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He laughed and there was genuine amusement in his voice. “Clothes exist so that a man can see through them and imagine an unclothed woman. Height has nothing to do with it, and neither does your weak hip.”

“Darby, clothes exist to decently cover the body,” she observed.

“You called me Simon last night,” was all he said, pulling off her chemise.

She blushed, even thinking of the previous evening. “I was not myself.”

He smiled at her, a sinful mischief in his face. “One says many things in the heat of passion that should not be aired in the morning.”

He had found the very beginning of the sticky trail of 294 Eloisa

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sweetness, at her collarbone, and he was licking it. Down and down he went, and his wife said not a word even when he was on his knees before her, still lapping the trail of the trifle. Lower—lower than where the errant piece of cake traveled. When her knees folded and she said, “Simon! We’re not in a bedchamber!” he merely rose, threw the bolt on the door, and then returned.

But she had taken advantage of his absence to pull a plate from the table. He turned around and found her standing there, laughing, all her glorious hair tumbling over her shoulders, her gown, corset and chemise in a heap on the floor. She was naked but for pale blue slippers and delicate stockings tied in tidy bows at her knees. Naked, she was the most elegant woman he ever saw. She was holding a plate of trifle in her hand, but he hardly noticed that.

“You take my breath,” he said slowly. “I cannot believe that you were still there for me to find. Even the dullards of Limpley Stoke must have seen how exquisite you are.”

She grinned at that—who wouldn’t? She put her plate down for a moment and undid his neck cloth and put it neatly to the side. Then she pulled out his shirt at the neck and plopped a spoonful of trifle down his neck before he had time to think.

It was a terrible shock to find that his retaliation was ruthless: cold fingers, holding a bit of sugary cold sweetness, cupped over the warmest place in her body. And that induced a dizzy, light-headed feeling . . . enough to make one lie on the floor.

It wasn’t until they traveled back to London and started to settle into Darby’s town house, that she realized what marriage was really like. It was about peeling back all the layers of clothing that covered one, and she didn’t mean only those made of cloth either. All her privacies were breached. She was truly naked to Darby.

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Her husband liked to stride around the matrimonial bedchamber unclothed—who would have guessed? He, who was generally properly dressed in silk and lace, felt most happy without a stitch on his body. But he didn’t merely wish to be undressed. He wished her to join him in that naked state. And the whole business of the sheath stripped off another layer of privacy. They discussed it, for one thing. She never would have imagined such a thing. When they first arrived in London, Henrietta would retreat upstairs after dinner, discreetly soak her sheath in vinegar and insert it. She didn’t like it. But she didn’t hate it either. In a way, she was fond of the sheath since it gave her the chance to engage in such wonderful intimacies with Darby. But then one night he delayed her at dinner and she ended up on his lap. She was wearing an evening dress and no corset, as her husband had taken to sabotaging undergarments of which he did not approve. It was a bit odd for Henrietta to find that she was wax in the hands of her husband. He only had to look at her with those laughing brown eyes of his and she—she, who was running a household and a school by the time she was seventeen years old—would give in to whatever outrageous demand he levied.

At any rate, he was whispering wicked suggestions about drawing up her gown and sitting on his lap, and she was almost befuddled enough by his hands to do it, when she suddenly remembered and pushed his hand away.

“No, Simon! My sheath!”

He swept her up in his arms and carried her upstairs. Then he laid her on the bed and said, “Let me do it tonight.”

She blinked at him, truly shocked. “Absolutely not!”

“Why not?” he coaxed. His fingers were everywhere, her gown at her waist. “I’m quite certain that I can place it correctly.”

Given where his fingers were, he probably could. She gave a little involuntary moan. “No,” she breathed. “It’s private.”

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“Your body is my body,” he said, leaning over her. His lashes were so long they cast shadows on his cheek. “We’re married, Henrietta, remember? Weren’t you listening to the marriage service? I have to admit that I found it rather riveting, especially the bit where the vicar talked about men loving their wives as their own bodies.”

She stared up at him, dumbstuck.

Darby had a little smile, wry and expectant at once. “Hethat loveth his wife loveth himself: for no man ever yet hatedhis own flesh, but nourisheth and cherisheth it.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He stood up and went over to the little table where her new lady’s maid had left a little glass of vinegar, and her sheath.

“I don’t think this is what is meant by the marriage vows!”

she managed. “Is there to be no privacy?”