“Well, thank you.”
Her voice was polite, yet stilted. The easiness between them, which had marked the latter portion of the evening, appeared to have fled. He had dismissed the servants that they might enjoy a more private breakfast for their first morning, not just at Wylde Park, but as husband and wife.
He could not help but take note that the amount of food on her plate was not sufficient to satisfy a bird. “Are you not hungry this morning, my dear?”
“I am not accustomed to such a large first meal,” she said softly. “When it was only myself, I often took tea and toast later in the morning.”
Tea and toast? Little wonder she was so frail.
He resisted the urge to load her plate for her. “The new cook, Mrs. Dryden, excels at making eggs. I promise you will never have tasted any quite like them. Her omelets are divine.”
You look as if you could be carried away by a stern wind, he might have said, but kept that bit to himself.
“I was never terribly fond of eggs,” she offered.
“You will change your mind when you have a bite of these, I promise.”
He was endeavoring to keep things between them light. Their abrupt change in circumstance was as overwhelming for him as he had no doubt it was for her. However, he was still the same man who had fallen in love with her five years ago. The same man who had never stopped loving her, despite time, despite distance, despite all reason. And that man had been forced to summon every speck of will he possessed to keep from taking her lips last night. To keep from gathering her up in his arms and carrying her to his bed where he could make love to her all night long.
Touching her had been a joy and a torment. He had not wanted to stop. But although she was his wife, he knew he needed to proceed slowly and with caution. She had just been through some very traumatic and trying situations. And in addition to the shock of discovering the man she had married had been a criminal, she had been physically attacked. He intended to work very hard to earn her trust, to slowly woo and win her. This was his second chance, and he had no intention of squandering it.
To his surprise, she took up some of the omelet and arranged it on her plate, casting him a sidelong smile. “There. Are you happy now?”
He could be far, far happier.
But this was a start, and he was well pleased that she had not chosen to ignore him altogether, and that some of her morning ice had begun to melt. “I will be happier when you tell me how delicious it is.” He winked at her.
By the bright light of the Yorkshire sun, the day seemed rife with endless possibilities. Without the specter of George Shaw’s London mercenaries hanging over them, the air was almost…relaxed.
“I will have to taste it first,” she said with a wry smile of her own that drew his attention to her mouth.
Those berry-pink lips called to him more than ever. He forgot about his plate, and in his distraction, it tipped forward, sending a rasher of bacon and half his omelet to the floor. It landed on the carpet with a dull thud.
“Blast,” he muttered, glancing down at the mess he had made.
“Oh dear,” Pippa exclaimed. “You have some omelet on your shoe.”
So he did. A fat yellow glob clung tenaciously to the leather. He moved his foot and sent it to join the remainder of his mess, but the damage was done. The leather bore a stain from the rich, buttery eggs.
“Perhaps I shall have to change them.” And bother that. He was hungry.
But Pippa had already taken up a linen napkin. She sank to her knees, dabbing at the stain on his shoe. And the sight of her there, before him, had a dangerous effect on him.
His cockstand was instant.
“No need for you to do that,” he choked out, willing his erection to go away.
He felt like a Satyr, lusting after her as she attempted to clean his damned shoe. What was the matter with him? Had he no control over his own body? He, who prided himself on honing his muscles into a well-practiced machine, found this particular inability on his behalf damned frustrating. To say nothing of the inconvenience.
Pippa glanced up. “I do not mind. I…oh.”
Her cheeks went pink and her gaze, settled upon the straining portion of his anatomy he had been unable to control, was wide.
What could he say? Was there a protocol in existence for apologizing to one’s new wife for wanting her so badly that he was practically about to spend in his trousers merely because she had knelt before him?
He was a beast.
But not even this realization had an effect upon his prick. Roland remained as rigid as ever.
