“Imagined?” She reached out a hand to rub along his upper arm.
“I thought he had proved it when he agreed to let me go away to school,” he said. “He had not allowed any of the others to go, though I know Justin had begged him. I suppose it is possible that he let me go because he believed he had made a mistake in keeping Justin at home and beginning a train of unhappiness that eventually led my brother to take his own life—though my father did not know of that outcome at the time, of course. However it was, he let me go even though my mother was vehemently opposed. It was the one time I know of when he held his ground against her. I thought he did it because he loved me.”
“Youthought?” she said.
“I think he did it to punish her,” he said. “And to remove me from his sight. Just as he had summoned our aunt to take Wren away.”
She patted his arm, and he frowned into her eyes.
“When Justin died,” he told her, “I was brought home from school for the funeral. I went into the library afterward and curled up on the window seat even though I was fifteen. It was my first close encounter with death—and a suicide at that, though it was passed off as an accident. I had never been particularly fond of Justin, partly, I suppose, because he was ten years older than I was, but hewasmy brother. And he had been unhappy enough to end his own life. I did not understand why. I was young, and had been away at school But still I was in a fragile state, though I held it all inside. My father came into the room while I was there. He brought the vicar with him. Apparently he wanted to show the vicar a miniature of Justin he kept in his desk. For once he almost certainly did not know I was there. While the vicar was looking at the painting, my father said words that haunted me long after. I suppose they still do.”
He paused while she looked expectantly at him.
“No,” he said. “I cannot say them. I am sorry.”
She set the cushion aside and took the glass from his hand to set on the table beside her own. She moved closer to him and snuggled against his shoulder while she spread one hand over his chest.
“And I am sorry that quite inadvertently I raised a subject that is painful to you,” she said. “You do not owe me the information. Let us not allow it to ruin our perfect day. It felt lovely at the church, did it not, to be surrounded by family and friends?”
His emotions felt raw. Memories that had been pushed deep for a long time after being explained away in any number of ways had been dredged up in the last few days to leave him aware of the fact that the wound had always been there, made worse by the fact that he had never let himself acknowledge there was a wound. And he could not share it with Elizabeth—even though not so long ago she had shared with him the deep hurt of the story behind the loss of her two unborn children.
Perhaps after all he was lacking in trust.
But at the moment he owed her her perfect day. And he owed it to himself too. They could never relive this day. Whatever happened today would forever remain a part of it, a memory they would both keep for the rest of their lives.
“I am so terribly unworthy of you,” he said, raising one hand and setting the backs of his fingers against her cheek.
“You must take me off that pedestal you have constructed for me,” she said. “I am not some superior being worthy only of your admiration and worship. I am a person. A woman. I want you to care for me, not worship me.”
“Oh, I care,” he told her.
“That is a very good thing to be told on my wedding day even if Ididhave to prompt you,” she said, her eyes twinkling at him.
“I love that expression,” he told her. “That smile in your eyes. You were made for happiness and laughter. I loved to hear you laugh at Christmastime and I loved to provoke it. I intend to keep on doing it, you know. You would not have done much laughing withhim, Elizabeth. You would have been expected to be eternally dignified. You would have expected it of yourself too. I do not expect any such thing. I want you to be yourself. Always. Every day. I want you to laugh and be happy.”
“We could do worse than live on laughter,” she said, her eyes incongruously growing bright with tears.
“And friendship,” he said, getting to his feet and extending a hand to help her to hers. “We are friends, are we not? We always were and surely always will be. Can friends make love, Elizabeth? Is it time to find out?”
“Yes, indeed it is,” she said, setting her hand in his.
Twenty-two
We are friends, are we not? Can friends make love?
His words felt like a cold dose of reality. But theywerefriends. They had a close, precious relationship. If she craved more, then she had only herself to blame. Though actually therewasmore, even if he did not realize it. He had a deep affection for her. She was quite sure of that. Deeper than one felt for a mere friend. It would be enough. She would make it enough.
She preceded him into the bedchamber she had chosen for her own and turned as he closed the door into the sitting room. He drew her into his arms and kissed her, and she leaned into him, very aware that she was no longer wearing her stays and he was without the usual heavy layers of clothing. She could feel all the warm, muscled firmness of his man’s body pressed to her breasts and abdomen and thighs.
He stood back from her after a few moments to unbutton her dressing gown. He removed it and tossed it onto one of the chairs while his eyes moved over her white cotton nightgown. Despite some lace trimming, it was really a very plain, modest garment, made for comfort more than for sensuality. She had decided against shopping for something more bridelike. He took hold of the nightgown on either side of her hips and lifted it while she raised her arms. He tossed the garment to join her dressing gown without taking his eyes off her.
Oh my! She had been taken by surprise, and the flickering candles suddenly seemed rather bright. But she would not feel embarrassed. She was his wife, and this was who she was. This was what she looked like. She swallowed.
“You are awfully beautiful, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice husky.
And without moving closer to her, he explored her lightly with his fingertips. She scarcely felt them, yet his touch raised gooseflesh of awareness and tautened her nipples and sent aches of longing stabbing down through her womb to her inner thighs. His eyes followed the movement of his hands, and he bent forward to kiss her featherlight at the top of her cleavage. He raised his head, took a step closer to her until she felt the silky brocade of his dressing gown brush against her breasts and stomach, spread one hand behind her head, angled his own, and kissed her lightly and lingeringly on the lips until she yearned for more. But he did not deepen the kiss. He moved his head back so that his lips merely brushed her own, and he looked very directly into her eyes.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world to me,” he said, “for your beauty comes from within and glows like an aura all about you. And you have admitted me within its light.”
