Edith Layton by The Cad Page B

her company didn’t resemble pity; the way his body reacted when she was in his arms wasn’t remotely like pity—unless it was pity for himself, because the thought of being without her bothered him very much.
    The scar? It was nothing but a lure to him. Her lack of a dowry? Why should that concern him? Her obvious loneliness? Ah, that he pitied. But these days he pitied it in himself just as much.
    No. No use wondering about it. He might regret what he’d done in some ways, but he was used to that. He could not regret his choice. She needed him. She was lovely. She liked him, in spite of herself. She had a sense of humor and a quick tongue—and a delicious one, he thought, a smile springing to his lips.
    It was easier to think about pleasures than puzzles tonight. She had such lovely breasts, he mused as he strolled the fashionable streets toward his townhouse. How he’d like to see them. Her skin was so white and smooth, they could be no less. He’d felt them taut and tilted against his chest, felt them rise to him and wondered how they’d feel in his palms, but he’d dared not go so far. She was skittish with him, with good reason. But that would pass, he knew it from her body’s response.
    He became aware of a hard arousal, his own body responding to his thoughts. He frowned, surprised and annoyed. He was too old for such nonsense. A manlearned to control such things as soon as he was out of the nursery, or at least a gentleman certainly did—especially in today’s fashions, he thought wryly. Skintight pantaloons and form-fitting trousers ensured that a man had to learn to master outward manifestations of his desires. Which forced them inward, where they burned. Yes, he thought, he’d told her the truth in that; he did bum for her.
    He’d given her a day. He wondered how he would get through the night.
    He took out a book, but the words made no sense. He tried to write a letter, but he couldn’t concentrate on it. He glanced at the clock on the mantel again, but it was moving slowly tonight, as though it didn’t believe in tomorrow.
    Well, but it was time for bed, Ewen thought. Not that he knew what time that was anymore. London had no time for sleep. No matter what hour it was now, he could have been at a ball, a gambling hell, a party of friends, or any number of amusements until dawn. He could have shared his bed with any number of women, too. But he wanted only one now. He wouldn’t know her decision until daylight, and he refused to spend the night with less than what he wanted. Not now that he knew who that was.
    But it was stupid to sit waiting for tomorrow, reviewing his tactics, wondering about his chances. Ewen prepared for bed at last. He went upstairs, took off his clothes, washed, put a dressing gown on over his nakedness, and sent his valet to bed. He lay down on his own bed. But someone seemed to have put pins in it; it was too hot, too hard, too lumpy. He couldn’t get comfortable on his side or his back. He got up and went downstairs again.
    He went to his library, rekindled the fire in the hearth, and stared into it. He was annoyed with himself as well as on fire for her now. Three and thirty years old, and he had no patience—nor any belief that she’d come to him. Why should that be? Women had always liked him. But that was women , not ladies. He didn’t know very much about ladies. And even though she’d no money or family to protect her, she was definitely a lady. He knew it too well.
    He’d married a lady, but he couldn’t say he knew her when he did or wanted to know her much better afterward. His mother had been a lady, not that he’d known her very long, either, poor lady—and poor lost boy. Ewen smiled bleakly. With all the pain they’d dealt him, on purpose and by accident, he should avoid ladies like the plague if he had any sense. But he’d done that for most of his adult life, since his marriage, and what good had that done him?
    This went beyond a question of