God save him, all he wanted to do was …

Camden lowered his shaven chin into a soft mass of soap-scented curls that touched his lips. “Gwendolyn. Please.”

Gwendolyn readjusted in his arms and laid her head on the expanse of his chest, sighing ever so wistfully. As if it was the only place she was ever meant to be.

Camden swallowed. The way that sigh escaped her lips, and the way her hands and fingers dug possessively into the back of his waist, achingly reminded him of the way their marriage used to be. Perfect. Romantic. All the things he and Gwendolyn had lost with each and every miscarriage.

Damn her. Damn her for not using their separation to heal her body and her soul as they had agreed on. “I want an explanation as to what is going on between you and Westbrook. And I will have that explanation after you bloody remove this blindfold and untie my hands. Is that understood?”

Her head lifted from his chest. Pulling her arms from around his waist, she scrambled outside of his grasp. “You will get an explanation after we play a little game.”

He blinked against his blindfold and huffed out a breath, trying to focus. “I would sooner demand a divorce than entertain any of this.”

A hush met his ears.

Camden raised his chin slowly. Then lowered it. He tried to see her through the blindfold. “Are you there?” he ventured. “Or did I cause you to faint and somehow missed the thud?”

When she didn’t answer, he attempted to move his hands against the velvet binding. He staggered during the attempt. “Your humour knows no bounds. This is all very symbolic, I assure you.”

He suddenly froze, sensing Gwendolyn was not only standing before him, but was actually leaning in towards him. He swallowed, as the heat of her body seemed to pulse against his own, bidding him to forget everything and give in to the temptation of touching her intimately.

She obviously wanted them to be intimate. But … why?

“’Tis obvious your wife never appreciated you as much as she should have,” she whispered, her hushed voice sounding so incredibly close it startled him. “Which is why she humbly asks to pleasure you in a manner you deserve. Will you let her?”

His breath hitched in his throat in response. Hell, he couldn’t have heard her right. This was all the result of one too many cognacs, a blindfold and no access to cigars.

Camden stumbled back and away, but the floor beneath him — which he could barely feel, let alone see — swayed. He sucked in a harsh breath and squeezed his eyes shut, steadying himself and his thoughts. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. He never drank and was now downright delusional. And by tomorrow, he’d be heaving for it.

Camden opened his eyes again and blinked against the darkness of the blindfold. “I … No. I cannot do any of this. Not until you tell me of your relationship with Westbrook.”

“I will not offer you an explanation, Camden, unless you agree to play a game with me. You used to love playing games in the bedchamber. Or have you already forgotten what it is you love?”

Damn. In some ways, yes, of course, he wanted this. He was tired of using his right hand all these months. But to submit himself to her without explanation?

He was usually a rational man. Usually. Hell, even whilst rumours about Gwendolyn’s involvement with Westbrook had choked him to a fury he never thought possible, he allowed reason to rein him in and decided to visit Westbrook’s townhouse for an explanation. Instead of shattering the man’s skull against the floor like a piece of china, as he should have, he coolly demanded proof of the man’s involvement with his own wife. And the proof came, two days later, in the form of Gwendolyn’s silk stocking, which he recognized all too well. The one stitched with lilies and softly scented with her favourite French perfume. The one he had burned, lest he hang himself with it.

“I want an explanation,” he snapped.

“And you will get it by the end of the night. The question of more notable importance is … do you trust me, Camden?”

He swallowed. Hard. He wanted to trust her. He wanted to trust her with his entire bleeding heart, but … “I don’t know if I do.”

“Then you will receive no explanation and can take yourself straight to the door. I am certain London would find you quite entertaining stumbling about the streets as you are.”

“Gwendolyn, for God’s sake—”

“Do you know the name of the game we are about to play?”

“Yes. It’s called Let Us Torture the Husband.”

She snorted. “No. It is called French Intuition. According to your uncle, courtesans play it with their patrons.”

He rumbled out a laugh. “You really shouldn’t listen to my uncle. He flogs the bishop a bit too much.”

She sighed. “Do you think I would have agreed to any of this if I did not think it would benefit us? You and I both know how much our intimacy has suffered due to our inability to have children. I wish to set all of that aside. I wish to save our marriage.”

He shifted from boot to boot, struggling to understand her and what it was she wanted. “Why?”

“Because I love you and hope that you still love me.” There was an aching softness in her voice. “Now please. Ask me how the game is played. Show me how much our marriage means to you.”

He shifted his jaw. “How is it played?”

“You will remain blindfolded and your hands will remain tied. Nothing will be allowed to exist for you except for pleasure. Everything else, all doubts, all questions, all fear, must fall away. By allowing everything to fall away, only that which is important will remain. What one feels.”

“A philosophical game tainted with eroticism. How very … French, indeed.”

“So you will play?”

He snorted. “In my uncle’s own house? Good God, woman. Never. The idea is anything but arousing.”

“Your uncle has removed himself from the house and the servants have been asked to retire. We have two hours. Now if you promise to keep your blindfold in place, I will go against the rules and allow your hands to be untied. So you can touch me.”

He seethed out a breath at the thought of touching her. Christ, it had been so long. So bloody long, he couldn’t even remember what she felt like. Pathetic, was what he was. Pathetic. “I … very well. Do it. Before I change my mind.”

“You promise to keep your blindfold in place?”

“Yes, yes. I promise.”

She rounded him, bare fingers working against the velvet bindings. Within moments, his hands were free.

“Undress.” Her voice was flirtatious but controlled and authoritative. “Remove your coat, cravat, collar, waistcoat and shirt. In exactly that order.” She paused, then added a quick, “Please.”

He was deranged, to be sure. To engage her like this without even knowing whether she and Westbrook …

Then again, that was the point of the game, wasn’t it? Exhaling a ragged breath, he slowly slid his evening coat from his shoulders. Already he felt himself growing hard at the thought of having her. With the darkness that continued to press against his eyes preventing him from seeing her body or her face, he envisioned his beautiful Gwendolyn in a state of undress, and savagely hoped this was not the last time he ever touched her.

Gwendolyn drew in a shaky breath as Camden slipped his dark evening coat from his broad shoulders and pulled it down the length of his muscled arms, hidden beneath his white cotton shirt. The coat slid away from his upper body with a soft rustle and crumpled to the wooden floor of the candlelit study.

His arousal pressed against the buttoned flap of his wool trousers. Her fingers dug into the sides of her skirts and her gaze drifted back up to his blindfolded face. The fact that he was willing to play meant he wanted to save their marriage as much as she did. Which is all that mattered.

Camden’s hands reached up and his bare fingers smoothly and effortlessly undid his white silk cravat, his arms shifting to accommodate the movements. His full lips parted slightly as he slid the cravat from around his neck, exposing the smooth skin of his strong neck. He gently flung the cravat over his shoulder and let it disappear somewhere behind him.

Gwendolyn bit down on to her lower lip with the top row of her teeth. Although Camden wore a velvet strip over his eyes that prevented him from seeing her — or at least she assumed he couldn’t see her — the way he casually stood there, his body positioned towards her, made her feel as if he were very comfortable with what he was about to do. Unlike before. He was allowing everything to fall away in order to give himself over to her.

He lifted his shaven chin, causing a few strands of his blond hair to fall away from his forehead and, one by one, undid the silver buttons on his ivory waistcoat. He stripped it from his body and tossed it aside, standing only in his shirt and trousers. “What are you wearing? Describe it to me.” There was a raw huskiness to his voice that made her stomach squeeze.

It was a huskiness she only had the privilege of ever hearing during their lovemaking. It was something she hadn’t heard for months, due to her fear of miscarrying another child. But what was that fear compared to losing the only man she would ever love?

It was obvious that if she wanted to save this marriage, she needed to show him that she was still the wife he once knew and loved. The wife capable of overseeing his passion and his pleasure in the most unexpected of ways.

“A rose-coloured muslin gown,” she offered in a soft, soft tone. “It tapers off my shoulders.”

She shakily pushed away a misplaced curl from the side of her face. She hadn’t realized how nervous she was about being intimate with him again. Especially under such unconventional circumstances. They were in his uncle’s library, for heaven’s sake. But that was exactly the point of this game. To let everything, including one’s surroundings, disappear.