Protectedfrom the chilly winter wind by his new greatcoat, Ambrose returned from visiting his family down the lane. He pushed open the garden gate to his own cottage; the creaking hinges reminded him that he'd have to oil them soon, and he smiled ruefully as a long list of other repairs ran through his mind. When Marianne had presented him with his wedding present—a cottage close to his family's in Chudleigh Crest—she'd given him the authentic thing, tumble-down charm and all.
He approached the snug abode he occupied with his wife and daughter during their frequent visits from the city. After the wedding, he'd adopted Primrose, and he loved her as he would his own flesh and blood. His family adored her as well, and tonight she was staying with them so she and his siblings could watch the constellations through Harry's new telescope.
Much as he loved Rosie, anticipation stirred in Ambrose's blood at the thought of having his wife to himself for the evening. Today marked the half-year anniversary of their marriage, and he couldn't recall a happier time in his life. There had been conflicts, of course—both of them being of strong will and independent mind—yet he and Marianne had managed to learn the art of compromise. In retrospect, their quarrels had led to growth and deepening intimacy between them. And the lovemaking after their rows?
Ambrose got hard just thinking about it.
To celebrate their months together, Marianne was planning a private supper. In and of itself, that was not cause for alarm. When she'd informed him, however, that she planned tocookthe food herself, he hadn't been able to conceal his reaction.
"You needn't look so surprised," his wife had said in her adorably haughty way. "If I can shoot a man and rule thebeau monde, surely I can toss a few things in a pot."
"But why would you wish to?" He'd been genuinely perplexed. The Marianne he knew was not acquainted with ordinary tasks. Her legion of servants served that purpose far better.
Her gaze had dropped in a distinctly un-Marianne-like way. Then she'd lifted her chin. "I daresay I can take care of you as well as any country wife."
Realization had dawned, then, that she wished to…pleasehim. Love and lust had surged over him, and he hadn't been able to resist gathering her in his arms and tossing her onto the bed. Her shrieks of laughter had turned into moans of pleasure as he'd showed her how utterly perfect a mate he found her.
To his secret amusement, she'd nonetheless spent the week cloistered in the kitchen with Emma. He'd been expressly forbidden to set foot inside the cottage during those meetings. Now, spotting the grey smoke wafting from the front door, he steeled himself. Whatever Marianne had prepared, he made a silent vow to eat it and say that it was the best he'd ever had. Ignoring the acrid scent tickling his nostrils, he stepped gamely inside.
God Almighty. A haze of smoke shrouded the front parlor.
Coughing slightly, he called out her name. When no response came, he set down the basket he'd been carrying and went to look for her. She wasn't in the kitchen, which looked like a small hurricane had blown through it. He winced; the cook maid would not be pleased on the morrow. He crossed the small dining room, where a table had been beautifully laid out with crystal and linens. Silver domes covered various dishes. He lifted one—and hastily placed it back.
Passing two cozy bedchambers, he reached the master suite. He paused at the closed door. Was Marianne upset? Hisselkieliked things to go her way; failure was not an option she was particularly fond of. His lips twitched. If she was put out by the supper fiasco, he knew just how to soothe her ruffled pride.
He knocked lightly.
Dulcet tones bade him to enter.
He stepped into the bedchamber, and his mind emptied. Most likely because the blood had plummeted from his head and landed straight in his groin.
"You're back earlier than I expected," his wife said from the bed.
He stood there, riveted. Backlit by the hearth's roaring flames, Marianne lay on her side on red satin sheets, her head propped up by one hand and her hair flowing in gleaming waves over her bare shoulders. She wore a prim maid's apron and, Christ's Blood, nothing else. Her creamy curves played peek-a-boo along the edges of the starched white cloth; the hem of the apron reached just below one of his favorite places on her body and showcased her long, shapely legs.
In his entire life, he'd never seen anything more erotic. His vision wavered, darkening with lust. He began to shed his clothes.
She smiled at him, so beautiful that the beast in him clawed to get closer. "I hope you're not hungry. As you may have surmised, the menu didn't go quite as planned."
"To hell with food." He tossed his boots aside. "Right now I've an appetite for something else."
She rolled onto her back, settling against the pillows in a provocative posture that made him yank so hard at his waistband that buttons skittered onto the floor. "Do you know what I've decided?" she said sultrily.
He mounted the bed, fully aroused, his cock straining toward her. "What, love?"
"It's too much trouble to be good at everything."
Despite the lust clouding his brain, he grinned. "Find it tiresome, do you?"
"I mean, one has to have priorities, doesn't one?" She twirled one tress around her finger. "So I've given some thought to mine."
"Have you now?" He crawled over her, their bodies not quite touching. Heat gathered and crackled in that sliver of space. He pressed one soft kiss to the curve of her neck, savoring her shiver of excitement. Drawing back, prolonging the desire while he had any control left, he said huskily, "What have you decided?"
"That I should focus my wifely energies on one room at a time. So what will it be? The kitchen, the drawing room, or"—her vibrant eyes held a knowing, loving sparkle—"the bedchamber?"
He lowered himself onto her, grounding his hips in answer.
She purred, and he sucked that sweet sound into his mouth. God, he loved the taste of her. He took his time kissing her, sipping on her sighs of pleasure. Then other delights called to him, and he tore himself from her lips to sample her neck, the smell of her perfumed skin igniting his senses. Desire pulsed in his blood, building with every breath, and when he couldn't reach the knot to remove the bloody apron, he rose on his knees and flipped her over in a smooth motion.
