He eased her around, turning her until she lay with her head on the pillow inches from his. In this light, his eyes appeared more green than brown. Just like hers. His hair, tangled and messy, fell across his forehead, silvery strands catching the light, and stubble grazed his chin. He was as imperfect as her in the morning. A new revelation, and one she delighted in.
His body did not resemble that of the Greek statues she’d seen, but she found she preferred the lack of chiselled perfection. He was human. Delightfully so, his skin occasionally rough but always warm, with arms that made her feel safe and eyes that saw straight through her.
“That depends,” he said with the ghost of a smile, hand still resting on the curve of her hip, right where she knew her hipbone jutted out. “Have you changed your mind about loving me?”
“Can one change one’s mind about that so soon?”
“Not if they meant it to begin with.”
“I did,” she said, with more confidence than she’d initially felt, but the more she reflected on it, the more right it seemed. “This is new for me. I’ve never been in love before.”
“Not even with William Devereaux?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I thought I was, but I was mistaken.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.”
“What about you?”
“This is my first time being love, too.”
“Truly?”
He smiled. “Truly.”
“Oh.” She pressed a hand to his heart once more. “So you won’t leave?”
“Would you like me to?”
“No,” she said, too fast.
“Well then.” He bent to kiss her, and she marvelled at the feeling of his mouth against hers—the certainty that this would become more familiar to her than breathing.
“Well then,” she said, and kissed him back.
Considering this was not the first time Percy had lain with a woman, he rather suspected his eagerness was unseemly.
Then again, was there anything more indicative of youthfulness—a rarity at his age—than unseemly eagerness to remove one’s wife’s clothes? He thought not, and so he took no pains to hide his impatience, only submitting to dine when they arrived at Holyhead because the cook had been good enough to provide a large meal.
Cecily, for her part, picked at her dinner like a baby bird, declining most courses. He ate heartily, as he often did—though he found that with age there was a far more direct correlation to the amount he ate and the size of his waist—but his mind was elsewhere. Partially upstairs, and partially consumed with the distance between him and his wife.
At the beginning of their marriage, dining at opposite ends of the table had felt like a necessary formality. He could not entirely rule out the possibility that she might choose to hurl a knife at him and begin her life as a fugitive.
Now, he flattered himself, such an event was unlikely.
She cocked her head at him. “You’re staring at me.”
He raised a brow. “Should I not stare at my wife?” His gaze dropped to her plate. “You haven’t eaten very much.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“No?” He met her gaze. “A shame. I am very hungry indeed.”
Her eyes smouldered. To think this was the same girl who had never once reached her climax with him, no matter how patiently he applied himself to her. Truly, things had changed. Though, he reminded himself, he should keep in mind that he should go slowly with her, no matter her newfound enthusiasm.
He pushed back his plate. “Shall we retire?”
“Do you not intend to meet with your steward?”
