Page 47 of The Duke of a Thousand Desires

His smile was strained. “Magazines?”

“I don’t suppose you have any Spanish oranges on hand?”

“In fact, I do.”

He took three steps up. They stood inches apart, close enough to touch, to kiss, to antagonize. His brown corduroy coat was unbuttoned. He had loosened his plain neckcloth in the carriage. Despite his impassive demeanor, he looked as vital as he had when they had taken their vows.

Her breathing became unsteady. She wanted to sink down on the step -- or against him. He was familiar, but what they would mean to each other was not. Would he rule her with kindness?

“You don’t need anything else?” he asked, his heavy-lidded eyes holding her entranced. “Other than reading material?”

“Perhaps a servant could show me where I’m to be kept.”

“With your permission,” he said with a courtly bow.

He climbed to the step above her. The next thing she knew he had hooked his arm under her knees and carried her in silence up the remaining stairs to a bedchamber lit by a low-burning fire. She put her face to the crook of his throat, conscious of the muscular arms that supported her.

“That wasn’t necessary,” she said as he set her on her feet.

“It was. This is a labyrinth of a house, and you might have gotten lost. I know how you like to explore.”

“I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

“Not tomorrow, either, I expect.”

She waited, surreptitiously noting that he’d begun to remove his coat and vest. And that he was taking forever to make his next play. Was this his way of putting her at ease? It wasn’t working. She was trembling inside, dying for him to satisfy the longing he’d aroused in her.

“Did you enjoy the reception?” he asked. He dropped his coat on a cane-backed chair. His waistcoat followed. She glimpsed his bleached white shirt and the trim line of his breeches.

“Yes.” But not as much as she hoped to enjoy herself soon. And to breathe freely. She was slightly heavier than Isolde. The borrowed frock and long corset pressed into her ribs; the straps of her chemise had been pulled too tight, making her breasts swell. More than anything she wanted relief from the waiting that bound her nerves.

Simon appeared in no great hurry to celebrate their wedding night.

He motioned to a small table in front of the fireplace. Two uncorked bottles sat between a pair of large goblets and a bowl of imported oranges. She shifted her weight from one slipper to the other.

“Red or white?” he asked solicitously.

“Both. Neither. Well, perhaps.”

He reached down to the table, one heavy brow lifting, his head bowed. “You could have a sip of each.”

“I’ll wait, thank you.”

He turned and looked up slowly from the hem of her gown to her face. “I shouldn’t encourage you,” he said. “But you do look apprehensive.”

“Do I?”

“I hope I am not the cause of your vexation. Would you like me to peel you an orange?”

“Not at the moment,” she said, wondering if they would progress to something more intimate such as shaking hands. Quite frankly she’d thought that by now she would be in his bed, discovering uncensored secrets about him, and herself.

His hesitancy confounded her. Was it a strategy? A sign of consideration? She hadn’t expected such restraint from a man known for his amorous proclivities. Still, all the good manners in England could not mask his sexuality. He had the advantage even if to her bewilderment he had not used it.

She was ready to test his reputation for herself.

“Ravenna?”

She blinked at the deep pitch of his voice and realized he was standing directly in front of her. He tucked his thumb under her chin. She hoped to heaven he wasn’t about to feed her some fruit. Jane had filled her head with romantic expectations of her bridal night, and not one had come true. What did she want? Him.