“Good evening,” she returned, not sure what to do or say.
He had told her he would not expect her in his bed. Had he come here to go back on his word so quickly? Would she mind?
No, said her body.
Yes, said her mind.
“You need not fear I am a beast come to make demands upon you,” he said calmly, as if he had read her thoughts.
Shame made her cheeks go hot. “That is not what I thought.”
That was a lie, of course.
He cocked his head, considering her, still unmoving at the threshold. “You do not need to prevaricate, Pippa. I can read your expression quite readily. There were, I fancy, equal parts alarm and interest in spite of yourself when you first saw me.”
Interest, yes. And quite a lot of it.
She swallowed. Because the desire for him, which had been simmering beneath the surface of their every interaction for the last few weeks—easier to quell when she initially had believed him capable of despicable deeds—burned suddenly hotter in the absence of impediments. They were married. She could touch him. Kiss him. He could spend the night in her chamber without fear of scandal or rumor or recrimination.
“It is our wedding night, and you are at my chamber door,” she said instead of giving voice to any of those aberrant thoughts. “What was I to think?”
“You were to have trusted me.” His smile faded. “I gave you my word, Pippa.”
“Trusting anyone is difficult at the moment.”
“I understand.” He gestured toward her chamber. “May I?”
Her sense of self-preservation screamed at her to deny him entry. To tell him he could say everything he required with this expanse between them. And yet, he had been nothing but the perfect gentleman in every way. Even when he had spent the night on her floor in London, he had never pressed his suit. All he had done, thus far, was to protect her and Charlotte.
And mayhap she could believe in that. Roland was not George. He was vastly different.
She nodded. “Come in.”
He did, sauntering toward her in knowing, long-limbed strides. The very air in the room changed. Came to life. Warmth pooled in her belly as a new sense of awareness overcame her.
He stopped near enough to bring his decadent scent, which seemed stronger this evening. The ends of his dark hair were wet. He must have bathed. An instant, wicked image of him naked in his bath, water glistening on the muscles of his chest and arms, rose before she could chase it. Her heart kicked into a gallop.
“I came to check on you, Pippa,” he said, an unusual new note in his voice.
Tenderness, she thought. Concern as well.
“That was kind of you.” Her gaze dipped to his mouth, and she thought of the way his lips had felt on hers. They had yet to kiss as husband and wife. For some reason, the omission bothered her now.
“It is my duty as your husband to look after your welfare.” His dark gaze commanded hers back to it. Their stares met and clung. “How is your head this evening after so much travel and upheaval?”
“It is satisfactory, thank you. In truth, the worst of it now is my neck, which seems to have been jarred by the blow.” Wincing, she rubbed the tight cords there, beneath the curtain of her hair. “My muscles have tensed dreadfully.”
He held out a hand to her, palm up. “Come.”
“Where?” she asked, her suspicions rising once more in spite of her desire to trust in him.
“To my chamber.” His dark brows rose. “Surely you do not suppose, having just informed you I have no intention of ravishing you, that I am now forcing you to my chamber so I may make an utter liar of myself, thereby rendering you incapable of trusting me ever again, do you?”
When he phrased it thus, her instinctive reaction did indeed seem silly. But her trust, while once easily given, was now in short supply. Still, it had been another man responsible for that shift, for the dearth.
And that man was not here.
Roland is nothing like George, she reminded herself once more.
