She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, even though she’d left the light on for Douglas’s use. She would think of something pleasing, something without memory, something that only offered up a picture to her mind. Perhaps she’d recall an illustration in a book, a sunset over the hills, the swirl of storm clouds. Douglas, naked.
Douglas, naked. That was a sight, but hardly conducive to sleep. More to examination perhaps. She closed her eyes and focused on the memory of him. His feet were long and narrow, and his toes, surprisingly, bore tufts of hair. His legs, too, had hair, but not so much that touching him had been unpleasant. His chest—her fingers had often threaded through the light dusting of hair there.
There were at least a hundred things she could think of right now that would be more proper, but she doubted that any of them would be as interesting.
His chest was quite lovely, actually, with all its muscles. His arms well-defined, almost as if he had once been a laborer. She’d never thought of a man’s shoulders being so masculine-looking, but his certainly were, as was the way his neck tapered down to his shoulders.
His buttocks were surprising, too, and she clenched her eyes tighter as if to keep her thoughts hidden. Should she even be thinking of a man’s buttocks? Possibly not, but this wasn’t any man, this was her husband. Surely a wife had the right to think about a husband’s form?
Even if it was vastly improper, she couldn’t stop thinking about it, and that was something she didn’t want to consider at the moment. His buttocks were round, yet taut, and she had the feeling that if she patted one cheek, that her hand would bounce. She rolled to her side, hiked up her nightgown, and ran her hand over her own derriere. She was much softer there.
She untwisted her nightgown, lay on her back, and opened her eyes. The ceilings at Kilmarin were lovely, decorated as they were with murals and rosettes. Had any other bride lain here and contemplated her husband’s body? Or was she the first?
All in all, it wasn’t a shocking inventory she’d performed. She’d studiously avoided thinking of a certain location that was even more fascinating than the sum of all his perfection.
She was no stranger to desire, having felt a tingling in her midsection when a handsome man smiled at her, or a rush of heat when a man touched her bare hand with his. She’d accepted that such was normal and natural, that these sensations would be harnessed until she was married, then set free within the proscribed boundaries of the marital bed.
What were the societal rules about passion during mourning? Was she to refuse her husband for six months simply because she was observing mourning for her mother during that period of time? She stared at the ceiling. Surely not.
Douglas didn’t seem the type of man who would countenance waiting six months to claim his husbandly rights. But then, he didn’t seem the type of man who would be without female companionship for long. Look how the maids at Chavensworth sought to serve him.
She really shouldn’t have started thinking about him. Sleep would have to wait. Sarah lay on her side, stretching her hand over to the area where Douglas would sleep. The sheets were cold, and she was instantly chilled.
Their relationship was so very odd, almost tenuous. She had never thought to have a marriage like this one.
She rolled over on her back, then sat up, thumping her pillow into a more comfortable shape. The housekeeper at Kilmarin could do well to mix a little lavender among the down in the pillows.
Kilmarin was a very quiet place at night. The onlysound in the entire suite was her breathing. She should go to sleep and not be curious about Douglas’s whereabouts. He was not required to stay by her side at all times.
Sliding to the edge of the bed, she draped her legs over the side, bouncing her feet back and forth in the air. She’d been lonely so rarely in her life that it was a curious sensation to realize that she was lonely now. The only time she could remember being feeling this way was when she went to London. No, even in London there had been a sense of hope because she’d be going home soon, and that knowledge always colored her reactions.
Here, however, at Kilmarin, there was no sense of an eventual homecoming. Granted, she would return to Chavensworth, but nothing would be the same again. The words spoken at dinner would forever be in the back of her mind. Why had her mother never corresponded with her family? Why had Morna simply turned her back on Scotland?
Rather than remain in the bed, Sarah slid from the mattress, grabbed her wrapper, walked into the sitting room, and sat on the sofa. The fire had long since died, but she was not in the mood to light another. Nor did she want to rouse a maid to do it for her. Her father would not have hesitated. Douglas would not have disturbed someone else to do a task he could perform. Two men, both of whom had a profound effect on her life. One she couldn’t tolerate; the other she respected more each day.
Where was he?
The day she’d gone to London had turned out to be an excessively fortunate one for her, that was somethingshe was just beginning to understand. What would the past few weeks have been like without Douglas at her side? The staff at Chavensworth might have stepped in to make arrangements for her mother, but no one would have held her in the night and let her weep. No one would have been there to warm her when she felt so chilled. No one would have sat with her in his arms and rocked her until she slept. Who would have accompanied her on this journey? Who would have protected her and defended her?
What had he asked for in return?
Her observatory and the time to make his diamonds. The first she’d begrudgingly surrendered; but he’d hardly had the latter, had he? First, with her mother’s death, and secondly, with this journey to Scotland.
She’d not been a very good wife, had she?
Had he sought comfort from someone else?
She stood, uncomfortable with that thought.
Returning to the bedchamber, she removed the wrapper and climbed into bed. Somehow, it felt even colder, larger, and emptier than earlier.
She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling again.
Would she know? If he’d been with someone else, would she be able to tell? What would she do if he had been? What did wives do in such situations?
The door opened, so softly that she wouldn’t have heard the noise if she’d been sleeping. A figure hesitated in the doorway.
“I’m awake,” she said. “It’s no use trying to sound like a mouse.”
