“I had no wish to bring back unhappy memories,” she offered as he reached her, bringing with him the scents of fresh, clean air, mown grass, and summer.
“You did nothing of the sort.” His gaze scoured her face. “You did not sleep well?”
How good of him to note the plum half circles which had made themselves known this morning when she had peered in the looking glass.
“Well enough,” she hedged. “Why do you ask?”
“Your lights were on until nearly dawn.”
He had noticed. But he had not come to her again. Once more, she did not know what to make of this man she had married. He was a handsome, perplexing mystery.
“I was reading.” That was not entirely truthful. She had beenattemptingto read, seeking distraction. Her body had been humming with new awareness and desire after their interlude beneath the stars. She felt as if she had been brought back to life.
And then she had chosen the wrong words, and her husband, who had been so sensual and raw and open with her up until that moment, had settled his mask back into place and sent her on her way.
“Until dawn?” he prodded, unsmiling.
So very serious today. She missed the teasing banter, thealmostreturn to the young, carefree man and woman they had been at that Oxfordshire house party. Mayhap it had been the repeat of the night they had watched the stars together that had made it feel that way. Certainly, that long-ago night had been far more innocent. But how easy it had been to imagine herself back in that place and time. To forget all her worries and cares beneath the silver light of Cepheus and Draco and the moon. To ignore the reality that she had been forced to flee London for the safety of herself and her daughter.
Although she felt reasonably secure here, far removed from London and her unknown assailant, the fear remained, lingering beneath the surface of every moment along with the questions. What if Scotland Yard never solved the case? What if she was forever doomed to be haunted by George’s crimes, afraid of the shadows in the midst of the night?
“The book was fascinating,” she invented, pulling her mind from the dangers yet facing her and the longing for her unfettered past with him. “I could not go to sleep until I reached the end.”
“Oh? And which book held you such a rapt audience all night long?”
Drat.She could not recall the title of the volume, which she had spent a great deal of time paging through, only to stare into damask walls and think abouthim. And to worry over the future. His, theirs, Charlotte’s.
“Does it matter?” she asked, attempting to distract him rather than admit she had not been reading at all, but ruminating.
And reliving their wild coupling as well. She could not deny that she had lain awake, touching herself, thinking of him. That she had never understood lovemaking could be so…consuming and passionate.
Her eyes were open. Her heart still locked away. But even for all that, she hoped she had not committed an egregious error last night as much as she hoped Scotland Yard would put the man responsible for her attack in prison forever. And that Roland could forget her faux pas.
“I suppose it does not,” he said at last. “As long as it was truly reading which kept you awake.”
How did he know? How did healwaysknow?
Her cheeks were warm. She was sure she was flushing. “Mostly.”
His gaze dipped to her lips. “Regrets?”
“One.”
His nostrils flared. “Oh?”
“The way the evening ended between us,” she elaborated. “I misspoke, when I mentioned George.”
He gave her a small smile. “My pride got the better of me, Pippa. After what had just happened, knowing you were thinking of him…well, I must beg your pardon, both for my reaction and for the manner in which I consummated our marriage on the grass. It was not my intention when I invited you to observe the constellations with me, and I hope you do not think you have married an unconscionable beast.”
A beast? Goodness no.
She searched his countenance, struggling to find the appropriate words for her response. “I was not thinking of him, not in the manner you suggest. When I do think of him now, it is not with grief or longing or love. It is with anger. Understanding the depth of his treachery has taken me some time. When one believes the best of someone for so long, only to discover everything has been a cruelly perpetuated falsehood, it is difficult.”
“Christ. Of course it is.” He reached for her hands, taking them from her skirts and bringing them both to his lips for a kiss on the knuckles of each one. “Forgive me for being an oaf.”
“You are not an oaf. Hardly so. You have been nothing but wonderful to myself and Charlotte. You have rescued us, when you had no reason to.”
“I had reason.”
