M Is for Marquess by Grace Callaway Read Free Book Online Page B

reprieve in her blue eyes, and it was like throwing sand on the flames of his soul.
    After she gave birth to their son, she’d finally told him what she wanted. For him to do what every considerate gentleman did: take a mistress. Please, you can’t expect me to see to all your needs. You want too much. Tears had leaked down her beautiful face. Isn’t it enough that I’ve given you an heir and a peaceful home?
    Shame crept over him, thinking of that accusation. That he was too… needful. He knew that she’d meant not just sexually but emotionally as well. He cringed to think of how, in those early days of their marriage, he’d let down his guard for the first time in his life. He’d been so damned eager to put his dark past behind him, to start life over as a new man. The humiliating truth was that he’d been like a foolish puppy, annoying and pathetically eager for her new bride’s attention.
    A sinful, needful bastard. No wonder Sylvia had found him tiresome.
    His mama’s deathbed words had risen to haunt him. ’Tis the curse of the Tremont blood. Her beautiful, pious face etched by years of suffering, she’d whispered, All of you, beasts of excessive appetites. I’ve prayed for your soul, son. That you will not become a degenerate like your father.
    At age twelve, he hadn’t understood her words. By the time he had, it’d been too late. His tainted blood had won out, the beast’s hungry presence pulsing within him. Yet despite everything, his heart had belonged to his wife. He couldn’t betray her, so he’d lived in limbo, wanting the woman he loved and knowing that she didn’t want him back.
    Hell had been staring at the closed door between their bedchambers night after night. Sitting at the breakfast table, making polite conversation with his dutiful marchioness who despised his touch. Pretending to be happy for her sake and their son’s.
    He would never put himself in that situation again. He knew what he was and the bitter futility of wanting what could never be his. In the unlikely event that he should remarry, he would base the match on things that might at least be attainable. Sexual compatibility. Honesty. There would be no talk of love or such other nonsense.
    Even so, the first criterion made finding a suitable mate nigh impossible. How could one ascertain one’s sexual fit with another prior to marriage, after all? The kind of well-bred female he desired for a wife was not the sort of filly one could take for a test ride and decide whether to buy. You didn’t get to try out a potential bride to see if you could make each other happy in bed. And what were the chances that that could happen anyway? His own sexual tastes were dark, filthy, and likely to send any virgin into a dead faint.
    So there it was. He wanted a gentle lady by his side, a submissive wanton in his marriage bed, and no complicating emotions between them. In other words, he wanted the moon, stars, and all the heavens in between.
    You’re a great bloody fool, aren’t you? And a bastard. From now on, he had to stay away from Thea, for both their sakes. Last night had demonstrated that his desire for her was a madness in his blood. His loins stirred at the memory of how fervently she’d returned his kisses.
    But Sylvia, too, had seemed to enjoy kisses during their courtship. It wasn’t enough to predict a true sensual connection, which for him would involve more than kisses. He expelled a breath. A hell of a lot more.
    “On your way out, Tremont?”
    Reaching the foyer, he was greeted by his host—and was surprised to see the duke cradling an infant in the crook of his arm.
    “This is my daughter Olivia,” Strathaven said. “Poppet, say hello to our guest.”
    “The pleasure is mine, my lady,” Gabriel said.
    The babe stared up at him with big green eyes. Her tiny rosebud mouth opened, and a silvery line of spit dangled before landing on the arm of the duke’s pristine jacket. A dark spot gathered and spread.
    “She