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Not the man she’d wanted? You couldn’t have told her that while Brendan’s lips had been trailing shivers of sensation over her skin. While he’d stroked her body to a fever’s pitch and she’d responded with a raw frenzied hunger.
Shame settled like lead in the pit of her stomach. Surely she should have felt some remorse at so quickly shedding one man to tumble into marriage with another. Surely she ought to be crimson with guilt. It was only proper. To be expected.
So why then did becoming Mrs. Brendan Douglas, awkward as it was, seem so much better than worse?
Elisabeth was disappointed. Brendan could tell as soon as they emerged from the church this morning into a steady downpour, the streets gray, the wedding party grayer. She’d put on a brave, cheerful face throughout the improvised wedding breakfast, had sat through Rogan’s litany of “horrible marriages hath I known” without batting an eye before retiring to her room to refresh herself. Code for escape before she drowned the harper in his tea.
Brendan had let her go without comment. It was best to give her time to gather her thoughts. After all, she must be imagining her lost life with Shaw the sheepdog. Probably wishing Brendan to the devil. Screaming her fury into her pillow.
It wasn’t until late afternoon when he finally couldn’t stand the suspense anymore and went in search of her. She wanted to brood? He’d written the book on brooding. Gordon Shaw was not worth wasting good brooding time over.
He found her in the study, head buried in an accounts ledger, receipts and bills of lading spread out around her, twirling her pen between ink-stained fingers. And not looking in the least bit gloomy or pensive or sad. Rather, she held a distracted, harried eagerness like a child in a confectioner’s shop.
“Have they put you to work earning your keep?” he asked.
She looked up with a smile that had every nerve ending in his body jumping to attention. “Madame Arana asked if I could sort through the household finances. I’ve spent the last hour just organizing. A pile for incoming. A pile for outgoing. And a pile for miscellaneous.” She grimaced, lurching to contain the largest of the three stacks before it slid onto the floor. “Helena may be able to wield sword and magic with cutthroat precision, but she’s a mess at finances.”
“You can finish later. I brought you a gift,” he announced.
She cocked her head up at him, her eyes almost black in this light, brows scrunched, lip caught between her teeth. The gesture caused his chest to tighten with an unexpected ache. “I can’t leave it now. I’ve only just started.”
“Do you want to spend the afternoon locked in here with your abacus?”
Hesitation as she studied the muddled accounts in front of her. “Not particularly, but they have been very kind and it seems only right to try and assist if I can.”
“Come with me now, and I promise later you can file and categorize to your heart’s content.”
She tossed her head, eyes dancing with mischief. “Another promise you don’t intend to keep? The number grows exponentially.”
“Quit your scolding, woman, and come along.” Chaining his runaway libido, he drew her up beside him.
“Where are we going?”
“The gifts are in my room.”
A brow arched in devious excitement, a tiny flame alight in the dark of those deep brown eyes. “Your room? And calling it a gift now? That’s hubris for you.”
He shot her a look. “I’d no idea what a filthy little mind my wife would have.” Let his gaze wander. “I like it.”
She laughed. “So what is this gift?”
“You see . . . well, I had told you . . . oh, just come see for yourself.” He grabbed her hand, pulling her after him. “You women talk everything to death.”
She allowed herself to be led up to his bedchamber, hanging back for the slightest of moments at his door.
“Come along,” he said. “You can hardly stand on maidenly protests now. A bit like guarding the barn after the horse has been ridden.” He quirked her a scoundrel’s grin.
“Brendan!” she exclaimed in mock horror. Another flash of something unreadable in her eyes.
He hadn’t expected his eager anticipation upon presentation of his purchases. But as he stepped away from his bed, revealing the pile he’d had the maid bring up, he couldn’t help the impatient smile or the sweep of nervous excitement. Would she like them? Would she throw her arms around his neck? Would they make her happy? Would he have done something right where she was concerned? He shouldn’t care. Couldn’t care. But he did. More than he’d admit.
“Remember when I promised to shower you with silks?”
She blinked as if she didn’t understand what she was seeing.
“You didn’t think I’d do it, did you? Tell the truth.” He drew a bolt of fabric from the pile. “It’s”—he glanced at it with a frown—“well, this isn’t silk. It’s muslin. But there’s silk among the lot.”
She stepped forward. Held out a tentative hand to touch the cloth.
