“You can have my freckles if you wish,” she said then, severing the moment because she had to, lest they hide themselves away in this dilapidated tower forever. “I shall not mind giving them over one bit. But perhaps we ought to return to the wedding breakfast, should we not?”
His gaze warmed, and the slow smile he gave her made her heart lurch. “Are you certain, my dear?”
“Of course.” She tried for bravado and failed, settling for a sheepish grin and an attempt at humor instead. “My arse has fallen asleep.”
Chapter Fourteen
That evening, Griffinstood in the hall, staring at the door separating him from Lady Violet.
Violet, he corrected himself inwardly. NotLady Violet, for if she were to be referred to by any title after this morning, it would be the Duchess of Strathmore.
His wife.
Though hours had passed since he had solemnly offered his vows to her in the small chapel before their tiny crowd of guests and the vicar, it seemed a dreamlike lifetime away. They had eschewed tradition, since there was no honeymoon for a bride and groom marrying in sudden secrecy, particularly when the dark clouds of suspicion and uncertainty haunted the groom like a predator. And they had then spent the bulk of the day apart, as he worked alongside Carlisle, Ludlow, and O’Malley to determine a course of action for both clearing his name, and uncovering the true villain hiding within the League ranks.
It seemed, in fact, with the sun down and the house blanketed in nighttime quiet, surreal they had married at all. As if it had never happened. Part of him expected to wake in bed at Lark House, still imprisoned, longing desperately for one gorgeous, rose-scented woman to join him.
Longing for his dark-haired spitfire with the mouth that would not cease calling to him. With a past to rival his. With the kind heart and laughing eyes and delectable curves. She was so damned beautiful, she made him ache, even when he was not in her presence. Too good for him, it was certain. He did not deserve her.
Their connection earlier, when she had fled from the wedding breakfast, had taken him by surprise. But now, and with the aid of some whisky he had enjoyed with Ludlow, Carlisle, and Cullen following their reconnoitering, it made perfect sense. With just enough spirits to dull his self-doubts, he felt as if he could conquer the world.
Or as if he could face his wedding night with the best, loveliest, and most selfless woman he had ever known. Her belief in him, and determination to aid him in proving his innocence, continued to defy both logic and common sense, but he would take it. He would take it happily, and he would take her…
Damnation.
He went rigid, right there in the hall, staring at the surface of a bloody door. Alone. In the dark. His cock was harder than it had ever been, raging against his trousers, his ballocks tight.
How ridiculous he was, as if he possessed not a modicum of control over his own body. As if she ruled him already, only hours into their union.My God, was he as helpless a case as Ludlow and Carlisle? He hoped not, for both men had lost their heads for their wives.
He took a deep, calming breath, knowing he could not stand about in the corridor forever, fist raised in anticipation of announcing his presence. He would have to set knuckles to wood. Would have to make himself known. Would have to cross the threshold and face the breathtaking spitfire he had made his wife.
Quiet had already descended upon the sprawling home for the evening, and he knew he had tarried for too long with his friends, fretting over what was to come after he rendered this union. He had promised her everything that morning, first within their vows, and later in the sheltered cove of the old tower she had retreated to. And he had no guarantee he would be able to live up to those promises.
He knocked.
Once.
No answer.
A second time, and still no answer.
He knocked a third time, much louder, and for several beats. Five succinct knocks in a row. Still not one response met him from the other side of the door. Perhaps she was already asleep. It was possible. Their whirlwind dash from Lark House across the countryside, coupled with their hasty marriage vows and a wedding, all whilst surrounded by people who, while warm and loving and wonderful, were all unfamiliar to her, would be more than enough excuse.
It was just as well, he told himself. He could return to his chamber, use his hand to—
The door clicked open, and there she was, enough to take his breath. Her hair was unbound, running down her back in a trail of rich curls. She wore a dressing gown belted at the waist, her trim ankles and elegant feet peeping from beneath the hem.
For a moment, he simply stared at her, just drinking her in, incapable of speech. Christ, but she was lovely. So lovely, she made him ache. That she was his seemed a reverie. An impossibility.
Her countenance was solemn.
“Wife,” he greeted her softly, testing the word on his tongue. He had said it before, but it was yet new and strange and, somehow, also sacred.
It was also apparently the right choice, for her expression instantly softened, a matching smile curving her beautiful lips. “Husband.” She stepped back, opening the door wider. “I was hoping you would join me.”
Her admission set off an answering spark inside him as he crossed the threshold and closed the door at his back. He stood opposite her, overwhelmed by his emotions and her beauty, and the deep-seated need roiling inside him to touch her. To take her at last. “You were?”
Her prim smile deepened. “Of course.”
