The Sherbrooke Bride - Catherine Coulter [50]
Good lord. What was he to do?
“Come here,” he said before his brain could countermand the order, and parted his legs.
She came to stand between his legs, still and silent, her arms still at her sides. Still he didn’t touch her, merely looked and looked some more, now at her belly, and she knew it. It was almost beyond what she could bear, this intense study of her body by this man. Even she herself had never looked at her body as he was looking now.
Finally, after an eternity of minutes, Douglas raised his head and looked her in the face. “You do not displease me. Your female endowments are adequate. Should you like to part your legs so I may see the rest of you? No? That isn’t part of your seduction plan? How far do you plan to go if I do nothing?” He looked away from her then, into the fire. “You say nothing. I have already brought you to stand between my legs. Cannot you think of anything to do yourself?”
Alex brought her hand up to cover her breasts, the other hand to cover her woman’s mound. It was an absurd gesture, but she simply couldn’t bear standing there any longer, exposed and open to him. His disinterest was obvious and it was so painful she couldn’t bear it.
“You know, Alex,” he said, looking back at her now, “not only can I take you again and again, I can prevent you conceiving a child. I can easily withdraw my sex from you before spilling my seed inside your body. I am not a boy; I am a man with a man’s control. Don’t look so damnably blank! You cannot conceive a child if my seed doesn’t reach your womb. Thus I can freely take what is offered and still annul this farce of a marriage.” He waved a hand at her. “However, tonight, this very minute with you standing here before me with only your white hide covering you, I find I have no interest. You are not Melissande. You are not the wife I wanted. Go away.”
Alexandra felt beyond humiliation. She could scarce think for the pain roiling through her, the pain, the failure, the emptiness his words had carved out inside her. She stood there in front of him, not twelve inches away from him, because she was incapable of moving. She wasn’t as embarrassed as she was devastated. He had rejected her, completely. He’d not been particularly cruel about it, just utterly matter-of-fact. He had made his feelings quite plain. Even though he had seemed to find her acceptable, he still didn’t want her enough to take her and then discard her. He didn’t want her for anything. Ryder hadn’t judged his brother’s feelings correctly this time. Ryder had been wrong. There was nothing more she could do.
She stepped away from him then, her blood pounding wildly through her, then ran from his bedchamber.
Douglas saw the flash of white skin. He heard the adjoining door close very quietly. He didn’t move for a very long time. Then he rose and picked up her discarded nightgown. He looked toward her chamber. Then, very deliberately, he tossed the nightgown into his chair.
He knew what he’d done. He knew he’d kicked her and then kicked her again. But, damn her, he refused to be cornered, to be bribed and blackmailed with sex. He would never allow a woman to dictate to him, to try to make him lose his logic and his brain by flaunting her body. But the look on her face as he’d spoken. He cursed as he flung off his dressing gown. It landed beside her nightgown on the chair. He cursed as he climbed into his big empty bed and burrowed under the blanket. He felt disgusted with himself, but he wouldn’t back down. He would do what he wished to do, and he wouldn’t be coerced, certainly not by an eighteen-year-old