He smiled at her anxious question. “If I didn’t think he would, I’d have just shot him and been done with it.”
She hoped that was enough. “Then I am ready to go.”
The day passed in a blur. Joan concentrated so hard on not missing her cue during the ceremony, she barely registered anything else. The feel of a ring on her finger felt so foreign, she could hardly stop staring at it. The congratulations of the guests melded into one long stream of chatter. She didn’t have a moment alone, not with her friends, not with Tristan, not even with her parents.
By evening, her nerves had resurfaced. After a long day receiving guests and smiling until her face hurt, she finally had a moment of peace. Polly, her newly promoted lady’s maid, helped her into her nightdress and left her alone in the large bedroom of Tristan’s house in Hanover Square, with nothing to distract her from her unanswered questions.
The bedchamber walls were painted blue, as she had suggested, and the bed hangings had a pattern of vines and leaves. It made her heart swell to think that he had remembered everything she said that day, when she had first allowed herself to acknowledge that she was falling in love with him. She peeked into the bathing room, remembering how he had kissed her in there. And how he would be at liberty to do it again, all the time. No more frantic stolen kisses; he was her husband, not only permitted but practically required to kiss her—among many other things.
The thought of other things made her heart skip a beat. Her mother had given her some rather basic advice on consummating her marriage, but Joan suddenly remembered Abigail’s gift. It might not be the most virtuous source of guidance, but it promised far more pleasure than her mother’s brief instructions.
She found her prayer book and took out the copies of50 Ways to Sin, blushing to think they’d been there while she stood in the church. Tristan would probably roar with laughter if he knew—presuming he had any idea what the stories were. With a start she realized she’d never read the issue he gave her the day they went ballooning. She’d already scoured the older issues, but she might have missed something. Lady Constance always ended up limp with satisfaction, so sated she could hardly rise from bed. And even more, she pleasured her lovers just as thoroughly. That was the part Joan wanted to study.
She got into bed and read it once, then again, ending with her eyes wide and her mouth open. Oh heavens. Was it really possible for a man to pleasure a woman by putting his mouththere? And Constance did the same to him! Joan read that page again in disbelief, but Constance seemed to relish her role, on her knees ministering to him until she felt lightheaded. Her lover, Lord Masterly, certainly enjoyed her efforts.
The door opened. “Good evening,” said Tristan, coming into the room wearing a familiar dark green dressing gown.
She started and hastily stuffed the pamphlet under her pillow. “Good evening!”
He sat on the bed and slid his arm around her waist, pulling her across the bed until her back was against his chest. “Were you bored waiting for me?” he murmured, his lips brushing the nape of her neck.
“No,” she said quickly.
“No? That’s not what a new husband wants to hear.” He eased her down into the mattress, stretching out behind her. “What were you reading that distracted you?”
“Mmm?” It was hard to think when he was unfastening her nightdress, undoing the little ribbon ties down the front with shocking speed. Just the touch of his fingers on her bare skin was enough to scatter all rational thought. He cupped her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple. She arched her back, pressing into his hand. That felt wonderful; it sent shivers down her limbs. Perhaps she didn’t need any special technique. Now that she thought about it, in50 Ways to Sinthe man always guided Constance, and Tristan, of all men, seemed to know what he was doing.
Her husband rolled her over onto her back and pressed his lips to her neck, nibbling his way down. His hand remained on her breast, teasing her flesh until she writhed under him, helping him remove her nightdress. He made a low growling sound deep in his throat and rolled fully on top of her, just as naked as she was. “Now, what was it?” he murmured, still brushing little kisses over her jaw.
“What?” She had no idea what he was talking about. Her main concern was freeing her foot from the twisted bedsheets so she could wrap her legs around him. She could feel him, thick and hard, against her thigh. Oh goodness, this was very promising. All her worries and anxiety melted away as he kissed her.
“What were you looking at so secretively?” Joan blinked at him, and he returned a rather devilish grin. “This is the first day of our marriage. What caught your attention so thoroughly on your wedding night, and why did you try to hide it from me?”
“Oh!” Her face burned as she realized what he meant. “That. It was nothing, truly.”
“Nothing?” He pushed his hand beneath her pillow, ignoring her frantic struggles to get out from under him. “But there’s something here ...”
“I was just trying to pass the time,” she cried, mortified. “It’s nothing important!”
“No, no, this is an important husband’s duty,” he replied, managing to get the pamphlet out even though she had pressed her head down hard against the pillow. “I should know what distracts my wife so completely that she forgets I’m coming to make love to her.”
“Oh, ah, I’m ready for that,” she exclaimed, giving her hips a little wiggle. She’d much rather make love with him than ... well, than do much else, but especially more than have him read her contraband pamphlet. He flexed his spine in response to her shimmy, but otherwise remained focused on that wretched story.
“Fifty Ways to Sin?” He frowned at the title. “This is that ladies’ story you wanted me to get for you.”
“Yes, that’s it.” Joan nodded, grasping at the excuse. “It’s, ah, for ladies. I was just checking it for any bits of advice, you know, about married life ...” Her voice faded away as he opened to the first page.
“Married life!” His eyes gleamed. “Then I should read it, too, being newly married.”
“Oh—well—no, I think it’s just for ladies ...”
“All the more reason for me to read it. Don’t you want me to know what’s expected of me?” He caught her hand when she reached for the pamphlet, kissed her knuckles, and began reading.
For several minutes he just read, propped on his elbows above her. She began to feel horribly self-conscious, and devoted herself to studying the plasterwork on the ceiling, over Tristan’s shoulder. Just her luck, to find herself married to, and in bed with, a devilishly handsome man, and now he would think her a complete widgeon because she failed to hide that silly pamphlet well enough.
“Who wrote this?” He turned another page and read on, his expression a curious mixture of fascination and disbelief.
“No one knows. It’s the most closely held secret in London.”
