The Viscount Always Knocks Twice by Grace Callaway
Chapter Twenty-Five
Later that night, Marianne Kent was reading in bed when her husband came in. She felt a pang of worry at how tired he looked. His handsome face bore lines of tension, and his hair looked as if he’d dragged his hands through it repeatedly.
She put down her book and went to him. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, my darling?”
“It hasn’t exactly been the most relaxing of vacations,” he said dryly.
She helped him with his jacket, easing the material off his broad shoulders. “How did the meeting with Magistrate Jones go?”
“As expected. He’ll be breathing down my neck until the case is solved.” Ambrose tugged off his cravat and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “But he’s the least of my worries.”
As Marianne watched her husband pull off his shirt, a tingle passed through her. Over a decade of marriage and he still affected her this way. The sight of his whipcord lean torso, the tough planes and ridges of muscle, made her nipples harden beneath her silk robe. Her gaze followed the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his waistband, and her sex quivered.
It had been too long since they’d had intimate time alone. Of late, it seemed that they were always dealing with some domestic catastrophe or another. She’d hoped that the house party would be a vacation of sorts for them—but instead it had turned out to be work. She could see that Ambrose was exhausted, and she didn’t want to take advantage of him.
At least, not until he’d had a chance to unwind.
“Why don’t you lie down and tell me all about it while I give you a back rub?” she said.
His amber eyes lit up. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
He removed the rest of his clothing, and, Lord, she couldn’t help but wet her lips. Even at rest, his cock hung large and thick between his thighs, his bollocks swaying with visible heft as he walked over to the bed. Pulling back the covers, he sprawled face down onto the mattress.
For a minute, Marianne just enjoyed the view. Heavens, he was beautiful.
She clambered over him, settling her knees on either side of his narrow hips. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders and began to knead the taut muscles.
“God, you don’t know how good that feels.” His voice was muffled by the mattress.
“Tell me what’s on your mind,” she murmured.
“Violet, to start. Carlisle asked me for permission to court her today.”
Hearing the disgruntled edge in her husband’s voice, Marianne said, “And you don’t approve?”
“I don’t know what to think. One moment they seem like they can’t stand one another and the next he wants her to be his wife? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Poor Ambrose. He did like his logic.
“Love rarely makes sense, darling. Remember how you and I started off?”
He groaned with pleasure as she attacked the knots in his neck. “That was different. There were mitigating circumstances. We each had our secrets to keep—for good reason, at the time.”
“Perhaps there’s more going on with Violet and Carlisle than we realize.”
Given the undercurrents she’d picked up between the two, Marianne suspected there was a lot more… but she didn’t want to throw fuel on Ambrose’s fire. He loved his sisters and, like any big brother, had a tendency to be overprotective.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. With Violet, one never knows what is really going on. All these years… and I don’t think I truly understand her.”
Marianne knew what he meant. Violet’s façade of merriment hid a certain skittishness, a reluctance to reveal her true emotions. Even Ambrose, one of the most astute men Marianne knew, had trouble reading his middle sister.
Leaning forward, Marianne pressed her palms into her husband’s back. “With Violet, I think you have to let her find her own path… and her own husband. Carlisle may end up being just what she needs.
“You think so?” Relaxation slurred Ambrose’s voice. He had his head turned to one side, pillowed by his folded arms.
“He’s her opposite. Steady, somber. He’ll anchor her when she gets too outrageous, and, in turn, she’ll lighten him up when he gets too serious.”
“Mmm.”
Continuing to massage him, Marianne mused, “And in some ways they’re the same. Strong-willed, independent… and both of them enjoy physical activities.”
“Mmm.”
And speaking of physical activities… Marianne moved off Ambrose, kneeling at his side so that she could work the hard curves of his buttocks, the taut sinew of his thighs and calves. Soon desire was thrumming impatiently in her blood, and she’d had enough of the foreplay.
Sliding up, she murmured in his ear, “Why don’t you massage me now… inside?”
No response.
Frowning, she said, “Ambrose?”
He let out a snore.
He’d… fallen asleep on her?
For a moment, she teetered between exasperation and wifely concern. The latter won out. With a sigh, she drew the covers over his slumbering form, climbed in next to him, and doused the light.
