And now here they were, man and wife, sharing a meal.
Of course, he did feel awkwardness from her about touching. They were a marriage of convenience but he wanted it to be much more. The way she was now, her ease around him, her willingness to serve as his hostess, to discuss matters that meant something to him, was all he’d hoped.
Years ago, he’d been infatuated with her. Now that bond strengthened as he found himself eager for her approval and her smiles.
They talked more about Bonhomie.
The meal came to an end.
They fell into silence. Roman had been watching her, waiting for a sign that she was ready for bed.
Of course, ever since he had paid for the room he’d been more than ready to find the bed, and not because he was tired.
He wanted his wife in all ways. And yet he was acutely sensitive to the emotional turmoil in her confession the night before about Paccard’s rape.
How did another man release her from that terror?
Roman considered himself a good and capable lover, but Leonie had suffered greatly, more from the guilt of her own secrets than what Paccard had done. It was possible that Roman hadn’t done her a favor by taking the blame for Paccard’s death. He’d killed men in combat, and even when their deaths were justified, it was never easy. Only those with no conscience or who had never pulled a trigger could walk away unscathed.
Was it any wonder she had turned to brandy? However, she’d not had a drink all day. She’d also not made a fuss this evening... so perhaps her drinking was an anomaly? Perhaps, because they truly had not known each other well, she’d tried to medicate her fear of the marriage bed and the wifely duties it entailed?
He prayed that he’d eased those fears.
Leonie yawned, the gesture purely feminine.
“Shall we go to our room?” Roman asked, keeping his voice neutral.
“Yes, I suppose we should.”
He could have shouted hosanna, but then a line he was beginning to recognize as a sign of her doubts formed between her brows.
“Is something the matter?” He invited her to confess any fears.
Instead, she looked at him with guileless eyes and shook her head.
Did that mean she had no doubts about sharing his bed?
Or—and this idea was forming slowly in his mind—was she one of those people who wore a mask well? There had been times when she’d let him glimpse the real her. Last night was a good example. That woman was a far cry from the polished creature who sat at the table and was everything a wife should be over dinner.
Some men might want the easier woman.
Roman was not one of them. However, he was not above a test. All the way through dinner and even during the coach ride there seemed to be an invisible barrier around her. He now leaned toward her and covered her hand on the table with his own. His movement broke that sense of space.
She startled. It was the slightest of gestures, one she quickly hid.
“I want you to know that I value you,” he said, choosing his words carefully.
“I know that.”
“You are safe with me,” he reiterated.
“I assumed so.”
Her answers were a bit too rote. Roman decided the time had come for directness. “I want to make love to you.”
Her eyes widened and then shifted away from him to focus on the teapot nearest her. He couldn’t help but wonder if she wished it could change into something else.
Then, visibly gathering herself, she smiled like the perfect gentlewoman and said, “I thought you might.”
