The introduction toRayne’s domestics proved lengthy and awkward.
Settling herself in her new chamber had been strange indeed. Her trunks were still arriving from Hamilton House by the time dinner began.
After dinner concluded, Catriona was dazed and exhausted. She expected to retire to her chamber and await the wedding night her mother had warned her she would face.
You must lie still, Catriona.
Distract yourself as best you can. Think of the weather. Perhaps recite your favorite psalm.
There will be pain.
Pray your husband is quick and merciful with his attentions.
None of which had sounded particularly promising to Catriona, who had already been harboring an endless font of foreboding in regard to becoming Rayne’s wife.
And all of which was why her new husband’s suggestion took her by surprise.
“Shall we retire to the library, my lady?” he asked formally as he offered her his arm to escort her from the dining room.
“My lord?” she looked at him askance. “I was given to understand you would expect…”
A muscle in his jaw clenched. He was so darkly beautiful in that moment she could almost forget what was to come. She could almost, in fact, welcome it in spite of her misgivings.
“I am not a beast, Catriona,” he said in a low voice so the servants attending them could not overhear.
Once again, her husband left her an odd combination of flustered and confused. “I had not believed you to be one,” she returned, even though she was not entirely certain it was the truth.
But just the same, she allowed him to escort her to the library. Once inside the book-lined chamber, she settled herself upon a striped divan and watched as he strode to a sideboard. She could not deny he cut a fine figure in his well-fitted breeches, which clung to his long, muscled legs like a second skin.
As she watched, he poured two snifters of brandy before returning to her side and extending one to her in offering. When she accepted it, their fingers brushed. A jolt of awareness shot through her. Their gazes met and held.
“Thank you,” she forced herself to say.
He inclined his head. “You are most welcome,querida.”
Dear.
There he went again, calling her by an endearment with such effortless ease, making her feel things she did not want to feel, things she had only ever felt once before…wicked things. Things that had led to her ruination.
Only, this time, they were far stronger than they had ever been before.
And then, he settled upon the divan at her side.
Devastatingly near.
He flashed her a rare smile. “Take a sip, Catriona.”
She did as he suggested, taking just a tentative taste of the stuff. It was potent and bold on her tongue, with a hint of floral sweetness. “Are you attempting to get me in my cups, my lord?” she could not resist asking.
“Alessandro,” he reminded her, raising his own snifter to his lips and taking a long, slow drag.
With his head tilted back, his cravat tied in an understated knot, she caught a glimpse of his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. A fiery rush of heat washed over her, and she could not be certain if the reaction was owed to the brandy or to him.
“Alessandro,” she repeated.
How strangely intimate it felt to call him by his given name.
An intimacy which was only heightened by his nearness.
