“As my duchess wishes,” he said impassively, moving across the chamber to where her bed awaited them both, thecounterpane turned down in anticipation of what should have been a peaceful evening’s sleep.
She followed him, arms folded at her waist as if they were a shield that would keep him at bay. Her mother’s words of advice—issued before Sybil’s marriage—chose that moment to return. She had explained that Sybil must lie on the bed and receive her husband. Sybil had been too embarrassed to ask for a more thorough description. She did know a bit more thanks to her gossiping cousin Amelia, who had married the year before. Enough to know what Riverdale was meant to do with his manhood.
The thought made a faint rush of dizziness pass through her. It hardly seemed possible. Little wonder cousin Amelia had claimed the marriage bed had been painful. The sheer size of His Grace’s anatomy seemed to render such a deed impossible, if not implausible.
Sybil settled herself on the edge of the bed and then lay back, swinging her legs along with her.
Scowling, Riverdale hovered over her. “What the devil are you doing?”
Had she displeased him so soon? Well, this had been his idea and not hers. She didn’t think she cared if she was the source of his discontent.
“Awaiting your attentions,” she explained.
He stared at her as if she had announced her intention to swim across the ocean to America.
Heat warmed her cheeks. She had never felt more foolish in her life.
“Well?” she demanded. “Pray, carry on with whatever you must do.”
“You need to disrobe, madam.”
She stared up at him, aghast at his proclamation. Sybil didn’t want to be naked with her husband. To be vulnerable to him. To feel thingswithhim andbecauseof him.
“Can it not be done whilst I’m clothed?”
“No.”
“Of course it can,” she burst out, vexed with his contrariness. “My mother told me it’s the way of things, that a lady’s modesty should be a gentleman’s foremost consideration.”
“Well, I’m afraid your mother was wrong.”
The vexing man. Why was he intent upon making this more difficult than it needed to be?
“All you must do is lift my hems.”
“And you’ll lie there as stiff as a bloody corpse?” He sneered. “I think not.”
“I know what I am meant to do,” she countered sternly. “You will take your pleasure, and then I can go to sleep.”
“Madam?”
“I’m not taking off my night rail,” she snapped. “The dressing gown will have to be sufficient.”
With that concession fitfully made, she sat up and began furiously pulling buttons from their moorings before shrugging the robe to the floor. The garment beneath would have to do for her modesty’s sake.
His eyes swept over her, burning and hot, making a prickle of awareness creep across her skin. “Where did you find such a hideous garment?”
It was indeed unsightly, and she knew it. Sybil had chosen the night rail with the intent that he would be thwarted by the double row of tiny buttons firmly keeping her bare skin from his unwanted gaze.
“I bought it myself.” She lay down on her back once more, staring at the ceiling of the bedchamber.
“What the devil are you doing?” he demanded.
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
She turned her head to the side, thoroughly nettled as she watched him frowning down at her. “For you to carry out your husbandly duties.”
