“I had an inkling. Now, am I forgiven for being a brutish oaf who only wishes to kiss my bride properly?”
“On one condition.”
He wanted to sayanything, but this was Anne after all. “Which is?”
“Promise me I shall never have to eat another gooseberry tart again.”
His laugh echoed through the room, and as everyone turned, a sea of smiles greeted them. Even his father, who still raised a gray eyebrow, gave him a nod of approval. “I shall do my utmost, even if I have to eat them myself.”
“Good. Now please escort me upstairs. I would like torest.”
Huzzah!
And although he was careful not tocount his chickens, he was certainly hopeful that his lovely bride would at least allow a few kisses.
Or more.
He whisked her out of the room and up the stairs, doing his damnedest not to hurry.
Anne’s faceburned when Simon Beckham raised a glass of sherry in salute as Colin led her from the room. Did everyone know where they were going and what they would be doing?
She would die of embarrassment.
Although she would never admit it to Colin, the moment Bea had told her that Colin wanted to be alone with her to consummate their marriage, a shiver of excitement raced up her spine. She’d had the impression that such relations always occurred at bedtime. But with her new knowledge, she remembered the times when she and the twins were occupied with a game, and Andrew and Alice would disappear for an hour or two.
However, when she’d caught Colin’s gaze and had seen his smug amusement, she remembered Mr. Beckham’s words. Was that Colin’s rush to bed her? An heir? She vowed to make him work for it. Just because they were married didn’t mean he could snap his fingers whenever he wanted her. She wasn’t a brood mare.
When they reached her bedroom, he didn’t stop.
“Wait. I’m in here.”
He shook his head. “Not any longer. Your things have been moved into my room. It’s much larger than yours.”
Refusing to believe him, Anne opened the door. The dressing table where her brush, comb, and hairpins had been resting that morning was bare. She strode to the wardrobe and opened the slightly ajar door to find it empty.
“Perhaps I should clarify. You’ve been moved into the room adjacent to mine.” He had the nerve to grin. “For convenience. Luckily, it was vacant. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Honoria had planned the whole thing. She’d been hoping I would marry someone.”
Anne lifted her chin. “Like Miranda?” The idea . . . stung.
He didn’t answer but simply held out his hand. “Shall we continue?”
Shivers of pleasure spiraled through her limbs when she slid her hand in his, and they proceeded down the long hallway in silence until he stoppedat a closed door.
He held up his hand. “One moment.” After he opened the door, he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the room.
That frisson of pleasure burst into full bloom when he cradled her head against his chest. The lovely citrusy scent of bergamot greeted her. She could get used to being treated like a princess, or a viscountess, as the case may be.
Her gaze darted first toward the large four-poster bed in the middle of the room, then around to the rest of the furnishings.
Unlike the decor fit for a princess she expected, everything was decidedly masculine. Rich burgundy draperies hung from the windows, and gold thread wove through the similarly colored brocade counterpane covering the bed. Shaving soap, a mug, and a razor sat on the dressing table.
She peered up at him. “This isn’t my room either.”
“No. It’s mine.” He set her down and gave a shrug. The grump gave her a lopsided, boyish grin, and unless she imagined things—which was quite possible given her propensity for such activity—a slight blush rose to his cheeks. “As I said, I want to spend time with you. Alone. I didn’t want to presume you wanted me in your room.”
His logic escaped her. “So you brought me to yours? How is that better?”
Turning away, he ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Damn it, Anne. I’m trying here.”
