She turned her attention to the white-haired servant. After greeting him, she managed to deflect most of his welcome speech and they soon sat down to dinner in a room that would not have looked out of place in a baronial hall in Europe.
Despite Mrs. Quinn’s assurance that they would be served only a modest repast, the footmen presented them with julienne soup, followed by stuffed cod and braised goose. Accompaniments consisted of potatoes Marie and carrots in dill sauce. Kieran mentally shook his head at the stupidity of serving a full meal to people who had spent most of the day eating. Across the table, he noticed his bride accepted only token offerings of each dish and hardly touched those.
In the presence of the footmen behind their chairs, the butler and the wine steward, he could hardly ask if she still suffered ill effects from the night before. However, he did take a small risk as he watched her toy with a dish of stewed plums.
“Do you not care for sweets?” So absorbed was she in swirling the fragrant pieces of fruit about that he had to repeat the question.
“Oh!” She focused on him as though remembering he sat across from her. “Forgive me, I must have been in a brown study.” She gave him a ruefulsmile. “My mother will tell you I am all too fond of desserts, sir. I am just not very hungry this evening.”
Despite the smile and tranquil tone, she regarded him with an air of nervousness. As she bent to her food once more, he noted the pale lips and trembling fingers. He confirmed his suspicions by nodding to the steward. “I believe I will take a brandy while Lady Rossburn retires.”
A harsh clatter rang through the room as the spoon dropped from his wife’s fingers into the figured porcelain bowl. She stared at the tablecloth where a splatter of the syrup made a rose-colored splotch on the fine damask. Under his eyes, she collected herself and allowed the footman to pull her chair back from the table.
“If you will excuse me, my lord.” With a small curtsey, she followed the footman out of the room, exhibiting all the enthusiasm of one mounting the block to the guillotine.
He watched the dark paneled door close behind her before accepting the proffered snifter. He waved away the bottle. The poor girl had had a devil of a day. He took a deep pull on his glass. No need to keep her in suspense.
Her mother had assigned the master suite to the newlyweds. After they helped her change into her nightgown of satin with lace inserts, the giggling maids brushed out her hair and settled Diantha into her mother’s gilded bed. Diantha dismissed them as soon as they finished putting away the velvet traveling dress. Refusing to sit there like a sacrificiallamb, she climbed down to pace the floor in front of the fireplace.
She whirled at the creak of the door, only to find the housekeeper waiting to ask if she needed anything.
Only the carriage. She bit back the words unsaid and assured the woman that she was fine. Raising a single eyebrow, the woman curtsied and left the room. The click of the shutting door echoed in the girl’s mind like a tolling bell.
Gripping her hands in front of her stomach, she tried to pull herself together. “Women have survived whatever it is for eons. You will too. Now stop being such a coward.”
“I’ve never thought you cowardly.”
Lord Rossburn stood in the connecting doorway between their rooms.
Chapter 3
Diantha swallowed hard and took in his appearance.
He shifted on his feet, which she noticed were bare, no doubt the reason she had not heard him enter. Looking up toward his face, the triangle of bare flesh below the hollow of his throat riveted her gaze. She gulped as a wave of warmth suffused her body. His hair had loosened from the brushed back style he had worn it in. For the first time she noticed it had a distinct wave. To her relief, he did not wear a nightcap.
Unable to meet his eyes, she stared at his feet again. Loose trousers of pale silk peeped from under his long robe of claret-colored brocade. Unable to bear the silence any longer, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“You’re not wearing a nightshirt.” Horrified at her own indelicacy, she tried to stutter an apology.
“I prefer pyjamas.” He did not sound angry, and when she dared raise her eyes to his face, he regarded her with a kinder expression than she had ever seen before. “I trust you don’t mind?”
She shook her head, afraid she could not speak without squeaking. He indicated a small chair at his side, one of a pair set in front of a curtained window. “May I?”
She nodded. He seated himself and invited her to join him with a wave of his hand. Gingerly taking a place opposite him, she rubbed her arms restlessly. When he cleared his throat, she jumped.
“You’re quite nervous aren’t you?” She shrugged. He could hardly think otherwise.
“I was thinking that perhaps it would be best to delay, er, physical intimacy until we both get to know one another better.”
“Oh, thank God!” She winced again; her poise had completely abandoned her this evening. “Unless your lordship would prefer not to.” Mama had made clear that she must accommodate her husband’s wishes, at least as long as they did not involve disgracing the Quinn name.
A wide grin burst across his face. “With that response, I’d be a brute to insist on visiting your bed.”
“Are you quite sure, my lord?” She felt her face heating with acute embarrassment. Staring down at the patterned rug, she forged ahead. “My married friends lead one to believe that men are excessively fond of engaging in conjugal duties. I would hate to be remiss. Of course, you may prefer not to engage in them with me,” she finished in a suffocated voice.
“Diantha, look at me.” He leaned forward and enveloped one of her hands in both of his large ones. “I am quite fond of—of conjugal duties, as you call them.” For some reason, a chuckle escapedhim. “And you are quite a pretty girl, especially in that rig you wore here.”
He sobered. “But neither of us will gain any satisfaction if you’re frightened or uncomfortable. So we’ll wait a few days.”
