While following a step behind Cecilia as they strolled down the main street of the town, he could not stop his eyes from dropping to the subtle sway of her hips covered in her light pink walking dress.
She was carrying a tightly covered basket—which he believed added to the delicious swing of her hips—and no matter how much he asked, she would not let him peek under it.
For a slender girl, she was curvy, with a nipped-in middle and a sinfully rounded backside. The firm, rounded tops of her breasts seemed to quiver, and he could not forget how the corset molded her figure into a sensuous shape and set her breasts up so that they had nearly spilled from the pleated cups.
His palm itched to feel them bare.
Her simple dress had clung with subtle eroticism to her curves, its blush color evoking vivid imaginations of her skin beneath the fabric. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Settle down, old boy. You know nothing intimate will come of this marriage; only fifty-four more days to go, and you will be a free man.
The quaint village of Stanbury was alive; a faint ring of church bells heralded the opening of the harvest festival, their cheerytones mingling with the excited hum of villagers setting out baskets of produce.
A trio of dandies in colorful jackets were lingering on the sidewalk; one of them, a tall, sandy-haired fellow sporting a bright silk handkerchief in lieu of a cravat, ogled her openly, but Cecilia did not seem to notice.
Coming to her side, a quelling gaze and a proprietary hand on the small of her back had them starting. One of the men tipped his head and went back to his friends.
“Do you want to go to the market or to the church?” He asked while looking around.
“I’d like to see the market,” she decided after a hum.
Eyes dropping to the basket, Cassian offered again, “Will you please let me take the basket from you? It is already enough that you think me an unrefined lout—I would rather avoid the rest of the villagers knowing it too.”
Cecilia finally handed the basket to him and took his opposite arm. “Unless these good people have not read a single newspaper in the last four years, I think they already know.”
Crossing the main road to the market square, they stepped into a line of wooden stalls that formed a cheery maze through the square.
Within the booming market, stalls and barrows overflowed with fresh produce, flowers, and goods of every kind. The stalls tended by stout farmers and women in aprons and knitted hats were selling hand-churned butter, braided loaves, and thick woolens dyed with madder root.
“Isn’t this quaint?” she murmured wistfully.
From a corner of the square, a fiddler perched on a hay bale coaxed a sprightly tune from his instrument. His bow danced across strings in sudden leaps and trills, adding another note to the cheery air.
Between the market’s bustle and the music’s fervor, voices rose in friendly competition. “Two shillings for the finest marrow!” a stout yeoman bellowed, patting the pale fruit with pride.
“Try a dash of my elderberry wine—half a crown a glass!” called a thin widow whose stall looked like a jewel box of amethyst bottles.
The basket Cassian held was disproportionally heavy; he sensed something stockier in the bottom, though there were lighter things on top. What did Cecilia have in there?
“Where is the main celebration going to be?” Cecilia asked.
“At the town’s chapel and meeting hall,” he replied distractedly. “Not too far from here. The children from the orphanage will be there too, as they grow vegetables to sell to aid the home.”
“Please, take me there,” she asked.
They left the market, carefully winding their way through the tables, and breaking free of the crowds, they did not take long to get to the local church. Near the steps, a stiff wind pummeled them, giving Cassian a fleeting view of slender legs clad in sinful silk.
His pulse quickened as he imagined those legs over his shoulders and her enticingly full breasts beneath him, jiggling as he plowed her.
Once again, by pure force of will, he quelled the heat in his blood.
“This is going to be alongevening…”
Cecilia’s head arched over her shoulder, a corner of her inviting lips was ticked down. “What was that?”
“Nothing important,” he replied dully.
It had to be a curse that his new wife had such kissable lips—that he was banned from touching. The road to hell was surely paved with good intentions.
