Chapter 2 #2
“That is most considerate of you,” she murmured, taking a sip of her replenished wine.
“It is the least I can do after being remiss in my recollections,” he countered. “I consider myself an abject failure for approving the Saumon à la Mornay. I shall endeavor to offer penance for my husbandly sins.”
Verity smiled. Once again, he had injected levity into his words.
He was being gallant yet lighthearted, his undeniable charm melting any lingering hesitation over her fragmented memory.
His ability to smooth over ruffled feathers and make the best of every situation was one of the qualities she admired about him most. It hadn’t worked in the case of his friendship with her brother, but she still held out hope that Everett would relent in time.
She didn’t like being the cause of the rift between them, particularly when the other members of their circle had been quick to offer their felicitations on Verity and King’s nuptials.
King remained as close as ever to Brandon, Whitby, Camden, and Richford.
It was only her brother who insisted upon being stubborn.
The next course was laid before them, fowl in a decadent sauce with truffles. She forked up a bite and couldn’t contain her enthusiasm.
King grinned in her direction. “I trust this course meets your approval. Your delight is almost kittenish.”
She cast an arch look in her new husband’s direction. “I’m no kitten.”
Blatant admiration shone in his expression, his eyes blazing with intensity. “Of that I am more than aware, angel. You’re more like a forceful lioness, prepared to take a bite out of anyone who should dare to defy you.”
She had a sudden recollection then of him making a flippant comment to her about biting.
“Come now, Lady Verity,” he coaxed her. “I don’t bite.”
She placed her hand on his proffered arm. “Very well.”
“Unless I’m asked to in very polite fashion,” he added, a note of wickedness in his voice.
As quickly as the memory came to her, it vanished.
She searched her mind for the rest of it, the beginning and the end, but met with failure.
She had the vaguest inclination that they had been in the alcove overlooking the ballroom at her brother’s town house.
But what had they been doing there? Was it her imagination, or had there been a hint of sadness in the air?
Had King given her his handkerchief then?
“Is something amiss?” Her husband’s voice reached her, jolting her from the murky mists of her mind.
She blinked. “Not at all. Why do you ask?”
“Your countenance went quite grim just now.” His gaze searched hers, seeking answers she didn’t have to give him.
Verity shook her head, wishing she weren’t plagued by odd bits and pieces of memory and reveries. “I thought I was remembering something, but I don’t think I was. Sometimes, it is difficult to discern what is real and what is merely my imagination or a dream I once had.”
“So, you have been remembering, then?” he asked, his voice cautious.
“Yes. No. I don’t think so.” She shook her head again, mostly because she was confused. “That is to say, I am not certain. Sometimes, it feels as if a memory is so near that I can reach out and touch it, and other times, everything feels as if it is as distant and far away as the moon.”
King’s brow furrowed. “Has the physician suggested such a thing is common in these circumstances?”
Sadness crept over her. “I fear that I am only one of two such cases he has seen.”
“Pray, forgive me for speaking of it. I didn’t wish to dampen our wedding dinner.”
How compassionate and caring he was. Verity knew King would make her an excellent husband.
She was so fortunate to have fallen in love with such a wonderful man.
She did not doubt that in time Everett would come to realize what she already knew—that the Duke of Kingham was a perfect match for her in all ways.
“Nothing could dampen today, my love, for I am the happiest I have ever been,” she reassured King, determined not to spoil the day with what she couldn’t change. “Now, let us enjoy the feast your chef has prepared.”
The hour was late when King finally made his way to his bedchamber for the evening.
There was good reason for his tardiness.
First, he had long been a creature of the night.
He preferred the darkness, the stillness, and the quiet to the bustle and brightness of the day.
But there was another, far more sinister reason beyond that.
He had a pressing problem.
It seemed as if Verity was beginning to experience memories that had once been trapped and unreachable within her mind.
And if she continued to remember more, and if her memories became clearer, it was entirely possible she would remember her dead betrothed.
She would realize she was in love with Lord Leopold and not with King.
That everything they shared was a lie she’d told herself, a deception he had helped to encourage and sustain.
He had not thought she would recover her memories so soon, if ever.
The realization had kept him in his study long after their dinner had concluded, preventing him from going to her.
From seducing her and introducing her to pleasure as he had planned.
Instead, he had waited until he had been certain she was asleep, indulging in a recent concoction of his, a blend of absinthe and scotch.
As a result, he was filled with a pleasant lassitude as he ascended the stairs in search of his room.
Having a conscience was new for him. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
But conscience or no, he had already married Verity, and it was too late to change his mind and find some hidden shred of honor.
She was his wife now. There was no going back.
No undoing the knot that had been so thoroughly tied today.
He felt a deep and abiding sense of comfort at that as he breezed through the door to his room.
He didn’t want to think of why at the moment.
Perhaps not ever.
But his comfort died as he closed the door and his gaze traveled across the room, illuminated by the lowered gas lamps. Because there was a distinctly shaped mound beneath the counterpane across the room.
Verity was in his bed.
Asleep.
He took a moment to simply bask in the sight of her there, head on his pillow, her hair spilling outward in glossy chestnut curls that shone in the warm lamplight.
One bare arm was flung to her right, the other beneath her somehow.
She was lying on her stomach, and unless he was mistaken, given the tempting expanse of creamy skin presently on display, she was naked beneath the coverlets.
Naked.
Verity.
In. His. Bed.
The sluggish daze caused by the absinthe and scotch vanished.
King’s cock went instantly rigid. Pity that after all this time, he still had no control over the old chap.
He had no intention of consummating their marriage tonight—not completely anyway.
He wasn’t meant to have a naked bride in his bed or to be sporting a cockstand.
No, he was going to have to get her out of here whilst leaving her innocence intact. He looked about for a set of blankets in which to wrap her so he could safely carry her back to her own room and deposit her in her bed for the night, where she belonged.
There were none.
Blast. Did she have a wrapper? He strode around the bed, tamping down any interest his wayward body had in her, in search of a dressing gown. There was none.
Had she truly sauntered into his bedchamber naked, nary a stitch to cover her or provide for modesty? His blasted cock was rising to the occasion again. He ground his molars and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as he counted to fifty.
“Is something wrong?”
His eyes flew open, his body jolting with awareness at Verity’s husky voice, sweetened with sleep yet undeniably awake. Her eyes were on him, a lone tendril of hair draped across her cheek. Wrong. God, no. In this moment, everything was exquisitely right. But that was the problem.
“You’re in my bed,” he said stupidly.
She smiled, and her beauty was of such blinding magnitude that he had to look away, lest he do something foolish. “Where else am I meant to be?”
He cleared his throat, directing his gaze to the corner of the chamber, which was far safer. “In your own room.”
“But why? It is our wedding night.”
“Because this is not how it is meant to be done,” he gritted, trying to maintain control over himself, a battle which grew increasingly impossible by the second.
Unable to resist, he glanced back at her. An adorable expression of befuddlement crept over her lovely features.
“There is a different way?”
“Are you wearing anything beneath the blankets, angel?” he asked before he could help himself.
“No,” she said.
He bit back a groan.
He hadn’t been wrong. She was naked. Naked in his sheets. Naked where he slept. Her breasts full and free, her pretty pink nipples rubbing against the cotton, her legs…
Stop this manner of thinking at once, he commanded himself.
“It is common practice for husband and wife to keep separate rooms,” he explained patiently. “Accordingly, such matters as marital congress are ordinarily arranged.”
Hell. How frigid and proper he sounded. He didn’t think he had ever referred to fucking as marital congress in his life. But this was different. He was speaking to Verity, his wife. One didn’t debauch one’s wife on the wedding night.
Did one?
His cock suggested it was an excellent idea to do so.
His mind told his inconveniently randy prick to shut up.
“Arranged?” she repeated, sounding dismayed. “Do you mean to say in the manner of a society engagement?”
It sounded rather silly when she framed it thus.
“Not precisely.” He took a deep breath, willing his stirred anatomy back into submission. “But I do mean to say that you cannot stroll about naked and wait for me in my bed at your leisure.”
Her frown deepened. “I can’t?”