This husband was uninjured, so it should present no difficulties at all.
After Kitty had washed behind the screen, Henry passed through the nightgown. That showed how little she knew.
“Just the robe,” Kitty said.
Once wrapped in the blue woolen robe, she emerged and sent Henry away. She needed a moment to steady herself against returning doubts.
Marcus had always seemed pleased with her, but he’d been so damaged. Perhaps that had led him to overlook her flaws. She didn’t have the body of a Greek goddess or the face of a Botticelli Madonna. What’s more, Braydon hadn’t chosen her from a host of others. She’d been conveniently to hand.
She was sure he could have—had!—attracted the finest, most beautiful women to his bed, in England, France, Spain, and even Turkey. Now he had her.
She studied herself in the mirror. Her nose seemed even longer than usual and her chin squarer. At least her hair was unchanged. Henry had thought Braydon would like it, but what did Henry know? He probably preferred hair as sleek and polished as he was.
Enough.The choice had been his. It would be unreasonable for him to find fault now, but he could complain of tardiness. She extinguished the candles and hurried to the adjoining door.
Sillikin came with her.
Kitty crouched down. “No. I’m married again, so you can’t sleep in my bed. Oh, I wish you could truly understand me. Stay!” Then she slipped through the door into her husband’s bedroom, closing it quickly in case the dog disobeyed, and turning.
He wasn’t in bed. He was standing facing her, in a fawn banyan robe. He, too, had extinguished the candles, so only firelight lit him, casting a ruddy tone on his blond hair.
One difference from before: this husband preferred less light.
“I’m sorry,” she said, slightly breathless. “I took too much time.”
“You must always take as much time as you wish.” His tone seemed strange, but that was probably her nerves. Her heart was thumping.
And he wasn’t in the bed.
Another difference.
All she could do was carry on. She undid her robe and took it off. His intent look could be appreciative. Or not. He was so damnably unreadable.
After a moment he said, “Your hair is magnificent.”
A small, relieved breath escaped. “It will never be smooth and shiny.”
“Nor should it be.”
She placed her robe neatly over a chair, wondering how to proceed. She was sure he was experienced, but perhaps not of marriage. Whores and concubines could well do things differently. In fact, she’d seen some interestingpictures. In chairs. On swings. Almost upside down. She could only continue as normal, but he was still standing there.
“If you would get into bed, husband?”
He smiled. Perhaps it was only the softening effect of firelight, but it seemed untarnished by other emotions. He took off his robe and laid it neatly over a chair, just as she had. With Marcus, his valet had already settled him in bed and he’d worn a nightshirt.
She was glad Braydon had turned away to disrobe, or he might have seen her reaction to a naked male. And such a one! She’d known he lacked significant wounds and was well formed, but not that he would be perfection. His long, sleek muscles reminded her of a statue she’d seen of a classical athlete. She’d read that such athletes oiled their bodies. A vision of oiling her husband turned anxiety into a flush of pure desire. Instantly she clenched inside.
He glanced at her only briefly before climbing into the bed and lying there, on his back, just as he should. And ready. There’d be no need to help that along. Thank heavens, for she was ready, too. It had been so long, so very long, and he was stretched out in manly perfection, waiting for her pleasure.
She climbed onto the bed and straddled his thighs, smiling at him. It was only polite to smile, but it was genuine. He was so beautiful, and his thick, thrusting cock promised her such pleasure.
She slid a finger inside herself, then stroked the cream up his penis to the tip. It jerked. He inhaled. Smiling even more, she slid down over him, slowly, slowly, appreciating every inch, but watching him for signs of discomfort. But this man didn’t have poorly healed bones and knotted sinews, and the way he was filling her was pure ecstasy.
She forced her eyes open to be sure he was all right.
He was watching her. His lips were parted, but in the dim light she couldn’t read much. It was for him to object if he needed to, or to guide her if he wanted something more.
She was aching with need and could race toward her pleasure, but she made herself move slowly, trying to serve his needs, as a good wife should. But her eyes kept closing on their own as she sank deeper into the sliding heat.
