Chapter Three
Diantha swallowed hard and took in his appearance.
He shifted on his feet, which she noticed were bare, no doubt the reason she had not heard him enter.
Looking up toward his face, the triangle of bare flesh below the hollow of his throat riveted her gaze.
She gulped as a wave of warmth suffused her body.
His hair had loosened from the brushed back style he had worn it in.
For the first time she noticed it had a distinct wave.
To her relief, he did not wear a nightcap.
Unable to meet his eyes, she stared at his feet again. Loose trousers of pale silk peeped from under his long robe of claret-colored brocade. Unable to bear the silence any longer, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“You’re not wearing a nightshirt.” Horrified at her own indelicacy, she tried to stutter an apology.
“I prefer pyjamas.” He did not sound angry, and when she dared raise her eyes to his face, he regarded her with a kinder expression than she had ever seen before. “I trust you don’t mind?”
She shook her head, afraid she could not speak without squeaking. He indicated a small chair at his side, one of a pair set in front of a curtained window. “May I?”
She nodded. He seated himself and invited her to join him with a wave of his hand. Gingerly taking a place opposite him, she rubbed her arms restlessly. When he cleared his throat, she jumped.
“You’re quite nervous aren’t you?” She shrugged. He could hardly think otherwise.
“I was thinking that perhaps it would be best to delay, er, physical intimacy until we both get to know one another better.”
“Oh, thank God!” She winced again; her poise had completely abandoned her this evening. “Unless your lordship would prefer not to.” Mama had made clear that she must accommodate her husband’s wishes, at least as long as they did not involve disgracing the Quinn name.
A wide grin burst across his face. “With that response, I’d be a brute to insist on visiting your bed.”
“Are you quite sure, my lord?” She felt her face heating with acute embarrassment.
Staring down at the patterned rug, she forged ahead.
“My married friends lead one to believe that men are excessively fond of engaging in conjugal duties. I would hate to be remiss. Of course, you may prefer not to engage in them with me,” she finished in a suffocated voice.
“Diantha, look at me.” He leaned forward and enveloped one of her hands in both of his large ones. “I am quite fond of—of conjugal duties, as you call them.” For some reason, a chuckle escaped him. “And you are quite a pretty girl, especially in that rig you wore here.”
He sobered. “But neither of us will gain any satisfaction if you’re frightened or uncomfortable. So we’ll wait a few days.”
“Oh.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Does my satisfaction matter too, then?”
“It does to me.” She found herself blushing under his scrutiny. When he squeezed her hands and released them, she automatically rubbed them together, feeling inexplicably chilly. He stood. “Shall I ring for a maid before I go?”
“Please, no! They act like they know something I don’t. Which is probably true.” Glumly, she arose and faced him.
A quizzical smile played about his mouth. “We could remedy some of your ignorance tonight.” Her eyes opened wide as he slid his hands around her waist to pull her closer. Before she could protest, he brushed his lips over hers.
She gasped as a shiver ran down her spine. Taking advantage of it, he pressed his mouth gently but firmly onto hers. Vague awareness of the textured embroidery of his robe entered her mind as her fingers kneaded his shoulders. Heavy muscles shifted under her hands as he pulled her closer.
As he deepened the kiss, her focus centered on the sensation of their mouths slanting over each other. When his tongue slid between her lips, she opened farther, seeking to explore his with her own. He gave a muffled sigh that aroused a warm tingle in her nipples and between her legs.
Then she was free. Fearing her legs would give way, she clung to his arms and stared up at him. Finding her voice, she asked, “Did I do something wrong?”
“No!” He seemed as shaken as she. His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, and his eyes had darkened to green. He stared down at her with frightening intensity. “You’ve never kissed before?”
She shook her head, not understanding why he asked. He did not enlighten her. Instead he gently stroked her cheek. “You did nothing wrong at all, sweetheart. But I must say good night now if you want those few days.”
With another caress, he let her go and walked to the door.
“Kieran?”
He turned back to her eagerly.
“Thank you for giving me time.” A wry laugh escaped him as though someone had played a joke on him.
“Only a few days, remember.” His eyes darkened again as they swept over her body. “I’m holding you to that.”
He left then. After standing in place for a long minute, Diantha crawled back between the sheets. Compared to her husband’s warm body, the sheets felt cold. As she twisted and turned to get comfortable, Diantha realized that she regretted being in bed alone.
Curling onto his side between lavender-scented sheets, Kieran sleepily reflected on the kiss he had just experienced.
Intending only to discover her reaction to basic physical contact, both their reactions surprised him.
When she had addressed him by name, he had hoped for an invitation to her bed after all.
He shifted restlessly. His sense of the ridiculous appreciated the irony of being thoroughly aroused by a virgin, but that did not ease the ache between his thighs.
Part of his response had to stem from months of near-abstinence. His engagement had necessitated only a few discreet meetings with tactful professionals.
Most men did not take such care to keep their liaisons hidden, of course, but he had no wish to make himself the subject of gossip. Besides, to flaunt a mistress during one’s engagement was the height of bad manners.
Before drifting off to sleep, he congratulated himself on such foresight. His bride demonstrated more passion than he had dreamed possible in a sheltered girl. He looked forward to introducing her to more sensual delights, ones that would provide both of them with a great deal of pleasure.
Kieran put his plan into action the next morning. An habitual early riser, he enjoyed a cup of tea and read the New York Times front to back before hearing anything through the door to her room.
He tapped lightly before entering, to see his bride grab her robe and hold it in front of her with one hand. The other brushed her loose hair out of her eyes. “Your lordship! What are you doing in here?”
He stifled a sigh. These nervous starts of hers made him jumpy. Hiding his exasperation, he gave her the smile that usually coaxed women into doing as he wished. “I thought we might enjoy breakfast together.”
An expression of confusion crossed her face. “I expected we would, sir. Breakfast will be laid out downstairs by the time we’re dressed.”
“I meant up here. And I thought we were on a Christian name basis after last night.” He added a mournful note to the last sentence. She rewarded him by coloring a little.
“If you would prefer it, sir—Kieran.” Her shy manner disappeared the next moment. “But Mama and Papa do not allow trays in our rooms. We must go down to breakfast.”
“My dear girl, I have no intention of permitting your parents to run my life.” He strode to the bellpull and tugged. A maid scurried in a few minutes later. When he ordered two breakfast trays brought up, she gulped and nodded weakly before hurrying back out.
“That should take care of that.” He turned to his wife.
“I’ve only been allowed to eat in my room when I was too ill to stand. Mama will be furious.” Having shrugged into her robe, she observed him with a mixture of glee and apprehension.
“Really? My aunt does so on a regular basis, and, of course, my mother seldom comes down to the table.” He prowled the room, taking in the overdone decoration.
“Perhaps because they are married ladies.” She shrugged, absently rearranging a bouquet of lilacs. “Mama does so occasionally, as well.”
“You are married yourself, now.” He chuckled at her dazzled expression as he paused near the dressing table.
“So I am!” The morning sun picked out a few caramel highlights in her brown hair as she faced him.
The table held a display of silver-backed brushes arranged on top of an embroidered cover. Moiré fell in stiff folds below the protective cloth. He traced the scrolled monogram on the back of the brushes and slanted a glance at the mirror above the cloth.
Its reflection showed his bride eyeing him nervously. He gestured to the chair at his side. “Would you like me to brush your hair?” She looked as shocked as if he had suggested they swing from the chandelier overhead. “Come, surely I can’t be that frightening!”
She shook her head and bit her lip, gazing at the chair longingly. “You’re not.”
Triumph at so simple a beginning to his wife’s seduction pulsed through him. He picked up a brush.
The next instant, she rushed toward him as if he handled a poisonous snake.
“Please, sir—Kieran—put that down! Mama intensely dislikes having her things touched.” She twitched it out of his hands and replaced it with a care all out of proportion to the act.
“I’ll be sure and let the housekeeper know.
” The soft murmur barely reached his ears.
“None of the maids will get in trouble that way.”
She followed the words with a deep breath which did wonderful things to the lace-covered breasts visible under her wrapper. As she addressed him, he wrested his attention away from them to focus on her face.
“I’ll get my own things.”
He nodded, still bemused by her outburst. She moved across the room and bent over a leather-covered case. Turning back, she held out a brush and comb of similar quality on the table, but simpler in design.