CHAPTER FIVE
The table in their stateroom was laid with plate and silver. Cabin stewards poured wine into crystal glasses, served bowls ofpotage fausse tortue,and chicken fricasseed in a rich béchamel sauce with peas and carrots.
Louisa sampled it all, but tasted very little. She felt nervous to share a meal with her husband, though they’d dined together many times during their courtship. This was private. The setting was intimate. Later tonight, he would see her without her clothes on.
She made certain to save room for dessert—two slices of their wedding cake with generous scoops of French ice cream.
“What makes it French, I wonder?”
His Lordship looked up.“Hmm?”
“On the menu card, I read ‘French Ice Cream’. What makes ice cream French as opposed to…say, American?”
“The texture,” he replied, mashing it with his spoon. “This is far more sophisticated than your Central Park picnic fare.”
Louisa happened to like ice cream cones, egg creams, and fruit sherbets from street vendors and soda jerks near the park. As long as the flavor was delicious, who cared about the price?
“Maybe it comes down to a matter of taste,” she said. “Whatever it is, it pairs splendidly with our cake.”
It was kind of Mamma to pack a portion of their wedding cake for the journey. Louisa had been too anxious to eat at their reception and was glad to be sharing a nibble with her new husband—even though he didn’t seem to enjoy his cake and ice cream.
“Not to your liking, my lord?”
He pushed it around his plate for her sake, rarely taking a bite. “No, it’s fine…”
“Too much excitement and not enough sustenance is a recipe for a headache.” She stood and carried their dishes to the nearby sofa. She kicked off her shoes and curled up on the cushions. “There’s no reason why we cannot make ourselves comfortable. Won’t you sit and eat with me?”
Louisa would never have slouched or sprawled out in his presence during their engagement, but she wanted to relax now, to banish this stiff-upper-lip formality that was unnecessary between a married couple.
His Lordship eyed her as if she were a curious creature. “I’m afraid I have no appetite.”
“No appetite for cake and ice cream?” She laughed. “Now I’ve heard everything!”
Goaded, he rose from the table, muttering something about ‘chalk and cheese.’
“I am not certain those are the ingredients…”
He sat on the sofa and lifted her stocking feet into his lap. “It’s a saying—chalk and cheese means we couldn’t be more different.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t. But you will.” His hands smoothed her skirt hems. He seemed fascinated with the soft velvet and sable trimmings. His fingertips ventured beneath her petticoats, exploring the lace he found there. Palms traced her ankles, up her calves, over her knees. His Lordship untied her garter ribbons and lowered her silk stockings.
He stroked her bare flesh.
No one had ever touched her so intimately. The softest whisper of his fingers made her tremble. “My lord…”
“Was this not what you wanted, Louisa, when you invited me onto the sofa?”
She’d meant to flirt with him and banter. She knew nothing of seduction, yet Louisa angled her body on the sofa, heedless of her raised skirts and naked knees. She longed to hold him, to feel that same fluttering rush as their lips met when he’d first kissed her at the altar only hours earlier.
Louisa reached for him, cupping his chin, caressing his jaw. “Idowant it,” said she, boldly. “Very much.”
Lord Granborough tipped his mouth to meet hers. This wasn’t the quick, chaste peck he’d given her before their wedding guests. His lips were warm, soft, and slackened. He kissed her lazily, as if they had all night to explore each other. His tongue teased, and his teeth nipped, and his warm breath fanned her cheek.
He urged her to open, and she willingly—wantonly—let him in.
This was her husband, strange as he was to her, and Louisa wished to please him. She longed for him to look at her with fire in his eyes, smoldering beneath her touch. She wanted to know him in a loverly way, to drink in his sighs as he offered up the most intimate parts of his body.
