by Eva Leigh
Go slow, he reminded himself. Take your bloody time.
He stroked his hand up the column of her neck, feeling the hard beat of her pulse, and let his palm rest at the juncture between her throat and her jaw. She was so delicate here, but he reminded himself that, knowing what he did of her, she possessed considerable strength.
He leaned closer, until their lips met. He kissed her lightly, little sips of kisses, until she returned them, and then he went further. His lips made silent promises. This will be so good for us, I swear it.
He’d never made such promises before or felt this surge of protectiveness holding him to his vow.
She seemed to understand the unspoken pledge, and when his tongue slipped into her mouth, she sucked on it lightly. Most likely, she didn’t know what she mimicked, but it was enough to send his already-hot blood to a boil. He cupped her breast and thumbed the nipple to a firm point.
She moaned. Yet the sound seemed to startle her. Frowning, she edged away from his touch.
“You don’t like it?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
“I do,” she answered. “But . . .” Her brow knotted. She shook her head.
Kit wanted to growl in frustration. Yet he felt her uncertainty and something in his chest softened.
“It’s all right.” His voice sounded an octave deeper, and raspy. “We’re virtually strangers.” He dragged a hand through his hair, barely believing what he was about to say. “Let’s wait. Give things between us time.”
She looked so relieved, and he wanted to groan. “I’d like that.”
What an enigma she was—her strength and her vulnerability coexisting side by side.
“Time to get some sleep,” he announced. Feeling reasonably certain he wouldn’t send her into a panic by the state of his cock, he stood. “We’ve a full day tomorrow.” He strode toward the small dressing room that adjoined the bedchamber.
He stripped off his clothing, and, for the first time in years, slipped on a sleep shirt. Normally, he slept in the nude, but that was absolutely not happening tonight. Or any night for the near future. Ah, God help him.
As he readied for bed, he heard her slip between the covers and struggled not to picture her satiny limbs or the soft outline of her breasts or the shadowy vale between her legs. Was her hair down there red, too? His cock enjoyed his speculation and sprang back to attention.
For half a moment, he considered doing precisely what he’d advocated for earlier. It would help dull the edge of his desire.
No, he’d just have to think of battle formations and frigid water, which he did until his erection subsided. After pulling on a robe, he exited the dressing room.
She waited for him in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Her gaze was a palpable thing, skimming over his body as he doused the candles around the bedchamber. When the room was submerged in near darkness, he dropped his robe, and then climbed into bed.
She lay on her back, staring up at the canopy. A narrow span of bed stretched between them. It was a sizable bed, but as he shifted slightly, his arm and leg brushed hers. She didn’t pull away, yet she didn’t draw closer, either.
It was novel to share a bed with a woman without making love to her. This was a night of firsts.
Kit struggled to tamp down his need that simmered and pushed beneath his skin. Nearly a month of celibacy had been difficult—now it would be prolonged indefinitely.
He recited what he could remember of Vegetius’s De Re Militari, but that part of his education had been a long time ago, and he kept returning to the touches of her body against his.
“I thought two in a bed would feel crowded,” she said into the darkness, “but I like it.”
“How fortunate humans aren’t covered in quills like porcupines.”
“Or scales like armadillos,” she added. She yawned. “Thank you, Kit.”
“Of course,” he answered.
Within moments, her body went lax as she slept. But then she murmured quietly and rolled toward him, her breasts snug against his arm while she rested a hand on his chest—covering his thudding heart. Her touch went straight through his body.
He gritted his teeth as though having a limb amputated. Rather than gather her close, as he longed to do, he kept his arms at his sides.
I’m not a praying man, but for the love of all that’s holy, grant me patience.
She trusted him, and he had earned that trust. Of all the awards and commendations he’d received, this one felt the most important, and the most fragile.
It wasn’t unusual for Kit to wake up alone. He seldom brought women home, preferring to have his trysts in their rooms. This enabled him to leave when he pleased and not have to face any awkwardness in the morning, when both he and his lover made strained conversation over breakfast, their use for each other gone.
This morning, he stretched in bed and encountered nothing. A moment later he realized that he wasn’t supposed to be alone.
Tamsyn wasn’t there.
He sat up quickly, the covers pooling at his waist. There was no sign of her in the room. It was as if he’d invented a bride and dreamed the whole of last night—their kisses, her uncertainty, and his offer for them to postpone the consummation until she felt more at ease.
“Tamsyn?” he called. She could be in the dressing chamber or perhaps seeing to her personal needs. But a moment went by, and there was no answer.
Hurriedly, he climbed out of bed and checked the dressing room. She wasn’t there. Her bridal gown was folded in the clothespress, but she likely brought a change of clothes. Where was she?
An irrational thought leapt into his mind. What if she had decided she wanted no part of this marriage, didn’t want anything to do with him, and had fled in the night?
Kit summoned his valet, then, when Anderson appeared, he hastily washed and dressed. As he shrugged into his jacket, Kit told himself that his thoughts were ridiculous, his fears unfounded. Or so he hoped.
On his way out the door, he caught a glimpse of himself in the pier glass. Nothing out of the ordinary stared back at him, but he certainly didn’t wear the contented look of a man who’d made love to a willing woman all night.
He nodded politely as he passed other guests in the hallway, quashing the impulse to grab them and demand if they had seen a pretty redhead in flight.
As he strode through the lobby on the ground floor, a man in tidy dark clothes approached him. “My lord, I am Ives, the day manager. I hope you had a pleasant night.”
Kit resisted telling Mr. Ives that his night had been confusing and oddly humbling. Instead, he attempted a smile. “I did, thank you.”
“Lady Blakemere is in the dining room,” Mr. Ives said, gesturing to a room off the library.
“Ah, she said she’d have an early breakfast,” Kit answered. There was no benefit in telling the day manager that Kit had no earthly idea where his new wife had hared off to.
“If you care to join her, I’ll have some tea brought out to you straightaway.”
Kit nodded his thanks, then headed for the dining room. Tables were arranged throughout, while the occupants of the sunny chamber consisted primarily of couples and families with a handful of lone men dotted here and there. Few paid him any mind as he came in—including the redhead at a table for two, staring out a bow window at the far end of the room.
The pressure in his chest released as he approached. She was here. She hadn’t run away to a distant corner of England.
Sunlight outlined her clean profile, highlighting her strong features and making her glow. Her throat was a long, elegant line. An urge to run his lips along her neck and taste her flesh gripped him.
It was a positive that he was attracted to his wife. Better that than the alternative. Yet it only compounded his sexual frustration. But he’d have to endure more abstinence, at least until Tamsyn was ready. He’d be damned if he forced her to do something she didn’t want to do.
The floor was thickly carpeted, his boots making no sound as
he approached. But she caught his reflection in the window and turned with a smile at his approach.
He bowed. A kiss on the cheek wasn’t seemly in public, and he didn’t want to risk her pulling away from him.
“I woke and you were gone,” he said without rebuke as he sat opposite her.
“I’ve been in London a fortnight and I cannot get used to town hours,” she admitted. “It’s an early day for us in the country. And early to bed.” At the word bed, color crept into her face, and she covered her cheeks with a look of consternation.
He shook out his napkin and thanked the server who brought him a pot of tea. “The fashionable rise from bed before ten only if the house is on fire. Even then, if the fire isn’t in their bedchamber, it can be ignored.”
“I’ll attempt to remember that,” she said with a nod, “should a conflagration engulf our home.”
Another server brought Kit a plate of eggs, streaky bacon, and toasted bread. After taking a few bites, he said, “Which reminds me, you recall that I’ve taken a temporary home for us.” When she nodded, he continued, “I’ve leased it for six months, but the lease can be extended if we don’t find anything that suits us on a more permanent basis.”
“I do love my home in Cornwall.” She smoothed her hand over the tablecloth. “Yet after staying at Lady Daleford’s home, I’ve grown used to roofs that aren’t full of rot and floors that don’t buckle under each step.”
Kit frowned. He hadn’t realized that she lived in such terrible conditions. No wonder she’d been ready to marry him with barely any courtship.
Yet her confession seemed to catch her off guard, and she pressed her lips together in consternation. As if she didn’t want him to know of her dismal circumstances.
“That’s a pity,” he said lightly. “The house I rented is built of soggy pasteboard. It’ll blow over with the next stiff breeze.”
His teasing had the desired effect as her concern faded. “You were thinking of my needs, and for that I thank you.” The corners of her eyes crinkled, and he was relieved she shared some of his rather whimsical humor.
He continued, “At five this afternoon, we’re expected at the chambers of Lord Somerby’s solicitor to finalize the transfer of the fortune. Mr. Flowers specifically mentioned that I was to bring my new wife with me. Most likely, that’s to ensure I’m actually married.”
Without the marriage being consummated, it might still be annulled, but Kit didn’t want to mention that.
Yet it seemed that Tamsyn’s thoughts strayed in that direction, as well. She looked away for a moment, then met his gaze.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For what you did last night.”
It took courage for her to confront something so potentially embarrassing, and he nodded in acknowledgment.
“Most men would demand their due,” she noted candidly.
“I’m not most men,” he pointed out.
A corner of her mouth tilted up. “So I am learning.”
As he looked into her eyes, a pang of confused longing reverberated through him. They’d entered into this marriage with their eyes open, knowing it was merely a means to an end. Yet he’d been drawn to her from the first when every other woman had been mysteriously lacking. There was desire for her, but there was a stronger pull beyond the needs of his body.
He wanted her to come to him willingly. For that, he’d wait as long as necessary.
Even if it killed him.
Chapter 9
A rare anxiety gnawed on Kit as he and Tamsyn looked at the facade of their new home. The town house on Bruton Street had pleased him the first time he’d seen it. Standing three stories tall—plus an attic where the servants slept—it had an elegant, modern appearance with a columned portico and rows of windows to let in plenty of sunlight. He’d toured it briefly two days earlier, but now found himself a little nervous as he awaited Tamsyn’s opinion.
“We can’t make too many changes,” he explained, “but I thought it would suit us. For a few months, anyway.” When she gave no reply, he held out his arm. “Shall we go inside?”
In response, she placed her hand on his sleeve. One of the staff that came with the house already had the door open, so Kit and Tamsyn strode inside.
They walked through the town home together, drifting from one room to the next, with Kit leading the tour. As he described the features of each chamber, he kept a close eye on her expression, trying to discern her thoughts.
“The drawing room has a good view of the street,” he pointed out, walking to the windows. “Lots of afternoon sun for callers.”
She said nothing as she turned in a small circle in the middle of the chamber. Her gaze touched here and there—on the aforementioned windows, at the plaster detailing on the ceiling, on the blue moiré sofa. Yet she kept quiet.
What was she thinking?
“I rented the furniture, too,” Kit went on. He walked to the sofa and ran his hand over the back upholstery. “It came with the place, but if you want something else, anything can be arranged.”
She nodded.
“Over here,” he said brightly, striding toward another chamber, “is the dining room. The table can seat sixteen comfortably.” He sounded like a sodding estate agent showing off properties to a client.
Tamsyn peered inside the dining room. The furnishings were more masculine here, with a long mahogany table in the middle and sixteen matching chairs arranged around it. Metal candle sconces on the walls would cast a pleasant light during dinner parties, especially gleaming off silver serving dishes and crystal goblets.
Again, she nodded, but didn’t speak.
She was silent, too, as they viewed the parlor on the ground floor and the large music room up a flight of stairs.
With each new, stylish room, he waited for her response. A smile, a frown. But her expression remained carefully neutral.
As they both looked at the sizable chandelier in the music room, he finally burst out, “For God’s sake, say something.” At her puzzled expression, he continued, “Do you love it? Hate it? I can’t sodding tell.”
“Does my opinion matter?” she asked with a puzzled frown.
“You’re going to live here,” he said, “and I want you to be happy, so of course it matters.”
A warm smile wreathed her face. “It’s wonderful, Kit. All of it. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
Relief and exasperation warred within him. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I thought if I looked too eager, you’d think I married you for your money.” She wrinkled her nose.
His laugh was unexpected. “Oh, my dear,” he said between chuckles, “of course you married me for my money. Or at least,” he added, “for the money I will have.”
She looked as though she wanted to say something, but then she pressed her lips together and shook her head. Yet the dispassionate expression she’d worn had given way to something more open, almost happy.
He did want to make her happy. Why wouldn’t he? She was his wife, and though they’d entered into a marriage of convenience, he wasn’t a brute. Her contentment was his responsibility.
She hadn’t said much about what her life had been like since the death of her parents. Thinking back to the way she’d described the condition of her home, her uncle had most likely neglected her as much as he did the ancestral house.
God only knew what else she’d endured. She deserved pleasure and ease in her existence. If he could give that to her, maybe he wasn’t such a selfish bastard after all.
“Shall we see the rest of the house?” he offered.
She gave him a wide smile that shot through him like a bullet. “Yes, please.”
They moved on to a bedchamber, furnished in hues of cream and peach. It faced the garden in the back of the house. “The lady of the house’s rooms,” he announced, then nodded toward a door set into the wall panels. “That leads to the master’s bedchamber. Convenient, no? Saves on chilly feet during treks in the night.”
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br /> She frowned. “We’re to have separate bedrooms?”
“Naturally.” Her bafflement was a puzzle.
“It’s only . . . my parents shared a room.”
“What of your aunt and uncle?” he asked.
“There’s only a handful of usable rooms at Chei Owr,” she said, spreading her hands. “They have one bedchamber, as well.”
Kit cleared his throat. “I can’t speak for everyone in London, but it’s common practice amongst the ton that husbands and wives sleep apart. Too much affection is seen as rather gauche.”
“Of course,” she said at once. “City manners, and all that.”
“However,” he continued, “what is fashion but a set of arbitrary rules made by people we shouldn’t care about? If you want to share a room, that can certainly be arranged.”
“But,” she said persuasively, “I don’t want anyone to think less of you because you married some country vulgarian. If it’s the custom for a husband and wife to have separate beds, let’s follow that tradition.”
“As you like.” He’d planned on them not sharing a bedchamber, so why was he disappointed? “Would you like to see the rooms on the next floor?” The nursery was located there, but given the tenuous state of their current sexual situation, he opted not to point that out.
Before she could answer, her maid appeared. The woman bobbed a curtsy. “Forgive me, my lord, but I need to speak with the missus.”
“It’s likely some household business,” Tamsyn said hastily.
“No need for explanations,” Kit said with a wave of his hand. “The law may declare you my property, but as far as I’m concerned, the only person who owns you is you.”
Tamsyn smiled, then slipped out into the corridor with her maid. Their mingled whispers faded as they walked away down the corridor.
Kit gave the lady’s bedchamber one last look—hopefully, he’d be journeying here regularly—before moving on to the room that he’d occupy. He’d seen it before, though that had been more of a cursory examination. Now he walked to the windows that also looked out onto the garden and stared at the view that would be his for the foreseeable future. It was a dapper little garden, with neatly trimmed hedges and an oyster shell path, a fine place to take a cheroot on warm evenings.