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Chapter Fifteen
Inside the carriage, Rayne tilted his head and studied his wife, half-smiling, bemused. Sometime after their first watering stop, Julia removed her glove, and she had since spent an inordinate amount of time gazing down at her diamond.
For the first time since he’d known her, he’d managed to stupefy the minx.
Truth be told, he, too, relished the way his diamond wrapped around her narrow finger—an external symbol of an internal change.
Nonsense, really. A mere token—not a sign he could as easily remake himself into someone she would admire. But, admirable or not, he was now her husband.
Strange things, vows before witnesses. You could say the same words at any time, any day, any place, but speak them before a man with a book and an official air, and suddenly, Julia was endowed with all his worldly goods.
And, though theworldly goodsportion of his vow kept food on solicitors’ tables by necessitating lengthy marriage contracts, Rayne could hardly bring himself to care. Right now, his main concern was the forthcoming body worship.
His wealth, he’d inherited. He’d worked for his scars. The same scars and quirks that frustrated his attempts to be gentle. Careful. Kind—all of the things due a romantic bride on her wedding night.
As they pulled into the courtyard of The Bush, Julia replaced her glove, laid her hand against his knee, and squeezed—an intimate gesture. The gesture of a wife.
He kissed her glove, just over the protuberance beneath the leather.
We’ll learn as we go.
He’d borrowed Farring’s certainty of his worth to ask her to wed. He’d make it through the rest of the night by borrowing her optimism.
Atkinson, the same head waiter they’d met earlier in the day, greeted them at the carriage. He introduced them to Sarah, the proprietress, who requested the privilege of escorting them to a room she’d specially arranged—her very best, she assured.
Rayne directed Julia through the crowd with a hand on the small of her back. Touching Julia’s spine renewed his unjustified feeling of pride. Unjustified, in this case, for subjecting Julia—on this momentous occasion—to a rented room.
No matter the excuse he’d given, the master’s rooms at the Grange could have been aired and prepared in time. But the five-hundred-year-old bed, dour bed curtains, thin-windowed darkness, and hideous tapestry weren’t likely to ease Julia’s strain or enhance his forbearance.
Gentle. Careful. Kind.
The very opposite of everything the Grange embodied.
And, since he could offer her no comfort akin to Southford or even Periwinkle Gate, he arranged ahead of time to make this alternative as pleasing as possible.
As Sarah pointed out the new bedding he’d requested and paid for, Julia sent him a small, grateful smile.Not noble.His heart wrung tight, leeching moisture out of his throat.Just desperate.Robbed of every trick but wishing to dazzle just the same.
Then, terrifyingly, Sarah left them alone.
“Between Bromton and your brother”—he closed the door—“you may be able to have this marriage annulled. Unless we continue, that is.”
“I gave my word.” Her voice washed through him, sultry and thick.
She tugged the tip of the glove on each finger, slowly revealing one delicate, veined wrist. She tossed the glove on the table and then proceeded to uncover her other hand.
Three days he’d stroked, licked, and savored every inch of her skin, and yet the sight quickened his breath. Desire, of course, but also fear.
He’d never bedded a virgin before—but he’d heard stories. And he’d no idea which to believe nor what to expect. Any reaction seemed equally possible: stoic resistance to tears; from soaking bloody bedsheets to no drop of evidence at all.
He’d lingered at Periwinkle Gate not only because Julia wished to be introduced to Theo, Annette, and the duchess, but because he’d wanted to exhaust his inner rutting bull.
Gentle.
Careful.
Kind.
