Free Wicked Desires (Wicked Affairs, Book One) by Eliza Lloyd Page A

tidying his appearance. He wore only his open shirt and evening trousers. He was in his socks.
    When she didn’t answer, he walked in. She stood near the end of her bed, wide-eyed and fearful, adorned in her usual white garb. Guilty.
    “Michael?”
    Unrestrained anger propelled him toward the sitting chairs near her fireplace. Flopping in a chair, absent his usual impeccable manners, he mulled his first words. He did not think he could be near her without his inner rage boiling over.
    But he couldn’t bear to be far away from her either.
    “Clarissa, won’t you join me?”
    “I was just going to bed.”
    He entwined his fingers and pressed his lips to them, wanting to get it right. Wanting.
    “I’ve done a lot of thinking tonight and I believe my worst fears are coming true.”
    Still she didn’t move.
    “When I arrived home, your carriage was here but you weren’t.”
    “Oh, I know,” she said and then smiled brightly. Falsely. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I ran into Anne. She and Randall brought me home.”
    “Ah. Your dear friend Anne.”
    Clarissa padded toward her bed and sat down, pulling the thick coverlet over her legs. “I’m tired, Michael.”
    He clenched his teeth but pushed out of the chair. He strolled toward her, blowing out two candles on her mantle before he gazed down at her. How could he want someone so much and be able to do nothing about it? Even now he felt nothing. No faint stirring of arousal. No strong erection. Nothing at all to tempt her into nights of debauchery and unrestrained pleasure.
    “I think we will return to York early this year. I’ve been missing home,” he said. If he could get her away. If they could go home, perhaps he would relax enough, perhaps she would forget the enticements of other men. And maybe she would forgive his inadequacy as a man and his failure as a husband.
    “Why? The boys won’t be home for weeks yet. It will be drafty and lonely if we return now. Oh, no. Let’s not. We still have almost five weeks before the end of the Season.”
    “We haven’t been spending much time together.”
    “It’s like this every year. The Season winding up. The mad rush.” She patted his leg.
    His anger dissolved into desperation. He could not lose his wife. Sitting next to her, he braced his arm across her waist.
    “You are still as beautiful as the day I met you.”
    Clarissa relaxed, one hand caressing his face, and he turned his lips to her palm.
    “What is it? You’ve not been happy. Tell me,” she pleaded.
    Instead, he leaned forward and brushed a light kiss across her lips.
    “Who were you with tonight?” he asked as he pulled away. Her eyes, so pleasing when aroused, popped open. He gazed at her, certain he would find the sordid truth buried in those misty depths if he but looked deep enough.
    She smiled again. “I told you. I was with Anne.”
    “Madam, I saw the hackney. Anne did not bring you home. Where were you?”
    He braced for bad news. Truth.
    Clarissa was the first to look away. She closed her eyes and lowered her head.
    “Oh God, it’s worse than I thought,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair.
    Her attack came from out of the blue. “Are you going to tell me you were at your club tonight? Diligently losing money at cards?”
    “This isn’t about me. You even smell like sex. Who fucked you, Clarissa? Who?” He gritted his teeth, fearful that more damaging, more hurtful words would spill out.
    “So it’s all right that you question my every behavior, but when the tables are turned, you refuse to answer?”
    Anger and guilt tore at his chest.
    She thrust the knife of inadequacy deeper. “I have begged you to come to me. Weekly, in case you weren’t keeping track. Yet you continually reject me.”
    He leapt from the bed and paced to the fireplace.
    Clarissa continued, undaunted by his imposing, impenetrable rejection. “You have no cause to doubt me. So what if I came home late? You have no reason to assume that I’ve