A Soldier's Heart by Sherrill Bodine

a whole new world full of danger and excitement and joy. But the basket is always there to climb back into, dear child. Be happy,” she whispered through what sounded suspiciously like tears, but Serena couldn’t be sure, for Buckle whirled away, leaving the room too quickly.
    She sat alone before the fire waiting for her husband. Lord Matthew Blackwood. A man she’d known a scant few weeks. A man who with one look caused her to act not by logic, but emotion.
    The flutters turned to coils of excitement, forcing her up and around the room. She noticed the welcoming touches the duchess had provided—silver brushes and combs with her new initials engraved on them, a small posy by her lamp, and a miniature of Matthew, age eleven. She studied it for a moment, then restlessly moved to the window. The streetlamps were glowing, all in a row, like small moons in the darkness of Mayfair.
    Finally she faced the huge bed with its crimson velvet hangings and sheets that smelled of lavender and sunshine.
    Then she heard stirrings on the other side of the door leading to Blackwood’s dressing room. In a panic, she dropped her negligee upon the chair and crawled into bed. Lying back against the plump pillows, she pulled the sheet high around her throat.
    He found her there a moment later when he quietly entered, closing the door behind him. He cast one long look at her in bed and she held his rich chocolate gaze as long as she could. Then he slowly extinguished each candle until the bedchamber was lit only by firelight. She closed her eyes when she saw he was untying the sash of his robe. The bed gave with his weight and she felt his warmth slide along the length of her body.
    “Open your eyes, sweetheart. I’m safely under the covers.”
    Dutifully she lifted her lids and found his whimsical smile only inches away beside her on the pillow.
    “Have I thanked you for sending for dear Buckle?” She found, to her surprise, her voice sounded oddly husky.
    “Several times.” The corners of his mouth deepened. “I wanted everything to be perfect for my bride.”
    “Why did you wish me for your bride, Blackwood?” she asked, her heart doing an odd little catch as she stared into those mesmerizing eyes.
    He shifted closer and reached a hand to arrange her hair in a proper fall across the pillow. “I wanted you for my bride because I love you, sweetheart. Surely you must know that.”
    But what could he love? He didn’t even know she wasn’t a good horsewoman, but an excellent gardener. Had he discovered she was utterly devoted to Papa and Buckle, and even Aunt Lavinia in her own fashion? Is that what he admired, her strong familial feelings? Was it her scholarship? She knew little about the world, but she’d memorized the texts of almost as many sermons as her father. Was it her way with the parish children? He knew so little about her, what could he admire? It was suddenly vitally important to know.
    “What do you love about me?” The huskiness caused her to whisper.
    A thrill of enticing fear shook her as he brushed each of her eyelids with his lips.
    “I love the goodness shining out of your eyes,” he whispered. He trailed a finger down her cheek. “I love your perfect nose.”
    A shy rapture made her heart pound against her ribs as his finger traced her mouth.
    “I love the very proper words coming out of these cherry lips. I love the way you chew just here when you’re considering the proper way of things.”
    Suddenly the tip of his tongue replaced his finger on her often-abused lower lip. “Quite simply, Serena, I love everything about you.”
    “I believe”—her voice shook slightly—“that is enough for now.”
    Finally their lips met, and sweetly they tasted one another. Shifting his arm, he eased her closer so her body came in contact with every inch of his. Without words he held her until her tense limbs slowly yielded. Only then did he continue brushing her lips in feathery kisses which left her wishing