swallowed and added in a faint whisper, “Without your tying me to it. I promise.”
Meriden sighed and grimaced. “I can see already that I will have a difficult time of it, to resist indulging you, little one. I must say I had hoped you would say that you preferred to stay here, but I understand.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and added, “However, if you leave your room in the morning without Dr Franklin’s leave, it had better be in my arms, or you will remember it every minute you are sitting beside Lady Arlington’s bed tomorrow. Is that clear enough?”
Wrinkling her nose, Abigail sighed. “Perfectly, but also I take your point about resting so that I can be my best tomorrow. I apologise for putting you in a position of having to insist I look after myself. Still, I do think I ought to call your bluff and point out that I am not a child in the schoolroom, after all, nor are we yet married.”
Meriden exhaled a slow breath. “Right then,” he said softly, as Abigail tried to remain erect. She struggled to suppress a yawn. Without a blink, he reached up into her hair and untied the ribbon that kept the mass on her head. It was long and pink, and, lifting one of her hands from where they rested demurely in her lap, he deliberately wound it around her wrist several times and tied a bow on top. “That’s to remind you that I’m binding you to your promise,” he said seriously. “Instead of the bed. Because, whether you believe me or not, I am not bluffing.”
Abigail blinked up at him and decided that, perhaps because of the hour or the intimate location or her exhaustion, silence was the best answer. She needed time to think about him, to digest what she’d learnt, to see how his behaviour fitted into her expectations. She needed to think about how the tingling sensation caused her to wiggle in the cold light of day.
Impulsively, she lifted her arms and clutched his shoulders.
With a small smile, Meriden obliged.
* * * *
Ten minutes later, Charles reclined on that same green couch and pondered. She’d be back in his arms and his bed soon enough, he thought. It ought to be enough for tonight to know that she was under his roof, safe and dry. The terror that had struck him in the half hour it had taken to reach her carriage and assure himself she was well was not to be repeated. In the meantime, he could pretend that she’d reached up for him, asking to be carried to the bed they shared, instead of to one at the opposite end of the house. He’d decided tonight—they would share the big bed in the main bedchamber. She would have her private boudoir and dressing room, and he had this sitting room and a dressing room, but at night they would share a bed.
He’d ask the staff later to remove the bed he’d ordered for her boudoir, and send for a daybed from the Birmingham furniture maker he favoured.
She truly was charming and so very alive. Responsive. He didn’t care a jot if she wasn’t classically blonde and sleek in the Norman style. Her curls had been falling out of her braids and bobbing around her neck in a tempting, unintentional manner. She did not have Irish green eyes or English blue ones, but the brown depths were alert and followed him as he moved. In the firelight they had revealed emotion even when she had restrained her reactions. His attention had rewarded him with a truly classic example of the guilty look, and, if he found that expression on her face charming, who would deny him the right to enjoy it? The soft moan that had come from her lips when he’d kissed her had been the perfect inspiration. His body had immediately fallen into intense and utter lust. Again.
Only the critically important need to clarify his role as her overseer demanded he pull back from pressing further intimacies.
At the end, when he’d tucked her into bed himself, noting Annie still asleep in the chair beside her, her eyes had been dimmed with sleepiness.
By all rights, she was under his
Meriden sighed and grimaced. “I can see already that I will have a difficult time of it, to resist indulging you, little one. I must say I had hoped you would say that you preferred to stay here, but I understand.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and added, “However, if you leave your room in the morning without Dr Franklin’s leave, it had better be in my arms, or you will remember it every minute you are sitting beside Lady Arlington’s bed tomorrow. Is that clear enough?”
Wrinkling her nose, Abigail sighed. “Perfectly, but also I take your point about resting so that I can be my best tomorrow. I apologise for putting you in a position of having to insist I look after myself. Still, I do think I ought to call your bluff and point out that I am not a child in the schoolroom, after all, nor are we yet married.”
Meriden exhaled a slow breath. “Right then,” he said softly, as Abigail tried to remain erect. She struggled to suppress a yawn. Without a blink, he reached up into her hair and untied the ribbon that kept the mass on her head. It was long and pink, and, lifting one of her hands from where they rested demurely in her lap, he deliberately wound it around her wrist several times and tied a bow on top. “That’s to remind you that I’m binding you to your promise,” he said seriously. “Instead of the bed. Because, whether you believe me or not, I am not bluffing.”
Abigail blinked up at him and decided that, perhaps because of the hour or the intimate location or her exhaustion, silence was the best answer. She needed time to think about him, to digest what she’d learnt, to see how his behaviour fitted into her expectations. She needed to think about how the tingling sensation caused her to wiggle in the cold light of day.
Impulsively, she lifted her arms and clutched his shoulders.
With a small smile, Meriden obliged.
* * * *
Ten minutes later, Charles reclined on that same green couch and pondered. She’d be back in his arms and his bed soon enough, he thought. It ought to be enough for tonight to know that she was under his roof, safe and dry. The terror that had struck him in the half hour it had taken to reach her carriage and assure himself she was well was not to be repeated. In the meantime, he could pretend that she’d reached up for him, asking to be carried to the bed they shared, instead of to one at the opposite end of the house. He’d decided tonight—they would share the big bed in the main bedchamber. She would have her private boudoir and dressing room, and he had this sitting room and a dressing room, but at night they would share a bed.
He’d ask the staff later to remove the bed he’d ordered for her boudoir, and send for a daybed from the Birmingham furniture maker he favoured.
She truly was charming and so very alive. Responsive. He didn’t care a jot if she wasn’t classically blonde and sleek in the Norman style. Her curls had been falling out of her braids and bobbing around her neck in a tempting, unintentional manner. She did not have Irish green eyes or English blue ones, but the brown depths were alert and followed him as he moved. In the firelight they had revealed emotion even when she had restrained her reactions. His attention had rewarded him with a truly classic example of the guilty look, and, if he found that expression on her face charming, who would deny him the right to enjoy it? The soft moan that had come from her lips when he’d kissed her had been the perfect inspiration. His body had immediately fallen into intense and utter lust. Again.
Only the critically important need to clarify his role as her overseer demanded he pull back from pressing further intimacies.
At the end, when he’d tucked her into bed himself, noting Annie still asleep in the chair beside her, her eyes had been dimmed with sleepiness.
By all rights, she was under his
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