Chapter 7
Summoning her courage, Lillian knocked at the door joining her chamber to Alaric’s.
They had stayed in the drawing room by the fire, talking and kissing, until nearly midnight before withdrawing politely as they had done each night before to their respective chambers.
She’d withdrawn to her room where her lady’s maid had already had a bath awaiting her.
Now, she was finished with her evening ablutions, her efficient servant dismissed for the evening.
The time had come to consummate their marriage.
All he had to do was answer her knock.
But silence reigned on the other side of the door and despite their earlier declarations of love and all those decadent kisses, Lillian began to fret. Was he already asleep? Did he not wish for company this evening?
Even worse, would he think she was being terribly forward by approaching his chamber in such a bold fashion?
The only way to know for certain was to knock again, so she did. Louder this time.
“Come,” he called distantly.
And she heard something else, a faint splash of water.
Hesitantly, she tried the latch, opening the door.
She had not yet been inside his bedroom here at Wentworth Abbey, and for a moment, Lillian could do nothing but stare at the once-forbidden territory before her.
A skitter of nervousness skipped down her spine.
Seducing her husband was entirely new to her. She wasn’t certain she knew what to do.
Her eyes found him as she hovered at the threshold.
He was reclining in a large tub the servants must have brought up for him and bucketed full of steaming water from the kitchens as well.
Unlike the mansion in New York she was accustomed to, the estate was still lost in some distant memory of the past. There hadn’t been funds to install proper bathrooms with heated plumbing or electric lights before she had married Alaric, but they would soon begin restoring this estate, much like Fernross Castle.
“Lillian,” he greeted her warmly, as if he weren’t sitting naked in a tub of steaming water.
Her eyes affixed to his bare chest, which gleamed in the low light of the gas lamps. It was broad and muscled, his arms resting on the lip of the tub every bit as strong and well-delineated. She wetted her lips, which had suddenly gone dry, and forced her gaze back up to his.
“Alaric,” she mumbled. “You’re at your bath. I can come back later.”
Her face was heating and so was her skin.
Seeing him this way had reminded her of all the talks Mother had given Lillian before her wedding day.
Three separate speeches, issued to varying degrees of mortification for Lillian.
Mother had made what happens between a husband and wife sound like a dreaded chore.
You must hold still and think of something lovely, Lillian, she had urged me. Let your husband do as he wishes. It will be over soon enough, and then you go to sleep.
However, sleeping was the last thing she was thinking about as she took in the glistening, half-naked perfection of the man she had married.
“Don’t go,” he said, staying her when she was poised to flee. “I’ve finished bathing. Unless you’d care to join me?”
Unless she would care to…
Her eyes felt as if they may pop from her head as she stared at him, wondering if he had gone mad. “I’m wearing my night rail and dressing gown.”
“You can remove them,” he offered as calmly as if he had just commented upon a cloud in the sky instead of urging her to take off every stitch of clothing on her back.
And get into the bath with him.
Naked.
“I…I am fine as I am,” she managed to stammer a bit breathlessly.
“Pity,” he murmured, holding her stare.
Alaric was flirting with her. And he was also naked.
Naked, like he wanted her to be. Lillian’s brain went numb, and she couldn’t think of a single, coherent response. Her heart was pounding faster, and she felt an unfurling sensation inside her, a slow and steady ache she couldn’t explain.
She had told herself she was well prepared for whatever the consummation of their marriage entailed. That, despite her mother’s somewhat ominous warnings, she might find the act pleasant. She and Alaric were in love, after all. His kisses left her feeling flushed and yearning.
But when she had knocked at his door, she’d thought her husband would be…she didn’t know…dressed. She’d thought he would be handsome Alaric, properly clothed in a dressing gown. Not bare-chested, charming, flirtatious, impossibly gorgeous, and inviting her to join him in his bath.
“I-I really should leave you to finish your bath,” she spluttered. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You could never intrude, my love,” he told her softly, his dark eyes holding hers captive. “You’re my wife.”
There was something in his voice when he said those last two words that made her knees threaten to give in. Molten, liquid heat pooled between her thighs.
Before she could respond, he stood. No, that was not entirely accurate.
He didn’t merely stand. He rose from the tub like a god presiding over Mount Olympus.
She was helpless to do anything but stare as water rushed in loving rivulets down his powerful body.
He was a work of art. More beautiful than any marble sculpture.
His musculature was on full display, from his taut abdomen to his strong arms.
Someone made a high-pitched sound that likely resembled a dying mouse, and to her everlasting shame, Lillian realized it was her.
She ought to look away. Give him some privacy.
But Lillian couldn’t.
And when her gaze dipped lower, she was equally spellbound and shocked. Because a certain part of him was far larger than she had imagined, thick and long and rising stiffly toward her.
Oh my heavens.
How would what was meant to happen between them ever work? He was far too huge, surely.
Alaric said something, but she could scarcely hear him above the rushing in her ears.
“I beg your pardon?” she managed politely, as if she were not presently staring at his manhood, when, in fact, she was indeed gaping at his most secret place.
“I was wondering if you would mind handing me my towel,” Alaric said, a smile in his voice.
Because he could plainly see her staring. Dear God. She snapped her gaze to his face and shook her head, clearing the fog that had settled in her mind.
“Of course.”
Lillian spied a towel folded on a low stool near the tub and forced herself across the room to fetch it for him.
The aroma of his bath rose, musky and pleasant.
She wondered if his bare skin would be similarly scented, and her heart pumped faster.
When she handed him the towel, their fingers brushed.
She averted her gaze, sure her face was on fire.
“Thank you.”
His voice was husky and low.
It was not just her face that was aflame. So was the rest of her. She had believed herself the bold one in knocking at his door, but Alaric was steadily proving her wrong. She didn’t feel bold at all. She felt overwhelmed. Uncertain. As if butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach.
Maybe she was not as prepared for this after all, as she had believed herself to be.
“You can look at me now,” he said, amusement in his voice.
Guiltily, Lillian jerked her gaze to him. He had wrapped the towel low around his hips, still leaving his glorious chest completely bare. His dark hair glinted in the light, and it looked as if he had combed it back from his forehead with his fingers.
“I was looking,” she blurted and then instantly cursed herself inwardly for saying something so nonsensical and foolish.
Of course she had been looking. She had been ogling him.
He chuckled. “Do I make you uncomfortable, Lillian?”
“You aren’t wearing any clothes.”
“Shall I put some on, then?”
“No,” she denied quickly. “I mean yes.” Then she shook her head. “You needn’t on my account. I’m not accustomed to being in the presence of a man in dishabille, but you are my husband. I suppose I’ll grow accustomed to it.”
“Was there something you wished to speak with me about?” he asked gently.
A droplet of water was slowly gliding down the center of his chest.
She blinked. “Yes, there was. There is.”
Stop looking at his chest, Lillian. Stop looking at his chest.
But she couldn’t seem to help herself. Alaric’s chest was quite intriguing. She was fascinated by the contrasts between the two of them. All the places where he was so hard and firm, so masculine and powerful, where she was soft and rounded, feminine and dainty in comparison.
“What was it that you wished to speak with me about?”
Lillian swallowed hard. “I wanted to know…”
The droplet traveled toward his navel, where there was a thin trail of dark hair that led lower and disappeared beneath the towel. His manhood remained stiff and large beneath the draped cloth, a noticeable protrusion.
“Yes?” he encouraged her in the same tone she imagined he might use for a small child who was newly learning to speak.
“I wanted to know if the time has come to consummate our marriage,” she said in a rush, her cheeks scalding by the time she finished.
Everything changed. The air turned hot. She was hot.
He was hot. They felt suddenly volcanic.
Her nipples had tightened into points beneath her night rail.
Anticipation and desire melted into one molten sensation low in her belly.
Was she getting ill? Perhaps she was coming down with something.
She was achy, and her skin felt too tight for her body.
She should return to her room. If she was taking sick, she really ought to go to bed.
Lillian didn’t go anywhere, however. Instead, she stood rooted to the floor like a tree.
“I think it has,” he told her at last. “If you’re ready?”