he woke as dawn slipped throughthe window dressings, painting drowsy shadows and golden swaths of light over her chamber. For a moment, she blinked, thinking herself back at Aunt Caroline’s. But no, the size of the room was disproportionately large, and she lay on a firmer bed, quite on the wrong side. Where had the striped wallpaper gone?
It took her disoriented mind a thorough scan of the chamber from left to right until she recalled where she was. Who she was. What she had done. Beneath the bedclothes, she wore not a stitch, her body sore and tender in new places.
Good heavens. She pressed a hand to her scalding cheek as memories of the night washed over her, a foreign lick of anticipation trilling down her spine. He had beeninsideher.
How would she face him today?
The question took on a rather poignant significance when her eyes adjusted better to the dim light and she realized he was still in her bed. She clutched the counterpane to her bare breasts as her hungry gaze absorbed him. He lay on his back, bedclothes hugging his hips to reveal the breathtaking beauty of his bare chest and torso.
Even in repose, he exuded masculine strength, from the defined slabs of muscle on his abdomen to his broad chest and shoulders. His hair was swept back from his forehead, his brow for once unmarked by a frown, his nose a flawless line to match his equally perfect mouth. His lashes fanned over his high cheekbones, the dark growth of a beard stippling his jaw.
She ought to look away.
Her eyes traced the dents near his hip bones, the dark trail of hair that went below the blankets and straight to his hidden manhood. She remembered the way he’d felt, thick and smooth and hot in her palm, the way he’d felt thrusting into her. They had been as close as a man and woman could be.
They were husband and wife. Consummating the marriage was only right. But how odd it was that he had seen and touched every part of her body. Why, she didn’t even know what he liked to read, what he preferred for breakfast, or how he took his tea.
And that was when she noticed the faint tracery of something on his hands and arms. Not raised scars, she noted, but a discoloration scarcely even noticeable in the early morning glow. She’d seen markings like that once before, on the face of a man who had been burned in an incident at one of her father’s factories. Her gaze lingered on her husband’s strong arms. Had Sebastian been in a fire?
“They’re scars, buttercup.”
His words, low and intimate as velvet, dragged over her bare flesh. She couldn’t suppress the undignified squeak that rose to her lips. Flushing hotter still, she dragged her gaze back to his face to find him watching her, heavy-lidded and sensual. He didn’t seem disturbed by her unabashed examination of him, but she knew a pang of embarrassment at being caught.
“Scars?” she asked, gripping the bedclothes even tighter as she thought of how she must appear.
Her hair was unbound, trailing wild down around her face, and she was sure she looked a fright. This was her punishment for ogling him. She could have slipped from the bed, thrown on her robe, taken a brush to her unmanageable locks. Instead, he’d caught her at her frumpiest while she looked upon him the way a caged lion watched a hunk of raw meat on the other side of the bars.
He watched her intently, his sensual lips tightening as he appeared to weigh his next words. “I was in a house fire as a lad. Fortunately, I survived almost unscathed.”
Almost unscathed.She wondered if he referred to the scars he bore or to something he didn’t wear on his skin but carried inside. A fire must have been frightening, and for a small child to have experienced… well, her heart ached for the boy he must have been.
She ran her fingertips over the evidence of that long-ago inferno. He didn’t move away from her touch, simply allowed it. His skin felt smooth and warm, every bit as perfect as the rest of him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and her apology was twofold. She was sorry for what had happened to him, sorry for staring.
“I’m not worthy of your pity, buttercup.” His tone was wry.
“I don’t pity you,” she said quickly, for she didn’t. Empathy and pity were two different beasts. Touching him was having a strange effect on her heartbeat and her ability to concentrate. Her body hungered for his, but she was keenly aware that she didn’t wish to appear overeager. “I’m curious. There’s so much I don’t know about you.”
And she wanted to know all of it, all of him. Already, she knew his scent, his body, the way he moved in her. But she wanted more from him. She wanted their marriage to be more than a necessity.
“Curious.” He watched her in that predatory way he had that sent a thrill straight to her core.
“Yes,” she forced herself to say with as much feigned nonchalance as she could muster. “I find myself wondering whether you prefer poetry or prose and whether or not you take sugar in your tea.”
“Poetry and tea?” The frown returned, furrowing his brow. “If those are your most pressing bloody thoughts this morning, then I’ve been terribly remiss.”
Of course they hadn’t been her first thoughts. She searched his face now, wondering if he was dismayed or he was teasing her. “You haven’t been remiss, Your… Sebastian.”
A slow smile curved his lips, his dimple reemerging to taunt her. “I must have done something right in order to only receive half a Your Grace.”
He was teasing her, alright. She was certain of it. This was a different side of her husband, one she’d yet to see. He seemed at once self-possessed and perfectly at home, yet vulnerable. His customary ice had thawed. And here, in this distrait morning light, she felt as though she were perhaps seeing the true Sebastian for the first time.
“You’ve done many things right,” she told him, blushing even more furiously as the words left her lips. Sweet Lord, what was she saying? She’d meant that he had been kind and honorable, had rescued her from an intolerable situation when he hadn’t owed her anything, and that he’d stood up against her father on her behalf. That he’d touched her with the sort of worship she’d never imagined possible.
But as his deep, blue gaze bored into hers, the air between them was suddenly heavy, charged with sexual innuendo she hadn’t intended.
“I could do more things right,” he told her with unrepentant cheek. “Perhaps we could pare it down to a one quarter Your Grace by the time we break our fast.”
