“Good afternoon… wife.”
She fled before he could see her shiver again at his use of the word wife. But as she followed the butler through the grand house that was now her home, she couldn’t shake the memory of Hereford’s intense gaze, or the way his voice had caressed that final word. One year suddenly seemed like both an eternity and not nearly long enough.
*
Their first dinneras husband and wife was served in the formal dining room, though “formal” seemed an inadequate word for the vast space with its gleaming mahogany table that could seat thirty. Tonight, only two places were set, one at each end of the polished expanse.
Amelia wore a gray silk for dinner, the most muted color she had in her wardrobe, her hair carefully arranged. She found Hereford already seated, looking annoyingly at ease in his evening attire—his cravat loosened just enough to reveal the strong column of his throat, his dark hair slightly mussed as if he’d run his fingers through it. The distance between them made conversation optional, which was presumably his intent.
“This is ridiculous,” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. “I can hardly see you through the centerpiece.”
He glanced up from his soup, one eyebrow raised, and she felt the full force of his attention like a physical touch. “Would you prefer closer quarters, my lady?” His voice was low, intimate despite the space between them, and carried implications that made her pulse quicken.
“I would prefer not to shout across half of London to request the salt.”
A predatory smile curved his lips. “Cooper,” he called to the butler, never taking his eyes off her. “Please reset Lady Hereford’s place to my right.”
Amelia regretted her complaint the moment servants began efficiently relocating her settings. Now she would be close enough to catch his scent, to feel the heat radiating from his body, to notice every subtle expression that crossed his devastatingly handsome face.
When she settled into her new seat, the reality was worse than she’d feared. His cologne—sandalwood and something darker, moremasculine—filled her senses. At one point, his leg brushed against her skirts.
“Better?” he asked, and there was something wicked in his tone that suggested he was perfectly aware of her discomfort.
They ate in tense silence, but Amelia found herself stealing glances at his hands—elegant yet undeniably strong as they handled his silverware—the way his throat moved when he swallowed wine. Heat pooled low in her belly.
“I trust you’ve found your chambers satisfactory?” he asked finally, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her bones.
“Quite.” She focused determinedly on her soup, trying to ignore how he was watching her mouth as she spoke. “Though I noticed the connecting door to our rooms doesn’t close properly.”
It was a mistake to look up then as his eyes had darkened with unmistakable hunger. “Yes. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.” He leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that made her skin prickle. “I assure you I did not tamper with the door, though I confess I’m grateful for the… proximity it provides.”
She swallowed and blurted hastily, “What does your mother say about our arrangement?”
“My mother,” he said—his wide mouth curving into a smile that had her staring at it, wondering—“has expressed her opinions quite thoroughly. She’ll be dining with us tomorrow evening, by the way.” His hand moved to rest on the table dangerously close to hers. “I couldn’t refuse any further without causing her bodily harm.”
“Of course.” She tore her gaze away from his mouth and reached for her wine glass, suddenly parched. Her fingers brushed his knuckles, and the contact made her tingle. “Well, I’m sure it will be a delightful evening,” she managed.
“You’re nervous,” he observed, his voice soft. “Your breathing is shallow.” His eyes dropped to her chest, and the attention made her chest rise and fall more dramatically.
“I’m not—” she began, but he was already leaning closer.
“I can see it,” he murmured, so close now that his breath stirred the loose tendrils of hair at her temple. “Your breathing…” His finger hovered just above her chest, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin. “Quite… distracting.”
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only stare at his mouth, now mere inches from hers, and wonder what would happen if she closed the distance between them.
The arrival of the fish course broke the spell, forcing him to lean back. But she noticed how his eyes had darkened, the barely audible groan as he made space for the server. A barely perceptible movement of his eyes had the servants vacating the room all at once.
She was struggling with a particularly difficult cut when he took over. “Allow me,” he said.
“I can manage,” she whispered.
“I know you can.” His voice was a low rasp that sent shivers down her spine. “But I find myself… eager to assist my wife in any way possible.”
His hands cut the fish with ease, but instead of returning his attention to his own plate, he lifted a perfectly cut piece on the fork, bringing it toward her lips.
“Open,” he commanded softly, his voice rough with something that made her stomach flutter.
“Charles, this is… you are…”
