Chapter 4 #4
She swore there was some manner of undercurrent in his words, a solemn warning, but Verity decided it was misplaced. “You may be as selfish as you want. I am yours now.”
“I could be even more selfish and keep you here in this tub for the rest of the day,” he growled against her ear.
She shivered as a stab of pure need went through her at his words. “I fear the water would eventually turn cold. Besides, my fingers are already wrinkling because we’ve been in here for so long.” Verity held up a free hand for his inspection. “See?”
He kissed her thumb. “What I see is beauty.” He moved to her forefinger, kissing her there as well. “Unparalleled.” He kissed the tip of her middle finger. “Beauty.” Then her finger that bore his ring. “Mine.” He moved on to her pinkie, lavishing a final kiss upon the fleshy pad.
“You are making me long for things that I do not think can be had in a tub,” she warned him, warmth igniting deep in her core from the naked adoration in his gaze, the brush of his lips against her skin.
“Would Her Grace care to elaborate on what those things are?” he asked wickedly. “I can assure you that there are a great many things to be had in a tub, all of them quite delightful.”
“I don’t believe I ever read about a lord and lady having marital congress in a bathtub,” she admitted, intrigued and shocked in equal measure.
“I doubt very much that marital congress was involved in any of the sordid stories you’ve been thieving from Riverdale’s private collection,” King said with a chuckle. “I am reasonably certain what occurred within those pages was raw, unadulterated fucking.”
Was it wrong of her to like the way it sounded when he uttered such shockingly coarse language? If it was, then Verity didn’t want to be right.
“I suppose it was,” she admitted, feeling quite wicked. “Do you think it was badly done of me to take them without his knowledge? He never would have approved. And dear Maman would have been apoplectic had she known.”
“I think it was very deliciously wicked of you, you astounding, wonderful woman. The thought of you sitting alone in your bed at night and reading those filthy stories is enough to make me go mad with wanting you.” He kissed her again, a swift brush of his lips over hers.
“Only tell me what you would like, and I’ll fill a library for you. Hell, I’ll fill ten libraries.”
He was serious, Verity realized.
“I do like to read ordinary texts as well,” she told him with a soft smile, brushing a damp lock from his forehead. “Boring and tedious and sad ones. And poetry.”
“Poetry is boring and tedious and sad by definition, is it not?” he asked with a teasing air.
“Of course it isn’t. You know I love it when you recite poems to me. I’ve been thinking of that poem by Coleridge again recently, the one you recited to me once as we…”
Her words trailed off as she struggled to recall where they had been and what they had been doing. They had been together, she knew. Holding hands. But the rest of the memory remained foggy, as if she witnessed it through the dim mists of time.
“All thoughts, all passions, all delights,” she recalled, “Whatever stirs this mortal frame…”
She paused, waiting for King to finish.
But he didn’t. Instead, he remained quiet, his countenance shifting, going from open and easy to closed and reserved, almost as if a door had been slammed shut.
“All are but ministers of Love,” she completed in the absence of his voice, “and feed his sacred flame. I do think we were at Riverdale Abbey when you first told it to me, but I must admit that my memory remains disappointingly hazy in that regard. I do hope to one day remember everything.”
“Memory can sometimes be a curse,” he said solemnly. “Perhaps it is not entirely a tragedy that you cannot recollect every detail of the past.”
Verity’s heart lurched. There was something about his words, his tone, and his expression that stirred disquiet in her chest. It was as if her memory were a tapestry, and a loose thread had been plucked, leaving it partially unraveled.
Would she ever have the whole picture again?
She couldn’t fail to notice the hint of warning in King’s voice.
If she were to regain her memory, would she want it?
“Forgive me,” she said, forcing a smile. “I didn’t mean to ruin the mood of the moment by lingering upon that which cannot be changed. I am grateful to have escaped the fire with my life. Memories can be remade.”
“Yes, they can, angel.” He kissed her again, but it was fleeting, and she couldn’t shake the feeling she had somehow dashed his ardor away, even if that hadn’t been her intention.
“The bath water grows tepid. Perhaps we ought to finish here so that we can dress for the day, else we shall never leave for Wingfield Hall.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “I am eager to begin our honeymoon.”
And the rest of their life as husband and wife. The future was before them, promising and bright. She needed to keep her mind fixed upon that and to forget about the places where her memory lacked. Together, they could fill it with new memories.
How very fortunate she was to be married at last to the man she loved.