Forever Yours. Charlotte Featherstone

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СКАЧАТЬ away her tears. “He no longer satisfies you,” Adrian stated flatly.

      Nodding, Elizabeth balled up a linen square and dabbed at her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, ashamed to confess something like that in front of Adrian. She was shocked by how much it hurt to finally admit the truth. “He does not make me happy. I…I haven’t been since before…well, after Jamie’s birth. It’s as if we are distant acquaintances passing one another from time to time. We no longer talk, touch…kiss,” she hiccupped. “I hardly know him anymore. We’ve become strangers to one another.”

      “How can that be?”

      Tears fell in earnest from her eyes, and Elizabeth did nothing to stop them. “He does not want me as a woman, Adrian. He no longer desires me. It’s as if he is only doing a duty when he comes to my bed. He hurries on with the business and it leaves me frustrated and yearning. It is obvious that he no longer wants me, or our children. It is obvious he is no longer happy with me. Even now he is in London, doing God knows what—probably bedding every woman under the age of twenty-five. I can’t compete with those young women anymore, Adrian. I can’t give him what he needs.”

      “Come here.” Adrian held out his arms to her. Silently, she pressed forward and allowed him to hold her. There were no words, no admonishment for crying or command that she cease sobbing, no statements about what to do to fix things. Christian always tried to talk her fears away. He always wanted to fix whatever it was that troubled her, but never once had he mentioned trying to repair their marriage. The simple fact was, he didn’t care that it was ending.

      “I am here for you,” Adrian murmured, holding her tighter to him as she sobbed. “I am here, Eliza, in whatever way you may need.”

      Raising her head, Elizabeth looked at him through watery eyes. He comprehended her—completely. Why couldn’t Christian understand her like Adrian?

      As they looked into each other’s eyes, Elizabeth saw a dark curtain suddenly draw across Adrian’s green eyes. Despite her openness with him, she knew he hid much from her. There was so much about Adrian that she did not know, that he would not speak of.

      What was he thinking now? Did he fear she might accept his offer? Did he know that she yearned not for a husband, but a lover? A man to worship her body and fulfill the sexual urges she felt? Was he hoping to be that man, or did he secretly fear her asking him?

      “Elizabeth.” He pulled away from her. “I can hardly believe I am going to say something so contrived, so trite,” he rasped, pressing his lips to her brow and kissing her gently. “But a marriage is like a garden. It needs to be tended year after year. To be cultivated and fed. And when the weeds begin to sprout, as they always do, they need to be plucked—immediately. Sometimes love just isn’t enough to keep two people together. Do you understand, Eliza, what I mean?”

      She did understand him. She had neglected their marriage, and now it was being choked, stifled by stagnation and complacency. By routine and fatigue. She had taken Christian for granted. She had expected him to know what she wanted, what she desired—in and out of bed. She hadn’t thought to ask for it; she had thought he should simply know.

      “Your thinking is all wrong, you know. You’re a beautiful woman, Elizabeth, and very desirable. Any man would give his soul to have you in his bed.”

      Smiling, Elizabeth dabbed at her eyes. “I wish,” she murmured into her linen kerchief, “that my husband agreed with your assessment of my desirability. I fear ten years and four children later that desirability is severely in question.”

      “Do you want to know what the allure of a thirty-five-year-old woman is for a man?” Adrian asked. “It’s confidence. Maturity. Acceptance. The confidence to pursue what she desires and know what she wants. There are no coy games, no crying and stomping and pouting like there is with young, silly girls. Older women have the maturity to ask for it—demand it, whatever they want, be it in life or the bedroom. They accept the fact that they can be both mother and wife as well as a sexual creature with the same needs as their husbands. Those young women you worry about,” he whispered in her ear, “are no threat to you. Learn to ask for what you want. Demand you be allowed to do whatever you want to him, and I guarantee you, he will be yours. Never doubt, Elizabeth, that Sutcliffe is still yours. How could he leave someone as lovely, as desirable, as sexual as you?”

      * * *

       Desirable…sexual…

      Christian stood in the doorway of the conservatory watching his wife in the arms of Adrian Wallace. Goddamn bastard! He had always known that Adrian coveted his wife. Had always feared that one day, Adrian might replace him in Elizabeth’s affection.

      And why not? Adrian was a rogue. A dark and romantic artist with a hint of danger about him. What woman wouldn’t fall for him with his black tousled hair and green eyes that always seemed to flash a sensual invitation. Why wouldn’t Elizabeth desire someone like Adrian? Hell, half the women of London practically threw themselves at his feet. But by God, his wife—Elizabeth—would not be one of them! Over his dead body would he allow her to toss away their marriage for a romp in the artist’s bed.

      So what if he wasn’t as romantic as Adrian? So what if he couldn’t shoot Elizabeth smoldering looks from beneath black lashes. Christ, he’d made her a duchess on their wedding day. He’d given her wealth and land and estates beyond her imaginings. He’d given her four beautiful, healthy children, and the creation of those children had been passionate and loving. He had given Elizabeth everything of himself, which, he was willing to bet, was more than Adrian Wallace would give Elizabeth, or indeed, any woman.

      By God, he wasn’t just going to stand here and allow his wife to slip through his hands. Nor was he going to let her forget what had brought them together—love, and an incredible passion for each other.

      This marriage was not over. He had realized that this past week. He’d spent the past days away from her, dying for her. He would have sold his soul for just a glimpse of her and her smile, some sign that she still wanted him, that he still held a place in her heart, no matter how small.

      He’d reached the conclusion that although he hadn’t been happy for a while, it was not because of Elizabeth. It was not because he was tired of her, or because he desired someone else. He wasn’t happy because his marriage was dying, and it was all because he’d let it go to rot.

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