Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
That evening, Rowan decided to break with the rigid formality of the dining room.
Tamsin had been absolutely right last night when she’d said that she didn’t want to sit yards away from him with footmen staring over their shoulders the entire time.
She’d said her own parents had dined far less formally when they didn’t have guests, and he thought that was something to aspire to.
Before he’d wed, he’d rarely eaten his dinner at home. He’d preferred to go to his club, or a gaming hell, or some other party or entertainment for much the same reason. He’d never liked sitting alone at that long, lonely table.
So, when he collected his bride from her bedchamber, he led her to the library instead.
She raised an eyebrow when he opened the door, but her pure, unadulterated delight when she saw the intimate arrangement—two chairs and a small round table set close together, lit by the warm, golden glow of candles—warmed him in all sorts of unexpected ways.
He found that making her happy was his new favorite thing.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes shining as she moved toward the table.
Rowan stepped forward to pull out her chair, his hand lingering on her silk-clad shoulder as she sat.
“The dining room is a drafty, miserable mausoleum. We should never eat there when it’s just the two of us.
I’ll have a smaller room turned into a more intimate dining area for us, but until then, we’ll eat here, if that’s acceptable. ”
“It’s perfect,” she assured him.
He sat beside her, so close that their knees brushed under the linen tablecloth.
The dinner was cold—sliced meats, cheeses, fruits, and a robust claret—but as they ate and talked, Rowan realized that he hadn’t enjoyed a meal so much in longer than he could remember.
He’d grown so used to being watched while he ate that the lack of observers made him feel a strange sort of freedom.
What a ridiculous custom. Was it really necessary for his every whim to be seen to before he’d even thought of it?
“There are still so many things we need to discuss,” Tamsin said, her tone turning thoughtful as she plated a few slices of apple. She cleared her throat, and he could tell she was trying to work up the courage to ask him something.
“There certainly are. Is there one thing that you’d like to talk about in particular?” he prompted.
She nodded gratefully. “I think we should talk about our views on children. How soon do you want to have them? How many would you like? What are your views on how to raise them?”
Rowan paused, a piece of bread halfway to his lips. Her rapid-fire questions startled him. To be honest, he’d never really given anything to do with children any real thought. He’d known that eventually he’d have to have an heir, of course. But the thought had been very abstract.
“I suppose we should begin fairly soon,” he said slowly, lifting his gaze to hers, his pulse thundering in his ears.
“And as for the number, two at least. My father wanted a spare heir, but my mother had said she’d bear only two of us, and she didn’t care that Julia was a girl.
My sister was the only thing that made my childhood bearable.
I would like my own children to have siblings as well. ”
He sat back, feeling a bit overwhelmed. This was all happening so quickly. He felt ill-prepared for all of it, though he wasn’t quite certain if he’d ever feel ready to be a father.
She smiled again, obviously glad that he was taking her questions seriously. “Can you tell me a little about how you were raised?”
“My childhood was spent mostly in the nursery wing.” Rowan had always thought that the raising of his own children would be a job for his wife and the nanny.
But he sensed that Tamsin’s parents had been far more present in her life, and the concept appealed to him.
He certainly didn’t want his children to know the loneliness and isolation that he had.
He suddenly realized that he had the power to change things for his own family.
“I saw my father for ten minutes before dinner, provided I was clean and silent. My mother viewed my existence as a duty successfully discharged and preferred not to see us at all, if she could help it. I don’t think she gave much thought to my sister and me once we’d been delivered.
I don’t want that, Tamsin. I don’t want a son who views me as a stranger he must eventually replace. ”
Tamsin leaned in, her gaze intense and supportive. “I feel the same way. I want to give our children love and affection. I want to take an active interest in their lives.”
Rowan felt a surge of something powerful, a sense of partnership with his wife he hadn’t known was possible. “People will say we are eccentric. They will call it unfashionable to be so... involved.”
“Let them,” Tamsin said with a defiant little tilt of her chin that made him want to kiss her then and there. “I don’t care what anyone thinks if it means our children grow up knowing they are loved.”
He couldn’t even imagine what that would feel like, but he wanted it for his future children.
He wanted little girls with Tamsin’s kindness, beauty, and sweetness, who were confident in their own value.
He wanted boys who didn’t bottle up every emotion and look to fill an emptiness inside with dangerous, reckless pursuits as he had.
Rowan reached out, taking her hand and lacing his fingers through hers. “I didn’t realize I’d married such a rebel,” he murmured. “But I like the sound of that. You’ll have to teach me, though. I know very little about how it feels to be loved.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. It felt like weakness, and he’d been raised to never show that. But that’s what they were talking about, wasn’t it? Making certain his own son never knew a lack of love and affection.
“Oh, Rowan,” she whispered, tightening her fingers around his as a charged moment passed between them. “That breaks my heart.”
He cleared his throat and pulled his hand back, feeling suddenly far too vulnerable. His parents hadn’t loved him—of that, he was certain. But he’d turned out all right, hadn’t he? He certainly didn’t need love now.
But as he stared at the beautiful woman next to him and thought of her cradling a child to her breast, he felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He wanted that.
Could she ever love him? Was he deserving of such a sentiment?
He feared he was not. He’d never known love, but he’d never given it, either. He wasn’t certain he was capable of loving anyone.
She seemed to sense that her questions had rattled him, and she smoothly changed the subject.
The remainder of the meal passed in a comfortable haze of shared ideas.
They drifted from the weight of family legacies to the lighter fare of the London literary scene, debating the merits of the latest Jane Austen novel with a fervor that made Rowan forget the world beyond the library doors.
He loved the way her eyes lit up when she disagreed with him—a sharp, bright intelligence that was far more intoxicating than any wine.
The women he usually associated with never disagreed with him or challenged him in any way.
When the last of the claret was finished, Rowan stood and guided her once again toward the pair of chairs by the hearth. The fire had settled into a steady, rhythmic pulse of orange and gold.
“Tamsin,” he said softly, his voice echoing in the quiet room. He stood before her, the warmth of the fire at his back and the heat of her gaze before him. “I find myself wanting to kiss you again. May I?”
Tamsin looked up at him, her cheeks flushed. “Yes,” she whispered.
He didn’t lean down to her. Instead, he sat in the large wingback chair and reached out his hands. “Sit with me? On my lap?”
Her eyes widened, but she hesitated for only a heartbeat before she awkwardly settled against him.
The soft silk of her gown rustled against his wool breeches, and the scent of lavender and warm skin filled his senses.
When he pulled her close, she let out a small, shaky breath and looped her arms around his neck.
“I never knew that being close to someone could feel so nice,” she whispered.
“Oh, my darling, you have no idea how nice it can be,” he replied, his voice husky with need.
He couldn’t wait to be naked with her, seated deep inside her.
He sensed it would be like nothing he’d ever known before.
He already felt a protectiveness, a sense of belonging, with this woman that he’d never known was possible.
Hugging her tightly, he leaned in and pressed his lips tenderly to hers.
The kiss began as the ones before had—slow and searching—but it quickly deepened, replaced by a sudden, hungry friction.
Rowan’s hand moved to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in the loose curls of her hair as he tasted the sweet, lingering heat of her.
She met him with a surprising fervor, her body leaning into his as if she were trying to close every remaining inch of distance between them.
When he finally drew back, they were both breathless as they gazed into each other’s eyes. Rowan’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
“Tamsin,” he rasped, his thumb tracing the swollen line of her lower lip. “I don’t want the night to end here. Might we go upstairs? I would like to share a drink in your room—to talk more, and perhaps... to take this further.”
He saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes and tightened his hold on her hand.
“I meant what I said last night, and I will say it again now. You decide what you are comfortable with, Tamsin. At any moment, if it becomes too much, if you wish to stop, I will. I will leave your room with a smile and a kiss on the brow and not a word of complaint. I want only what you are willing to give.”