“Tomorrow,” he said. “Eventually, we will have to eat.” He watched her walk away, then focused on Rose. “You think something is wrong.”
Rose nodded. “She’s had that headache since yesterday.”
Across the room, Emalyn took Philip’s arm and they left, paying respects to guests left and right as they made their way to the door, ever the popular—and powerful—Society couple. “If she still has it tomorrow, I’ll talk to my father.”
“Let’s hope it’s well gone by then.” Rose motioned for Davis, then pointed to the cake. The butler nodded, vanished, then reappeared with a substantial-looking knife and a footman bearing a stack of small plates.
More than two hours passed before Thomas could extract his bride from the breakfast, by which point he had crossed from impatience into annoyance, bordering on anger. They had managed to eat a small amount—Rose admitted she could never pass up kedgeree, even in the middle of the afternoon—but Thomas had truly developed an understanding of his wife’s ongoing frustrations with Lady Dorothea by the time he could lead Rose from the ballroom. He growled under his breath as his mother-in-law attempted once more to stall their departure, which made Rose giggle—but take a firmer stance with the lady.
With a mischievous grin still on her face, Rose lead him through the back halls and stairs of the house, the two of them emerging into the alley behind the mews with sighs of relief. He helped her into the carriage, and as the horses began to move, pulled her into his arms, then into his lap, kissing her with an ardent fervor. He thought she might resist the aggressive move, but Rose melded against him, returning his kiss with equal passion. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, then one hand slid into his hair, her fingers tightening on the strands. He moaned, plunging one hand into her meticulously coiffed hair, instantly destroying the intricate style.
His kisses moved down her neck as he whispered, “I’ve been wanting to tear apart your hairstyle for hours.”
She pulled back, her gaze teasing. “You seemed to like it when you first saw me today.”
“You were radiant. But untouchable.”
She kissed him again. “No longer.”
He shook his head. “No longer. Now you are mine. And I fully intend to spend the night proving we belong to each other.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rose stood inher new, albeit temporary, bedchamber, more nervous than she had been before the wedding. Arriving at Ashton House already aroused and eager to welcome her husband into her bed, Rose had been slightly startled when they had been separated by a bevy of servants—and Thomas’s father—each directed to their individual bedchambers. In hers, Sarah had awaited to prepare Rose for the night, completing the take-down of her hairstyle that Thomas had begun in the carriage and brushing her hair until it lay soft and silky over her shoulders. The indigo gown disappeared into the dressing room, replaced by an elegant and almost sheer muslin night rail. The pale blue rail had indigo ribbons at the neckline and cuffs, and a matching dressing gown lay on the bench at the foot of her bed. A bed that had already been turned down in anticipation of what was to come, piled high with pillows and soft sheets.
Before she left, Sarah had told her that Her Grace had intended to talk to Rose, but had been too tired to do so. Rose had nodded, realizing then the reason for the separation. She suspected that Thomas was in the process of hearing a lecture about the way to treat a wife even as she stood there, eager to be that wife.
She gave a quick prayer that he would not lose his temper with his father.
The day had gone completely awry from what Rose had envisioned, and she hoped it did not continue to do so. She had believed she would be married and in her husband’s arms by mid-afternoon. Instead, the planned two-hour breakfast turned into five, and the clock on the mantel in her bedchamber now showed that it was after seven in the evening. She was weary, lonely, and she wanted Thomas in her arms.
A rapid tapping on her door made Rose jerk, then take a deep breath. “Enter.”
The door opened and closed, and Thomas stood before her, wearing an untied banyan over an untucked shirt and trousers, his feet bare against the thick, burgundy carpet. “I’m sorry. My fath—”
“No.” Rose stepped forward, holding up one finger. “No more words. I’m tired of words.” He fell silent, simply watching her as she crossed the room and in one motion ran her hands under his shirt, placing them flat against his chest. The contact of her skin against his felt like a flash of fire, setting them both in motion. Thomas scooped her up in his arms, carrying her toward the bed as she pressed her lips against his. He placed her gently down on the pillows, then stripped off his clothes, moving onto the bed beside her.
Rose stared at him, a deep emotion almost overwhelming her as she gazed at him, eyes to toes, naked for the first time. She took in the firm muscles of his chest and arms, the fine feathering of dark hair on them, her gaze following the line of hair down toward his groin. His arousal was already growing, and she reached for it, whispering his name.
Thomas stopped her, taking her hand and kissing the palm. “Not yet. Soon, but not yet.” He watched her face as he kissed each finger, sucking briefly on each tip.
Her eyes widened at the sensuality of such a simple action, her chest tightening. He then kissed her mouth again, a slow, thorough action that began with a tug on her lower lip and continued as his tongue explored her mouth. Rose put one hand around his back, the other one the back of his head, as if she could pull him closer.
His hand moved down, cupping her breast through the thin muslin, his thumb finding the taut nipple, circling it with a firm pressure that made the heat between her thighs increase, pushing her desire for him to a higher level. Her legs opened, and she whimpered, a sound that made his kiss more fervent and the grip on her breast harder. Rose arched up against him, wanting more.
Thomas broke the kiss and pulled away, smiling as she moaned again. “Shh. I’m not going anywhere.” Instead, he scooted down, reaching for the hem of the night rail. He began to push it up, and Rose felt a chill rush over her as she realized his intentions.
He would see.
She pushed up, grabbing his arms. “No. Thomas. Please.”
He stopped, his brows furrowed. “Rose?”
“You can’t. Please.”
He shook his head, releasing the cloth and stroking her thigh on top of it. “What’s wrong? I’ve already touched you—”
“But you didn’tsee.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “You didn’t... you can’t...” Tears stung her eyes.
