“Y-youdon’tmind being married to me?” She repeated his hand gesture. “That means no, am I right?”
Yes.
She watched his hands as he made another gesture, then repeated it. “And that means yes?”
He nodded and was rewarded with the ghost of a smile.
“Thank you,” she said.
What for? Teaching her two simple hand gestures, or not minding being married to her?
Doyoumind being married tome?
She frowned as he signed. Then he gestured toward her, then to himself.
“Are you asking me the same question?” she said.
He nodded, and his conscience stabbed his heart at the gratitude in her eyes. What a cruel world they lived in where a woman had to express gratitude for a husband who cared whether she minded being his wife.
“No,” she said, after a pause. “I do not mind being married to you.”
He nodded, and she resumed her attention on the view outside, her body moving with the rocking motion of the carriage.
Charles diverted his attention from her, like a predator focusing his gaze away from his prey to enable her to relax out of his glare, snatching only occasional glimpses. At length, the fatigue she’d barely been able to conceal overcame her and she fell asleep, her chest rising and falling more steadily—at which point Charles allowed himself to observe her more fully.
Her gown did nothing to conceal her form, the swell of her breasts, the way her body dipped in at the waist before flaring at her hips—delectable, rounded hips. Her face, flushed with distress, bore the soft roundness of youth, plump cheeks, a delicate nose, and long lashes that quivered as she slept, and finally…
Finally, his gaze settled on her mouth—the sweet, plump lips that she had offered to him.
How had he ever thought her unremarkable?
The duchess was right. Out of the two of them, it was Charles, not his wife, who’d secured the better bargain.
And consummating the marriage tonight would be the easiest and most pleasurable ten thousand he’d ever earned.
Chapter Seventeen
The rocking motionof the carriage that had lulled Olivia into delicious oblivion stopped. Voices came from outside, set against a backdrop of the merry air of a violin.
She blinked and rubbed her eyes; her skin tightened with cold.
She was alone in the carriage. Lord Devereaux stood beside the open door, gesturing to his valet, who was relaying instructions to a thick-set, whiskered man with ruddy cheeks.
“Right ye are, your lordship,” the man said, before raising his voice. “Daniel, Tom! Get yer lazy arses out here and deal with his lordship’s trunks. Hurry, now! We don’t want to keep him waiting!”
The carriage tilted sideways, and Olivia spotted two men lowering her trunk from the top.
Then the valet caught her eye and nudged his master. “Lady Devereaux, we’re here.”
The valet offered his hand and, ignoring the ache in her bones, Olivia uncurled herself and climbed out, almost losing her balance. The valet caught her arm and smiled. Then his smile disappeared as Olivia’s husband pulled him away, his brow furrowed into a frown, and she could swear she heard a low growl reverberating from the bigger man’s throat.
She cast her gaze over the inn—a white-fronted two-story building with diamond-paned windows and a sloping, thatched roof. Over the entrance, through which music and laughter came, swung a sign thatcreaked in the breeze, depicting a dancing man, legs akimbo, holding a violin.
The whiskered man, evidently the innkeeper, touched his cap. “Welcome to the Fiddlers’, ma’am…pardon me, Countess Dever-axe.”
“It’s Devereaux, Mr. Smith,” the valet said, with a grin.
The man nodded, then raised his voice again. “Betsy! Ger yer bones down here now. Earl Dev-row and the countess are waitin’ to be shown to their rooms.” He glanced toward Olivia’s husband. “We’ve set aside the best rooms for ye, sir—not that ye’ll be needin’ both rooms for much of the night, I’ll warrant.”
