Courtney Milan by A Novella Collection Page B

convulsively.
    “If you need me for anything, you have only to ask.” A foolish offer, but then, he was used to turning into a fool around her.
    “I…that is…” Her voice quivered and deep inside, some part of him quailed.
    “What?” The word came out cold, but he didn’t care.
    She turned to him. “I think we should consummate the marriage after all.”
    Yes,
some possessive beast inside him growled. But what came out was the clipped version: “Why? Is this some sort of misguided thanks? I don’t want—”
    Her lips thinned. “Because maybe you can pretend that this is solely a business transaction, but I cannot. Consummation will provide us both with some protection, should the marriage be challenged. More than that. We are
married
—and maybe this is no conventional arrangement, but it is still
real
.”
    “It isn’t,” he said.
    “It is. What is a husband, but the man who offers you support when all the world turns you away?”
    Was that what he was to her? He couldn’t look at her now, or she’d see how much those words affected him.
    She continued. “What is a wife, but a partner who will see you through to your deepest wishes? We have promised each other our deepest wishes.”
    “Have we?”
    “You will be my protection from the world. And I…” She set her hand on his arm, and a prickle ran up his neck. “Legally, you’re obligated by my actions. Another woman might take advantage. You’ve trusted me not to thwart your ambition. Let me trust you with this, too.”
    Yes
.
    He couldn’t make his lips form the word. He couldn’t even bring up his hands to touch her.
Instead, he gripped the edge of the seat. “Have no hope of me, darling. I have none to give you.”
    “Liar.” Her voice shook, but her hands were steady on his shoulder. And then slowly, ever so slowly, she leaned in to him. She smelled of bergamot and soap, of sunshine and sugar. He was so, so lost.
    He met her lips with his own, settled his hands about her waist and drew her in. He held her close—as close as he’d wanted all these past days.
    She nestled against him, her lips soft against his. He didn’t want to let go. He could have kissed her forever.
    Instead, the carriage door swung open.
    “Guv’nor?” It was the driver. “Oh—uh—oh.”
    Hugo looked up, his arm full of woman.
    “I don’t—this isn’t—” The cabbie was sputtering.
    “Calm yourself,” Hugo said. “We’ve just married.” He didn’t meet Serena’s eyes. “Take us to Norwich Court.”
    Serena’s hands stilled in unspoken question.
    But he couldn’t bring himself to make an answer. Not when he had nothing to offer.

    T HE CARRIAGE PULLED UP OUTSIDE a bleak, thin row house.
    Serena had expected something more sumptuous from the man who was responsible for Clermont’s fortune. But Hugo made no apology for the dark, narrow stair he led her up, nor for the haphazard disarray of the rooms beyond the door that he unlocked. There were two low openings off the main room—so low that Hugo would have to stoop to get through them.
    He wasn’t neat. Truthfully, after staying with Freddy, Serena suspected that
nobody
would ever seem neat again. A jacket hung on a chair; a pair of stockings was strewn across the floor.
    She peered into one of the neighboring rooms and found stray barrels and a trunk. In the other was a bed—heaped haphazardly in bedclothes and tousled sheets.
    Neither of them said a word.
    She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—that she’d offer herself to him and win him from the duke? That he’d become her husband in truth, cleaving unto her as the words of the wedding ceremony suggested he should?
    But there was no cleaving. They felt awkwardly, painfully separate.
    Before Serena could lose her nerve, she ducked into his bedchamber. Her heart pounded, but she unbuttoned the pelisse that covered her gown and set it over a chair, then tugged off her gloves. Her hands were shaking by the time she undid the sash on