The water in the basin was cold, but he didn’t care. Served him right for having dismissed Murray. He scrubbed himself with the soap and the sponge, staining the floor with water and suds. Bugger it. His sprays of water had missed the rug completely. There was a pool on the floor.
He dragged on his nightshirt and slid into bed. Only then did he remember something. His wife. Supposed wife. She stood behind the other screen, lit by candlelight. The scent of lilies wafted as she washed herself, judging by the sound of sloshing water.
As absurd as it sounded, he hadn’t thought about the moment he would share his bed with her. Or maybe he should sleep on the floor. It wouldn’t be the first time although he hadn’t slept on the floor in years. He hadn’t slept with a woman in years either.
He tried and failed not to stare at her when she came out of the screen in a delicate mauve dressing gown that, alas, didn’t show anything inappropriate. His pulse wasn’t concerned though. It thumped faster the closer she came.
She stopped at the edge of the bed. “We haven’t discussed the sleep arrangement.”
He swallowed hard. “We could ask for separate rooms. All the toffs do it.”
“At this hour? We should have asked earlier. It’ll sound suspicious. Everyone will think we argued and decided to sleep separately.”
“Right.” He drummed his fingers on the cover. “I think we should share the bed. If a maid comes in and sees me sleeping on the floor, there might be rumours. My position with the count is already at odds without a maid gossiping about Lord Ashford not sharing the bed with his wife. I promise I won’t behave appropriately. I mean…” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Inappropriately. With the ‘in’ that makes the difference.” He ought to shut up.
She darted her tongue out over her bottom lip, and he found himself incapable of averting his gaze or thinking about anything logical.
“You’re right. And I don’t mind. I have slept squeezed between other people. Sharing this large bed with you won’t be a problem.” She removed the dressing gown, revealing a lovely, matching nightgown.
No frills or ribbons, only a simple layer of mauve satin. The light betrayed her this time. It showed the shape of her curves through the fabric. But while earlier the sunlight had made her look like an angel, now she was a temptress, all enticing curves and a delicious scent. She tugged at her long braid and lifted the covers. As she bent forwards to slide into bed, the neckline of her nightgown dropped enough to give him a spectacular view ofthe top of her breasts. He wasn’t enough of a gentleman to look away. The narrow valley between her breasts had to be all soft skin. He wished he could—she stared at him, her eyebrows high and her expression pinched.
He cleared his throat. Great. He’d been caught staring like a lad. She lay next to him and pulled the cover up to her chin.
“Good night,” she said, putting out the flame from the oil lamp.
“Good night.” It wasn’t going to be a good night.
Between his worry about the deal and Violante lying inches from him, he was restless. The bloody bed wasn’t that big after all. He tossed and turned, tormented by her sweet scent and warmth. He should take a walk and return when he was cold and tired, but he didn’t want to. Perhaps he enjoyed the torture. A cold bath wouldn’t be bad.
“Keith.” She touched his shoulder in the dark, and he almost jolted.
“What is it? Are you unwell? Do you feel cold? Let me fetch a hot cup of tea for you.” He started to get off the bed, but she touched his arm again.
She shifted under the covers. “I was about to ask you the same thing. You keep moving. Is something the matter?”
“I’m fine.”
Her hand stroked his arm through the sleeve. “You’re burning up.”
Yes, he was. “I’m restless. Too many thoughts.”
The blankets lowered as she lit the oil lamp. The quick flash of the match gave him a glimpse of her lovely profile.
“What thoughts?” She propped herself up, blinking.
She looked so beautiful right now he couldn’t think straight. With her hair dishevelled and her eyes sleepy, she was ravishing. He wanted to kiss her pouty lips and ran his fingers throughher hair until she sighed on his chest while he dragged her nightgown down her shoulders to see where that valley ended.
“Nigel, the count, and you,” he said.Mostly you.
“Me?” She brushed a curl from her face. “Did I do something wrong? Should I have talked more? Less? Was I too loud?”
“No, it’s not that. You were perfect.” He exhaled. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.” He ran a hand over his face. Yes, he was burning.
“I want to know.” She touched his shoulder again.
She had no idea what she did to him, did she? But what was he supposed to say? That he’d never stopped thinking of her? That in his heart, he was still that boy who longed to spend an hour reading with her under the sycamore tree? That her copy ofWuthering Heightslay in the trunk a few feet from them? That he hadn’t found love because his heart had stayed in Sharpe Manor? No. He wouldn’t tell her any of that, not unless he understood if there was hope for him. She’d told him she didn’t hate him. That was a start, but he longed for more, for everything. Her respect, companionship, and love.
He sat up as well. “I’m not used to sleeping with someone next to me.”
