The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

She suddenly felt very tired. She drew back into the room and slowly closed the window, but not the draperies. Not without some difficulty, she managed to unfasten the small buttons at the back of her gown. She let the gown slide to the floor and simply stepped out of it, leaving it where it lay. She slipped out of the silk chemise and then walked slowly to the exquisite bed with its canopy of a soft beige-and-pink silk, pulled back the satin counterpane, and slid between the warm covers.

Long after the covers had been removed by the unobtrusive Mrs. Crayton, Julien sat alone in brooding silence. He held a glass of claret in his hand and stared vaguely into its depths. It was smooth, deeply red, and it warmed his stomach. Unfortunately, it hadn’t yet spread its mellowing warmth to his mind or his groin. He wanted a woman. He hurt with need. It wasn’t something he was used to, this enforced celibacy, this absurd denial. He was a man, dammit, and a man released his passion in a woman regularly and it was the way it was meant to be. And now he was even married— a wife belonged to her husband, and surely a husband could have his wife whenever and however it pleased him to have her, and yet, here she was, still a damned virgin after day upon day of marriage, and he’d allowed it to go on and on and on, because he liked her. He admired her spirit and her independence, her differentness, which had drawn him to her in the first place, like a moth to a flame. He’d seen Sir Oliver and spoken to the wretched, perverted creature; he knew that he’d beaten her regularly, for whatever reason he couldn’t begin to fathom, had guessed at what her life had been like under that despicable tyrant’s hand, and was trying desperately to understand her, because, dammit, he loved her, and he wanted her to be happy.

Dear God, he hated the situation. He hurt. He felt a cold, impotent frustration. She seemed farther out of his reach than ever before, even though she was now his wife. Certainly he understood that Harry’s admonishments galled her. But Harry’s commission was another matter entirely. Why couldn’t she accept the fact that Harry was ready for freedom? Wasn’t he entering his manhood? Wasn’t he ready and entitled for the adventures he wanted so badly?

He rose from the table and walked slowly and thoughtfully to the fireplace. He leaned his elbows on the mantel and gazed into the dying flames. In that instant he cursed the woman who had so changed his life, the red-haired witch who had woven her web so completely around him that he no longer desired any other woman. He wanted her, no other woman, curse her white hide. It wasn’t fair. If he had stayed in London, he never would have met her. But he had met her, dying in her duel with Harry, falling dramatically at his feet. Then she pulled off her boy’s cap and he saw her as the girl she was, as the girl he wanted, the girl he desired more than life itself. Damn her stubborn eyes. He wanted to beat her, perhaps strangle her just a bit. No, he wanted her naked and he wanted to kiss her and caress her and—

He strode quickly from the dining room and flung out of the villa into the dark night. Without really realizing what he was doing, he found himself walking to the side of the villa, to where her bedchamber was located. Almost against his will he looked up at her windows. The curtains were open. She was standing in the middle of her room, clad only in her chemise. He sucked in his breath at the sight of her, knew his hands were fisted at his sides, knew that his member was swelling as hard as a rock, knew that his heart was pounding faster and harder and harder still. He stood rooted to the spot and watched her after a long moment pull the straps of the chemise off her white shoulders. The ache in his groin became nearly intolerable as she let the chemise slip over her breasts to her narrow waist. God, he’d pictured her breasts in his mind, filled his hands with her breasts, at least in his fantasies. She was glorious, her breasts as beautiful as he’d imagined, more beautiful than any woman’s he’d ever seen, ever caressed, ever fondled, full and high, the nipples a dark pink, oh, God, so lovely, he wanted to touch her, to take each of her nipples in his mouth and suckle her and bring her such pleasure that she wouldn’t be able to bear it and she’d moan and whisper how much she wanted him and please, please, give her more pleasure, and more and more.