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Darby looked at his new wife and wondered how the devil he should proceed. Virgins did not come into his area of expertise, given that Molly, the third housemaid, resisted his blandishments. Henrietta was sitting as upright as a marionette. Her back was perfectly aligned with the straightbacked chair on which she sat, her head poised atop her body like the marble ball at the bottom of a staircase. He should have guessed that her stepmother would feed her a load of tripe about the wedding night. Lady Holkham had made her distaste for the act clear enough. If he followed his own inclination and simply pulled off her nightgown and tossed Henrietta on the bed, she would freeze. But then, Henrietta was no Lady Holkham. She desired him. He fancied that her eyes lingered on him, even now. He stood up. “I dismissed my valet for the night,” he said, trying for a careless tone. He hadn’t exactly expected her to leap to her feet and offer to help him, but she didn’t even make a comment. Instead she just watched him suspiciously, as if he were likely to rip off his clothes.

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“Care to begin your wifely duties?” he asked. Despite her obvious distress, he couldn’t help thinking this was great fun. Probably the best fun he’d had since a certain Madame Bellini decided to show him all seven pleasures of Aphrodite. Henrietta was such a bundle of contradictions: her wild lioness hair (now tidily braided in an arrangement that he intended to undo as quickly as possible), her delicate little face, the steely resolve in her eyes and chin. The passion that lay under that rigid little body of hers. She was presumably not wearing a corset, but she was just as stiff as if she had one on beneath her night rail.

A small fraction of his soul felt sorry for her, but the truth was that she desired him. He had felt that desire coursing through her body. She simply didn’t understand her body yet. Or his body, for that matter.

“Wifely duties,” she said slowly. “I understand.”

She stood up and took off her dressing gown. But before Darby did more than glimpse an enticingly unsteady swing of breast through her night rail, she turned, climbed into bed and pulled up the sheet. For a moment, he just stood in the center of the room, dumbfounded.

Then he strode over to the bed and looked at his wife. She was rather white, lying as if ready for a coffin fitting, sheets up to her chin.

“Henrietta,” he asked, “what are you doing?”

Her eyes opened. “I’m ready to perform my duty, Darby. You may proceed.” She closed her eyes again.

“Ready,” he said, savoring it. This was too delicious. She looked like an early Roman martyr. He reached out a hand and let his finger trail down her white neck, down to the edge of the sheet. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, nudging her over a bit. And spread his hand and curled it around her breast. It was all he could do to simply leave his hand there. But he did. Waited for her, willing himself not to move, Fool for Love

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pretending not to notice that he was holding one of the most perfectly shaped breasts he had ever held. She had backbone, his Henrietta. It seemed to take forever for her to open her eyes again and look at him. He swallowed his grin at her bewildered look. Still, to reward her, he let his thumb wander over her nipple. And again. And again, until the pulse in Henrietta’s throat quickened, and he was humming with the urge to kiss her. Then he stopped.

She blinked. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He was betting that Henrietta would be unable to resist commentary, given that devastating honesty of hers.

She had to steady her voice first, which pleased him immeasurably. “Is there something I should be doing?” she inquired.

“I was under the impression that you would simply . . . ah . . . proceed.”

“You need to help.”

She frowned. Clearly she thought that having to provide aid in something so distasteful to herself was not quite fair.

“What would you like me to do?” she said resignedly.

“Help me undress,” he said, with just the right touch of pathos. She cast him a suspicious look, but she did climb out of bed. Given the way she thrashed about under the sheets for a moment, he’d guess that her stepmother had instructed her to pull her nightgown to her waist. He’d bet the woman had also told her that a husband would leap on her like a wild beast.

“You see, Henrietta,” he said in a discursive tone, “men can’t perform their marital duties without some participation.”

She blinked. “Why not?” she asked, bending her lovely head over his cuff links. “I thought this sort of thing was—

was—” She stopped and amended the statement. “Men always find pleasure in this activity.” Being Henrietta, she didn’t bother to hide the hint of scorn in her tone. 278 Eloisa

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“Not every man,” he said. “Why would I take pleasure in giving my new wife pain?” The look on her face encouraged him. “Do you think I wish to cause you embarrassment? Or discomfort?”

“No, of course not!” she said, clearly relieved. “I knew that Millicent must be wrong about your intentions, Darby.”

A huge glimmering smile spread across her face. “I tried to tell her that you weren’t as—” she paused, uncertain of the word—“as debauched as she seemed to think.”

“Won’t you call me Simon?” he asked, ignoring the growling beast in his loins that suggested he fulfill her stepmother’s directions. “I have asked you before.”

She turned a bit pink. “I’m sorry. My stepmother addressed my father by his title until his death. Such informality seems unnatural.”

“You can call me Darby in public, if you wish,” he said.