise and not abandon her in Scotland, or would they rush back to Town with all its traps and distractions? Which would be worse, staying here alone, or being with him where she was bound to encounter the women he kept?

Eve caught sight of a nightdress draped across the chair nearest the bed and realized the garment had been laid out for her. Her stomach somersaulted. How was she going to get through the night? Her mind flashed back to her encounter with Lord Rushton in the alcove half an hour ago and knew very well how she was going to get through the night.

At the sound of a knock on her bedchamber door, Eve looked up from the floor and shifted on the edge of the mattress where she sat. “Come in.”

The door opened and Lord Rushton entered. To her surprise, he hadn’t changed into a robe—under which she had expected him to be naked—but wore the breeches and white shirt he’d worn in the library. Eve recalled the marchioness telling her that the marquess had been sensitive to her fears during their wedding night—though Eve suddenly wished she had asked exactly what that meant—and said, “Did your mother have a talk with you?”

A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Was she supposed to have a talk with me?”

Eve shook her head. “No. But your attire makes me wonder.”

He closed the door and crossed to the bed. “I am not certain what that means.”

“It means, my lord, that I am wondering why you are dressed. Do grooms not generally greet their new brides naked?”

Surprise—and was that delight?—flickered in his eyes. “If you are that anxious, I can oblige.” He tugged his shirttails from the waistband of his britches.

“Do men use any excuse to get their clothes off while in the presence of a woman?” Eve asked.

“We need little encouragement.” He dropped the shirttail, but didn’t unbutton the shirt. “A wedding night needs no excuses. You gave me the impression you were receptive.”

“I asked a simple question,” she replied.

“Would you rather I spent the night in my room?”

Why not, she wondered? He would doubtless spend most of his nights in his own room—after returning home from his mistress’ bed. But she said, “You implied that your husbandly duties would make marriage to you worthwhile.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, he looked nonplussed, and Eve couldn’t help laughing.

He frowned. “I didn’t quite put it that way.”

“My lord,” she said through a hiccup of nervous laughter, “have I trod upon your masculine sensibilities?”

“I do not have masculine sensibilities.”

He actually sounded offended. Eve recalled Grace saying that she had wounded his pride. “But you do, and I have trampled upon them.”

His eyes narrowed. “If it is masculine sensibilities you want, then it is masculine sensibilities you shall have.” He reached for her, but she scooted back on the bed before he could grab her. Lord Rushton straightened, a gleam in his eye. “Would you like a game of chase in the bargain?”

He began a slow walk around the foot of the bed, then abruptly dove for her. Eve squealed and leapt from the bed. He landed, face down on the mattress where she’d been, then rolled from the bed onto his feet and advanced on her. Eve retreated until her calves bumped into something. She jumped aside and the worktable she’d bumped into fell onto its side. The top fell off, and a chessboard inside struck the carpet.

“Oh dear,” Eve cried.

She dropped to her knees and picked up the chessboard. An instant later, Lord Rushton knelt beside her and grasped her arms.

Eve twisted in an effort to break free. “Let me go.”