28. Chapter 28
Sterling awoke some time later, naked, his body wrapped around the perfectly delectable creature that was his wife. His wife.
He did not move so much as a muscle, glancing at her sleeping form. Her tousled blond hair shone, catching the last of the sun’s winter rays slanting in through his bedchamber window.
With care, he extracted his arm from beneath her head to rise from the bed. She mumbled something incoherent and tried to snuggle back into his warmth. He hated to deny her, but with nightfall, the dropping temperatures would soon make this chamber an icebox if he did not address the grate.
With that in mind, he padded across the room to deal with the dying embers. Next, he’d call for supper for the two of them.
And then…he smiled and crouched to pile some kindling on the coals then coaxed it to blaze.
And then. Already arousal stirred his loins. But no. It would be too soon. She would be sore. He could wait. Perhaps they could do…other things.
In the grate, the fire began to crackle, and he added a log.
Behind him, the sound of sheets shifting told him his sleeping bride had awoken.
He glanced over his shoulder at her as he straightened.
She had pulled the bedcovers up to her chin. Her long, lustrous hair spilled over her shoulders like a mermaid’s. She stared at him with eyes the color of the sea.
They went wide when he shifted to face her.
She was not accustomed to viewing a fully aroused, naked man. “I’ll…er…slip into my robe.”
She nodded—but did not take her gaze off him. His wife was a curious one, and delightfully uninhibited for one so innocent.
“What now?” she asked.
Facing the open wardrobe, he grabbed his robe and donned it, cinching the tie at his waist. “Now I’ll send for supper for us.”
“And then?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Am I supposed to return to my chamber?”
He studied her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I…er…haven’t anything to put on. And besides that, this is your chamber. I wasn’t sure if you expected me to…to…That is, my parents maintain separate bedchambers on separate floors. I assume yours do as well?”
He held up one hand, staying her, buying himself a moment to think.
He should not be surprised by this. Hell, she’d come to him with no real notion of what took place in the marital bed. That alone bothered him. Wasn’t explaining such matters a mother’s requisite job?
And now this.
“My parents’ chambers adjoin,” he said. “As far as who sleeps where on a given night, neither of them has ever shared that information with me.”
“I see.” Nibbling on her lush lower lip, she did not appear to see at all. She appeared uncertain.
“I’ll see to that supper—and give you a moment to address any personal needs. When I return, we’ll talk.”
She nodded.
Feeling decidedly uncharitable toward Annabelle’s mother, he moved to the antechamber and shut the adjoining door behind him.
Stalking to the bell pull, he gave it a swift yank.
Perhaps he was judging Lady Montrose too harshly.
Sharing information with one’s innocent daughter regarding the sexual act might be something she’d planned to do after an engagement was announced, which normally allowed for a period of months before the wedding during which discussions about expectations for a young woman might occur.
He could grant her the benefit of the doubt.
As for Annabelle’s father and brother—for them he could find no leniency.
What in bloody hell had they been thinking, considering betrothing Annabelle to the likes of Crowley and Whittinger?
The very notion of either man laying a finger on his wife caused the blood in his veins to boil. They were lechers, both.
Noblemen, yes. From old families, sure.
But neither boasted any particular political sway which Montrose might find useful.
They did have significant wealth and their fingers in several consortia.
Was that the appeal? Perhaps Gaston or Lord Montrose sought entrée into one of their investment circles, and Annabelle was to serve as payment.
No matter the reason, it struck Sterling that there was a measure of cruelty to the suggestion she marry a man of their ilk that sickened him—and filled him with remorse bordering on shame.
Far from being the spoiled debutante he’d labeled her, from what he could gather, Annabelle had not been cared for in the least.
Minutes later, he reentered his bed chamber pushing a rolling cart bearing a plate of cold collation and a carafe of wine that had arrived so promptly upon his request, he concluded the staff had been hovering, awaiting his call.
He was glad to see the large milk chocolate pudding he’d requested had not been forgotten.
In his absence, Annabelle had obviously helped herself to his brush. She’d tamed her hair and braided her long tresses into one thick plait.
She’d also availed herself of the heavy coverlet, stripping it off the bed and wrapping it around herself like a mantle of sorts.
Perched on one of the armchairs near the hearth, wearing the bold brocade colors, her braid resting over one of her shoulders in a glistening gold rope, she looked like a queen awaiting her serf.
He situated the cart between the armchairs where she could easily reach it, then dropped onto the chair opposite hers.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“Not too sore?”
A fierce blush covered her cheeks. “A bit. Are you?”
He barked out a laugh. “No. Thank you.” She really knew nothing of the act. And yet…she’d stolen his ability to think, to breathe, like the most experienced courtesan.
He poured two glasses of wine and handed her one. “Hungry?”
She cocked her head, then affected a look of surprise. “I am.”
“Good. Feel free to start with the chocolate milk pudding.” He lifted the lid covering the bowl and handed her a spoon. “I like watching you enjoy your dessert.”
A slow smile curved her lips. She scooped up one large dollop of dense chocolate and slid it into her mouth. A low moan sounded in her throat.
Sterling’s erection, which had subsided while he awaited their dinner in the antechamber, returned with a vengeance. He shifted in his chair. “Now then, as to our sleeping arrangements.”
Dipping the spoon back into the bowl, she slanted him a watchful look.
“Once we are back in London, we will move into my family home on Hanover Square. My parents reside in Worley Park, so it will normally be the two of us, plus Caroline, until she weds.”
A shuttered look crossed her face, and he wished he had not mentioned his sister and a future marriage. The last thing he wanted to do was remind her of Gaston at the present moment.
He went on. “We shall have adjoining bedchambers—on the same floor. I do not wish for my wife to inhabit a chamber on another floor. Do you have a problem with this arrangement?”
She shook her head, and he was absurdly relieved. “Good. Additionally, I do not know how other couples manage their affairs, per se, but I see no reason for a husband and wife to sleep in separate chambers. I…er…assume you will spend the majority of your nights with me.”
She hesitated as if absorbing this new information. Then she nodded and drew her spoon through her chocolate with intense concentration. “As you wish.”
Her reply vexed him. “And what do you wish?” he asked, feeling instantly foolish for posing the inane question.
“I…I rather enjoyed sleeping with my head on your arm,” she admitted, not looking his way.
A sudden ache in his chest, for lack of a better description, made it hard to swallow.
Annabelle scooped up another spoonful of chocolate.
He looked to the plate of cold collation rather than continuing to watch her eat. His cock, already screaming for his attention—or, more aptly, hers—would only grow more insistent the longer he observed her innate sensuality.
He selected a piece of hard cheese and took a small bite, then, helpless to resist the urge, slid her a look only to see the pink tip of tongue dart out to lick at a glob of chocolate on the underside of the spoon.
Torture. He glanced away. “While we remain on the island, you shall maintain your bedchamber for privacy, but your nights will be spent here. Tomorrow Babette can see your bed clothes and such are moved. And find you a morning gown.”
When she made no reply, he turned to find her blue gaze locked on him.
“Is that agreeable to you, Annabelle? I…er…rather liked having your head on my arm, as well.”
A tremulous smile curved her mouth as if what he’d said both shocked and delighted her.
She was so damned sweet. So different from what he’d first believed.
He’d labeled her conceited in the way of a woman who estimates her own value as far exceeding what anyone else might claim.
In Annabelle’s case, however, she seemed only aware of her outward beauty, while not at all cognizant of her many other appealing traits.
This clever, curious, kind, compassionate, and courageous woman had no notion how utterly exceptional she was.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, her expression growing anxious. “Have I got chocolate on my nose?”
He was frowning. He cleared his expression and unfolded from the chair. “Indeed.”
“Oh, dear.” She reached for the serviette.
“No need,” he murmured, waving her hand aside. “I’ll get it.” Hauling her to her feet, he bent his head and brushed her lips with his.
“Are you sure you got all of it?” she whispered, lifting her face in invitation.
“Hm. I think not.” He slanted his lips over hers. Once. Twice, lingering on the second pass to savor the chocolatey sweetness on her breath, the lush, inviting plumpness of her lips.
Sighing, he straightened, intending to return to his seat.
Annabelle gave a small cry and twined her arms around his neck. Her makeshift gown tumbled to her feet, and his breath froze in his lungs.