Page 95 of A Convenient Fiction

She brushed out her hair and slipped into a nightgown. It was the farthest thing from bridal finery. There was no French silk or broderie lace. Only unrelieved white cotton, covering her from her neck to her toes. Its one concession to femininity was a thin—slightly frayed—white ribbon woven at the wrists, neckline, and hem.

Alex had lived abroad for decades. He must have encountered all manner of sophisticated women in seductive negligees. She felt countrified and childish by comparison. Even worse, she felt poor. Far poorer than she had this morning.

She’d told him he would have half of the perfume business, and now there was nothing left of it. No wealth. No property, save a dilapidated distillery in France.

He had no reason to stay now.

She climbed into her bed and pulled the quilted counterpane up to her chin.

Not five minutes later a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” she called out.

Alex entered, shutting the door behind him. He stood there, his back against the closed door, gazing at her in the candlelight. After a long moment, he cleared his throat. “In bed already?”

Laura wished she could see his face. Not that it ever revealed much. “It’s been a long day.”

He advanced into the room. He was in his shirtsleeves, his cravat loose at his neck. “It has. And an eventful one.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me how you managed to resolve things with Mr. Weatherwax.”

“There’s been no opportunity.” Alex removed his cufflinks and set them down on her dressing table with a soft clink. “We can talk now, if you like.”

Laura struggled to a sitting position amongst the pillows and blankets. The counterpane fell to her waist. She resisted the urge to pull it up again. Alex had seen her in far less than a cotton nightgown. Besides, he was her husband now. There was no reason to indulge in false modesty. “I would. If you’re equal to it.”

He continued undressing, as casually as if it were an everyday occurrence to be inside her bedroom after dark. “You might rather hear it in the morning. It will disrupt your sleep otherwise.”

She watched him remove his cravat and unfasten the top buttons of his shirt collar. Her pulse skipped. “My sleep is already going to be disrupted.”

He shrugged out of his waistcoat, draping it across the back of a chair in the corner, before bending to remove his boots.

“I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before,” she said. “Not even with a friend or relation.”

He glanced up at her. His mouth hitched in a smile. “Nervous?”

“A little,” she admitted.

“Don’t be.”

Laura smoothed her blanket over her lap with unsteady hands. It was easy for him to say. No doubt he’d shared his bed with dozens of women.

He straightened to untuck his shirt from his trousers. Reaching a hand behind his neck, he stripped the loose-fitting linen garment off over his head.

She sucked in a sharp breath. His bare torso was all lean muscle and bronzed skin. Strong, and powerful, and rather thrilling to look at. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away.

He cast her another look. A flush of color darkened his neck. “You’re staring.”

She brought her hands to cover her face, squeezing her eyes tight as she stifled a mortified groan. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

He didn’t reply. Not in words. But she heard the sound of fabric rustling, of feet padding across the carpet to the bed.

A flash of panic constricted her chest. Dear lord, had he removed his trousers? She wasn’t ready for such intimacy.

The mattress depressed beside her, the ancient four-poster bed creaking as he sat down. “Open your eyes,” he said gently.

She did as he asked, darting a wary glance downward. He was still wearing his trousers. Not only that, he’d put his shirt back on. Her gaze lifted to his, confused. “What—?”

“Let’s not complicate things. Not until we’ve talked.”