“My lady?” came the soft query of her abigail from the hallway. “Should I return later?”

Gray waited, his breathing harsh, the crests of his cheekbones flushed. There was no doubt in Isabel’s mind that if she sent her maid away, she would be flat on her back and mounted within moments.

“Come in,” she called, wincing at the note of panic that she could not hide.

Damn him. He’d made her want him, this new spouse of hers. Want him with the type of need that made her ache, a need she had thought herself too old and too wise to ever feel again.

It was her worst nightmare come to life.

Her husband closed his eyes a moment, collecting himself, as Mary swept in and went straight to the armoire.

“Shopping tomorrow, Pel?” he asked, his voice maddeningly calm. “I do need new garments.”

The most she could manage was a jerky nod.

Grayson sketched an elegant bow and retreated, but his presence lingered in her mind long after he had gone.

Gerard made it to the hallway that led to his rooms before pausing to rest against the damask-covered wall. He closed his eyes and cursed himself. His plan to renew relations with his wife had gone horribly awry the moment he had opened the door.

He should have been prepared, he should have known how his body would react to the sight of Pel draped in black satin, one creamy shoulder bared as she lounged on a chaise. But how could he have known? He had never felt that way about her before. At least, not that he could recollect. But during those previous meetings in her boudoir, he had been so in love with Em. Perhaps that was what had granted him immunity from his wife’s abundant charms.

Banging the back of his head lightly against the wall, Gerard could only hope that it would knock some sense into him. To lust for one’s wife. He groaned. For most men, that would be so convenient. Not for him. Isabel had been frightened by his interest.