be in the same room for months afterward.”
Bringing her pleasure in bed might make her body yearn for mine. But in the end, our lives will not always be spent making love. There will be many, many hours when we will be out of bed, fully clothed, and not even touching.
And whether I succeed or fail in my endeavor to win her heart, I will succeed or fail here, at this breakfast table, in the light of the day, without those skills as a lover to aid and abet me.
“I have always been a bastard where you are concerned,” I admit, my mouth as dry as a cotton bale.
She raises both her brows. “So you do know that.”
“Yes, I’ve always known that.”
She considers me as she scratches Grisham’s ears. He pants a little. She takes another piece of bacon from my plate and offers it to him. The familiarity of her gesture makes my heart roll over.
“And do you intend to continue to be a bastard to me?”
I swallow. “Would you like me to be different?”
She says nothing.
Of course not.
For her to say anything at all on the matter would be to show an interest in this marriage of ours, an interest in the shape and texture of what happens between us.
She eats the rest of her toast, drinks her tea, and rises, ushering Grisham out with her, leaving me with a brisk, “Good day, Lord Larkspear.”
T HE RAIN STOPS MIDMORNING . From my study, where I try my best, given my distracted state of mind, to deal with a stack of papers, I become aware that outside, my bride and my three-legged dog are frolicking on the gravel drive. She throws a stick; he retrieves it. She throws it again, and he, with even greater joy and enthusiasm, goes after it.
Such a simple, mindless pastime. But Grisham does not tire of it. And I do not tire of looking at them: his love of life, her delight in everything that is vibrant and spirited in him.
I should join them. But I stay where I am, behind the curtains of my window, and only watch.
W HEN I ENTER HER ROOM that night, my bride is already naked in her bed, reading, with half a dozen pillows propping up her back, her hair hanging loose, and both her knees raised, giving me an almost unimpeded view of her pudenda.
I hang onto the door handle behind me, forgetting how to walk.
She peers over the top of the book at me. “You are here, Larkspear. As you can see, I have decided to make things a bit easier for you,” she says, setting aside the book.
I find my voice somewhere. “My lady, your consideration is boundless. I am touched and humbled.”
To be more accurate, I am flabbergasted. Things are moving at a pace I could not have foreseen.
She smiles at me. My blood boils and freezes at the same time; I am aroused
and
chilled.
“So, what color sashes have you chosen for tonight?”
“Green,” I said, pulling them out of my pocket. The sashes unwind, their ends falling gently to the carpet, a deep, jeweled shade like that of malachite. “The color of your eyes.”
She twists a strand of her hair. “How romantic.”
“Anything for you, my lady,” I mumble, at a volume that might be too soft for her to hear.
“How should I place myself tonight? On my back or”—she rolls over and graces me with an incomparable view of her bottom—“on my stomach?”
My feet, of their own volition, move toward the bed. “How would
you
like to be placed?”
“My goodness, you do care what I think,” she teases me. “My answer, of course, depends on whether I will be blindfolded.”
“No blindfolds.” No blindfolds ever again. I always, always want to see her eyes.
She turns onto her back and lifts a hand over her shoulder, making her already taut breasts sit up even more pertly. Her nipples are hard. “Then this way. So I can see you. Watch you.”
Dear God, what have I unleashed? I am still dazed. Stunned. What
is
she doing?
As much as I want to believe that she might have come to care for me a little, and even with my heart’s proclivity for flights of hope, I cannot quite
Bringing her pleasure in bed might make her body yearn for mine. But in the end, our lives will not always be spent making love. There will be many, many hours when we will be out of bed, fully clothed, and not even touching.
And whether I succeed or fail in my endeavor to win her heart, I will succeed or fail here, at this breakfast table, in the light of the day, without those skills as a lover to aid and abet me.
“I have always been a bastard where you are concerned,” I admit, my mouth as dry as a cotton bale.
She raises both her brows. “So you do know that.”
“Yes, I’ve always known that.”
She considers me as she scratches Grisham’s ears. He pants a little. She takes another piece of bacon from my plate and offers it to him. The familiarity of her gesture makes my heart roll over.
“And do you intend to continue to be a bastard to me?”
I swallow. “Would you like me to be different?”
She says nothing.
Of course not.
For her to say anything at all on the matter would be to show an interest in this marriage of ours, an interest in the shape and texture of what happens between us.
She eats the rest of her toast, drinks her tea, and rises, ushering Grisham out with her, leaving me with a brisk, “Good day, Lord Larkspear.”
T HE RAIN STOPS MIDMORNING . From my study, where I try my best, given my distracted state of mind, to deal with a stack of papers, I become aware that outside, my bride and my three-legged dog are frolicking on the gravel drive. She throws a stick; he retrieves it. She throws it again, and he, with even greater joy and enthusiasm, goes after it.
Such a simple, mindless pastime. But Grisham does not tire of it. And I do not tire of looking at them: his love of life, her delight in everything that is vibrant and spirited in him.
I should join them. But I stay where I am, behind the curtains of my window, and only watch.
W HEN I ENTER HER ROOM that night, my bride is already naked in her bed, reading, with half a dozen pillows propping up her back, her hair hanging loose, and both her knees raised, giving me an almost unimpeded view of her pudenda.
I hang onto the door handle behind me, forgetting how to walk.
She peers over the top of the book at me. “You are here, Larkspear. As you can see, I have decided to make things a bit easier for you,” she says, setting aside the book.
I find my voice somewhere. “My lady, your consideration is boundless. I am touched and humbled.”
To be more accurate, I am flabbergasted. Things are moving at a pace I could not have foreseen.
She smiles at me. My blood boils and freezes at the same time; I am aroused
and
chilled.
“So, what color sashes have you chosen for tonight?”
“Green,” I said, pulling them out of my pocket. The sashes unwind, their ends falling gently to the carpet, a deep, jeweled shade like that of malachite. “The color of your eyes.”
She twists a strand of her hair. “How romantic.”
“Anything for you, my lady,” I mumble, at a volume that might be too soft for her to hear.
“How should I place myself tonight? On my back or”—she rolls over and graces me with an incomparable view of her bottom—“on my stomach?”
My feet, of their own volition, move toward the bed. “How would
you
like to be placed?”
“My goodness, you do care what I think,” she teases me. “My answer, of course, depends on whether I will be blindfolded.”
“No blindfolds.” No blindfolds ever again. I always, always want to see her eyes.
She turns onto her back and lifts a hand over her shoulder, making her already taut breasts sit up even more pertly. Her nipples are hard. “Then this way. So I can see you. Watch you.”
Dear God, what have I unleashed? I am still dazed. Stunned. What
is
she doing?
As much as I want to believe that she might have come to care for me a little, and even with my heart’s proclivity for flights of hope, I cannot quite
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