“I shall do the same with your charms,” she found herself saying.
Foolishly.
Most definitely the fault of the wine.
His smile deepened, causing small grooves to flank the corners of his eyes. “You think I possess charms?”
More heat unfurled, and her cheeks went hot as her gaze settled upon his lips. “Your mouth is quite fine.”
Oh dear. Why had she said that aloud?
“Now I know you are bosky for certain,” he said softly, a teasing air about him.
She felt comfortable with him. The discovery surprised her, for she still knew shockingly little about him, save that he had unexpectedly inherited the title, that he had never intended to marry, and that he had once been a member of Scotland Yard.
“I hope you will forgive me for the Sauternes,” she said weakly.
“I have no intention of consummating the marriage,” he told her, the smile fleeing from his lips. “I will honor your request. Three months. If you were drowning yourself in wine for that reason…”
“No,” she hastened to reassure him. “I was merely…nervous, I suppose. I have never been anyone’s wife before.”
“As I have never been anyone’s husband, I reckon we are in the same territory.”
“I reckon we are.”
And currently, that territory was her chamber. On the floor. How silly he must think her. Another hiccup rose before she could squelch it.
“I do believe some sustenance is in order,” he said wryly.
Once more, Elysande agreed with her new husband.
Perhaps this would be a pleasant marriage despite her misgivings.
Chapter 4
This marriage was going to be torture.
Three months without touching his wife…
What the bloody hell had he been thinking?
Hudson stripped off his coat and laid it on the bank of the large, manmade lake which was downhill from Brinton Manor, and blessedly private, thanks to an overgrown copse of trees. He had spent a fitful night’s sleep, plagued by thoughts of the lovely woman he had married, separated from him by a mere door.
He shrugged out of his waistcoat next, and laid it atop the coat. Perhaps it was that she was forbidden. Or perhaps it was the time he had spent in her presence the day before. She continued to surprise him. There was something about her which was refreshing. And alluring. And…seductive, curse it. They had shared a light repast in the dining room and as the effects of the wine had lessened, she had told him more about her family.
She adored them, it was apparent. Hudson found himself envious of the manner in which she had been raised, surrounded by loving siblings and parents. His own father had been a cold, emotionless man, and his mother had died in childbirth along with his only brother when he had been but a young lad. He admired her love for her sister, so strong that she would marry just to allow Lady Isolde to find her own happiness.
He pulled his shirt from his trousers, undid the buttons, and dropped it upon the hastily growing pile of garments. They had both retired early, weary after the tremendous upheaval of the day. She had called for a bath, and he had been tormented by the sound of her in her tub. The rooms in Brinton Manor were hardly as large as those in the sprawling Talleyrand Park, which rendered the novelty of having a wife in residence interesting in a new way. He could hear her movements. The gentle lap of the water.
And bastard that he was, he had lain in his bed, trying to think of anything else, and nonetheless envisioning her nude, the water sluicing over her silken curves. He had imagined the way the soap would have clung to her breasts. Her dark hair wet and streaming down her back. He had thought about taking up a cloth and washing her himself. And then his cockstand had been merciless and insistent.
Taking himself in hand whilst she was at her bath had seemed an intrusion of her privacy. The act of a scoundrel. And so, he had rolled over to his stomach, buried his face in the pillow, and attempted to drift into the welcoming depths of slumber. His plan had eventually worked. However, he had awakened at dawn, as was his customary practice, to another raging erection.
Damned inconvenient, especially given his inability to touch her for the next three months. The instant he could finish settling estate matters with Saunders and return to London, he would be gone. When she was no longer near, he was certain his inconvenient and unexpected lust for his new bride would diminish.
For now, he had no cure save a swim in the very cold, very obliging, lake. He toed off his shoes and unbuttoned the fall of his trousers, shucking those and his stockings. With a hasty look around to make certain there was not an errant soul anywhere about, he whipped off his smalls. The early morning air was cool, but it did nothing to quell the fire roaring through his blood.
Since his arrival at Brinton Manor, he had taken some small measure of comfort in the presence of this lake, where he might indulge in a morning swim. Swimming had been the only skill his father had deigned to teach him, and that only to keep him from drowning should he ever fall into a body of water. Necessity rather than the desire to spend any time with his son.
