Elizabeth wasn’t certain she had done splendidly. However, she hoped that she had made at least a passable presentation of herself as his viscountess. For their parts, his friends the Earl and Countess of Rayne had been welcoming hosts, and within moments of their arrival, she had realized she had been fretting over the night without cause.
“Thank you,” she murmured, pleased by his compliment nonetheless. “Everyone was so kind to me.”
“Rayne is an excellent chap,” Torrie said easily, settling his hand over hers in her lap, lacing their fingers together. “And the countess is Monty’s sister, so she’s a good sort as well.”
“How long have you known them?” she asked, before realizing she had misspoken and hurrying to amend her question. “Forgive me. That was dreadfully rude of me. I didn’t mean to bring up an unsettling subject.”
He gave her fingers a squeeze. “You needn’t apologize, Bess. I’m accustomed to questions like that by now. At first, after my accident, it was more difficult for me to accept than it is now that most of my memory is gone. I’ve had ample time to live with it.”
“How long has it been since the accident?”
“Two years.” His thumb found the sensitive skin of her inner wrist beneath her kid glove and sleeve, playing over her in light circles.
“Do you suppose your memory will ever return?”
The question fled her before she could think better of it, motivated by her own fear. Because if her husbanddidremember everything, she had no notion of where it would leave the two of them and this fragile truce they’d struck thus far in their marriage.
What if he remembered everything one day, and he would once again think of her as the plain, plump partridge? What if he regretted marrying her?
“Pray don’t answer,” she rushed to say. “I shouldn’t have asked you.”
“I don’t know if it will,” he answered, voice low and decadent, like velvet to her senses. “At first, I wished for nothing more than for it to be restored. My friends and family knew a life I didn’t. I looked at them and saw strangers. It was…odd in a way I cannot explain. But over time, that changed for me. Now, I try not to be as concerned with what I’ve lost as I am with what I’ve gained.”
The look he gave her was pure sensual intent.
Her breath caught. “And what have you gained?”
“I’ve rebuilt friendships.” He gave her hand a gentle tug. “And I’ve found a wife.” He brought her hand to his lips for a reverent kiss, and she wished she weren’t wearing gloves. “Now tell me, how are you feeling after my dreadfully thoughtless revelation before supper?”
She had been doing her utmost not to think of it during the carriage ride to the earl’s town house and the subsequent meal they had shared. If she thought about it for too long, her emotions swelled to an uncomfortable crescendo. She was still shocked, she supposed, and equal parts angry and sad.
“It changes nothing for me,” she said slowly, struggling to sort out her complicated tangle of feelings. “My parents are gone, Mince Pie is gone, Buxton is gone, and anything that remained of the trust he left is long gone as well. I cannot go back in time and right the wrongs which have been done. All I can do is move forward.”
He kissed her hand again. “Have I told you how much I admire your strength?”
She hardly felt strong.
She felt, most days, desperately weak. Especially where he was concerned.
“You’re too good to me,” she said thickly, moved by the expression on his face, the careful way he had been at her side all evening.
It was far more than she had ever dared to hope from him, particularly given the nature of their marriage.
“Oh, but I could be better.” He gave her a wicked smile that sent smoldering heat straight through her. “Would you like that?”
She forgot about the past at once. Forgot about her fears for the future. All that mattered was this moment. This man.
“Yes,” she said, breathless again. “Please.”
“Come here,” he invited, patting his lap.
Fresh heat pulsed between her thighs. Her body was more attuned to his than ever, and she had spent much of supper longing for his touch rather than paying attention to the conversation or the food on her plate.
“How?” she asked, eying his lap and thinking there was scarcely sufficient room for her there.
“I’ll show you.”
With his tender guidance, she found herself astride him, her gown and redingote pooled about her, her thighs on either side of his, knees bent on the Moroccan leather squabs. The position left her open to him, the texture of his trousers over his muscled thighs pressing shockingly—delightfully—into her most intimate flesh.
