Trust Me by Natasha Blackthorne Page B

watched Jon lay out his
shaving gear and pour some of the water into a basin.   “Aren’t you going to call for Toby?”
    “I think we shall let
him sleep in, eh?” He looked at her in the mirror and smiled.
    She shouldn’t be
surprised. Jon had not brought his valet along on their tryst at the cottage.
She had grown to adore watching him shave, lulled into a state of relaxation by
the regular, steady strokes as he scraped the thick lather off his face. It was
no different now.
    It was an intimate
moment and one in which she felt a wife’s privilege most acutely. William had
never appeared before her less than cleanly shaven and wrapped in his banyan.
He certainly never had allowed her to witness his daily ablutions. Indeed, on
their wedding trip he had rented a separate chamber to complete that daily
ritual. That was also where he’d first been unfaithful to her with the very
first comely maid he’d encountered.
    Surely, Jon would
spare her that sort of humiliation. At least, she hoped he would. He certainly
seemed inclined to remain close by her side, even at moments when he didn’t
have to be.
    Light illuminated the
chamber as lightning flashed in a crack in the curtains. She jumped. Her heart
drummed in her ears and a queasy sensation twisted through her stomach. She
placed a hand over her belly and couldn’t help a little gasp that escaped her.
    His razor clattered
as it fell to the washstand and he was at her side in an instant, kneeling
before her. He took her hands. “It’s going to be fine, Anne.”
    She laughed. The sound
came out husky and halting. “Of course it will. Never mind my foolishness.”
    He lifted her hands
to his lips and kissed them one after the other. “Shall we have a touch of
claret before breakfast?”
    “Claret before
breakfast, oh my,” she replied, attempting to lighten her tone.
    “It is still our
honeymoon, is it not?” He arose and went to the sideboard then returned with
glasses and a bottle of claret.
    He spoke to her in
such a gentle tone. Beneath the lightness he so obviously attempted to inject
into his voice, she detected a note of concern.
    He expected her to be
afraid again today.
    He had even prepared
for it ahead of time, making sure to have claret on hand this morning. The
realization made her feel like a foolish girl, someone who must be cosseted. A
man would surely grow weary of such a wife.
    She didn’t want him
to resent her.
    Her stomach
tightened. She must try to be strong. But her hand trembled on the glass when
he gave it to her. And she took a deep drink. The rich fluid glided over her
tongue, burned her throat. He tipped his glass to her, then quaffed half its
contents in one swallow before returning to the washstand.
    She slowly sipped as
she watched him place the blade to his cheek and make several careful strokes,
and listened to the rasp of the blade against his beard. She was almost
finished with her wine. The warmth of the spirits seeped through her blood and
her tension began to ease, replaced by a sense of relaxation.
      He bent over the washbasin and splashed water
over his face. The sloshing sound echoed in the tiny chamber. He dried off with
several brisk rubs from the towel. He lifted a small amber bottle and wetted
his palms with the liquid it contained then dabbed his cheeks briefly.
    The scent of spice
and woods wafted into the air. He turned to her and her attention was drawn
lower as he plucked the towel from his waist. His hard, well-defined midsection
was covered in a sprinkling of brownish hair, so much darker than the pale,
ash-blond locks on his head.
    He tossed the towel
aside and approached her. She couldn’t stop staring at the sleek, sinewy lines
of his powerful body. His half-erect cock.
    He touched the glass
she held. “Anne, let go.”
    “What?”
    He stroked her
knuckles with the backs of his fingers. “Let me take this.”
    “Yes.”
    “You have to let go
first.” Teasing warmed his voice. He pried on her