“Ourhouse. We have one in the small parlor, but we can place yours in the main salon.”
She grinned at his generosity. “I’d like that…assuming, of course, you do not press me to entertain your guests.”
“Our guests. Our house.”
His generosity brought hot tears to her eyes. Arching up, she kissed him. “Thank you. What do you say here? I am a flower pot.”
“A water pot.” He thumbed a tear from her cheek. “What did I say to cause this?” His mood was suddenly changed to that of the endearing bridegroom whom she adored.
She sniffed. “I have had few in my life the past few years who have wanted to do any kindnesses for me. I get a lump in my throat when Amber or Gus or Scarlett help me. I am used to being alone.”
He pulled her firmly into his embrace. “Nevermore alone.”
Tears dribbled down her cheeks at that. He must never be harmed by her actions. “How I love you,” she whispered to him.
And as his violet eyes went wide with shock and pleasure, he put his mouth to hers and took all of her. His lips were hers. His tongue met hers. His fingers in her hair grasped her, held her to him so that he ravished her with his possession.
She ground out his name as he trailed kisses to her ear, down her throat, and found once more her lips. His fingers were urgent to the black fox fur at her collar as he opened her coat and caught her at her waist to press her to him.
Her wedding gown she had replaced with a new transparent, frilly peach muslin with a low décolleté. She had even avoided a corset. Her choice had been purposeful, her hopes high that her husband would notice and need to claim her there and everywhere.
#
He was a man of ethics and education. A man who adored his family of a smart and sassy mother and five sisters. A man who liked women in all shapes and sizes. He liked them to be educated, of course he did. He preferred them to have taste and ambitions. Those need not be ones to take over the world. Hell. Few men had that.
He considered his wife, who strolled about the fashionable salon of the cottage that was Rafe Durham’s and now was their residence for their first days of marriage.
He had hopes for those days. Not just the obvious, but ones that would prove useful to solidify their vows and make the two of them more like one.
He knew intimacy could do that. He knew it could endear his bride to him as affection only could, one to another.
But he did not want that to be all by which they were defined. He had a right to hope for more. He could work for it.
But he was urged on by his desire to possess her, as now he could. Yet reason held him in its clutches. What could he do other than encourage her to talk to him?
He stifled a laugh. Would mere words put her to his bed?
He watched her touch the keyboard of a fortepiano adorning the salon. She bent to inhale the fragrance of a vase of hothouse flowers that Rafe’s servants must have placed there for them to admire. She rubbed the edge of a rose petal between two fingers, then let her gaze drift to the hall.
Upstairs, the maid who had been assigned to them from the main house dropped something on the floor.
The thud had Inès catching his eye. “She’s in a hurry to leave us,” she said, chuckling.
He took the settee and patted the cushion next to him. “Come sit with me.”
A skeptical expression flashed across her face.
So when she sat, he took one hand in his and said, “Tell me why our stay here may be a challenge for you.”
“I…” She licked her lower lip and met his gaze. “I have not told you everything I have done. The Ramseys said—”
He gave a quick shake of his head. “Nor have I told you about me.”
She took a sharp breath. “I daresay none of that is controversial.”
Intriguing word.“That depends on your point of view.”
She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
