“Perhaps because they are married ladies.” She shrugged, absently rearranging a bouquet of lilacs. “Mama does so occasionally, as well.”
“You are married yourself, now.” He chuckled at her dazzled expression as he paused near the dressing table.
“So I am!” The morning sun picked out a few caramel highlights in her brown hair as she faced him.
The table held a display of silver-backed brushes arranged on top of an embroidered cover. Moiré fell in stiff folds below the protective cloth. He traced the scrolled monogram on the back of the brushes and slanted a glance at the mirror above the cloth.
Its reflection showed his bride eyeing him nervously. He gestured to the chair at his side. “Would you like me to brush your hair?” She looked as shocked as if he had suggested they swing from the chandelier overhead. “Come, surely I can’t be that frightening!”
She shook her head and bit her lip, gazing at the chair longingly. “You’re not.”
Triumph at so simple a beginning to his wife’s seduction pulsed through him. He picked up a brush.
The next instant, she rushed toward him as if he handled a poisonous snake. “Please, sir—Kieran—put that down! Mama intensely dislikes having her things touched.” She twitched it out of his hands and replaced it with a care all out of proportion to the act. “I’ll be sure and let the housekeeper know.” The soft murmur barely reached his ears. “None of the maids will get in trouble that way.”
She followed the words with a deep breath which did wonderful things to the lace-covered breasts visible under her wrapper. As she addressed him, he wrested his attention away from them to focus on her face.
“I’ll get my own things.”
He nodded, still bemused by her outburst. She moved across the room and bent over a leather-covered case. Turning back, she held out a brush and comb of similar quality on the table, but simpler in design.
Taking them, he seated himself on the bed. She took a half step back, but he patted the tousled bedclothes invitingly. “Perhaps it would be best to avoid the dressing table altogether?”
Slowly approaching, she climbed up and settled herself as though braced for instant flight.
Careful to move slowly, he smoothed the heavy strands down her back before running the bristles through them. She tensed under his palms, but did not move. He had learned long ago that most women enjoyed the rhythmic sensation of having their hair brushed. Judging from the smile he saw reflected in the vanity mirror, Diantha was no exception.
The thick mass flowed under his hands like satin as he carefully worked his way through it. He became aware of a rich rose scent rising from her hair. He inhaled appreciatively. Unlike the cloying floral perfumes worn by so many women, this one did not make him want to throw open the windows for air. To make conversation, he asked about it.
“Attar of rose and cedar. Granny swears by a drop of cedar oil for hair.” She shivered a little as his fingertips whispered against the silken skin at the nape of her neck. His body tightened at such sensitivity. His bride would require careful handling, just the kind he excelled at.
Seeing her slightly closed eyes in the mirror, he scooted himself closer to her, so that his thighs lay on either side of her hips. To distract her, he talked of their plans for the day, when they would return to New York harbor for the start of their honeymoon trip to Paris. “Do you know much about theColumbia?”
After an initial intake of breath, she stayed still, hands resting in her lap. “Papa’s flagship? I’ve only been on board once, a few days before Mama christened her. It seemed to be quite comfortable, from what I remember.” She twisted around to see his face. “The rooms looked cramped at the time, but Papa ordered alterations combining four staterooms into one suite for us.”
“I’m sure our quarters will be most comfortable.” Without breaking the rhythm of brushstrokes, he maneuvered her hair to one side.
She shrugged. “They should be. From the plans, I think the additional square footage will make the voyage quite tolerable.”
He had never heard her speak with such assurance. “Oh? Do you often read building plans, dear wife?” She flushed hotly then and fell silent.
Just as he bent forward to graze the nape of her neck with his lips, the door opened to admit two maids laden with their breakfast trays, and a third bearing coffee and tea.
Either in embarrassment at his teasing or alarmed at his attempted intimacy, she slid off the bed and breathlessly ordered the food to be set down on a table under the window. Mentally cursing prudishbrides, Kieran caught himself on his hands to keep from tumbling off after her.
Diantha wanted to sink with humiliation as the maids set down the trays and scurried out of the room. How could she have been so remiss as to sit on the bed with her husband, clad only in her nightgown and robe? The smirks on their faces indicated that the servants’ hall would soon buzz with that juicy tidbit. Shutting the door firmly after them, she turned back to Kieran.
She met his glare squarely as he balanced on all fours. The sight affected her strangely. For a moment she could not breathe as his robe loosened to expose an expanse of muscular chest and dark hair. On his hands and knees like that, he reminded her of a painting she had once seen of a panther stalking a jackrabbit. Her knees buckled for a second at the image.
Recovering, she gestured weakly to the trays with their covered dishes. “I fear we shall have to serve ourselves.”
The spell broke at her words. Leaving the bed, he padded over to investigate their breakfast, once again the well-mannered aristocrat. Seating themselves, they enjoyed an unexceptional meal.
She found his vivid aqua eyes resting on her frequently as they ate. Alarmed at the way his regard set her heart pounding, she heaved a sigh of relief when he finally tossed down his napkin and excused himself to dress.
She wasted no time summoning her maid to do the same, for their ship left early that afternoon. Asshe sat in front of Mama’s three-sided mirror, she could not help reflect on how much nicer her husband’s hands felt in her hair than the servant’s.
She grimaced as the woman fastened up the buttons on a coral twill driving dress with old gold trim.
