“The bath is…uh…it’s in there.” He pointed to the door that separated their bedrooms. “I can go downstairs.”
As much as she wanted to soak herself in hot, rose-scented water, entering her husband’s bedroom, being surrounding by his things, was more than she was willing to bear at the moment.
“Never mind. It can wait until morning.”
“Well then, good night.” He half bowed, an uncomfortable jerking movement, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to interact with her. Which was fair enough. She had no idea what to do with him either.
“Good night,” she said. “Except…”
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to stumble out the rest of the sentence.
“I can’t get out of my dress.”
He blinked. “You can’t get out of your dress.”
“My lady’s maid is in London.”
“Your lady’s maid is in London.”
Good God, had she married a halfwit? Was she destined to a life with a man no better than a parrot? “Do all your conversations consist of so much repetition?”
He ran a hand through his blond locks. “I’m struggling to understand what Lady Amelia Crofton is doing in Abingdale without a maid.”
She held her head high but couldn’t stop her fingers from rubbing against the textured lace of her long sleeves. “Reid had a family emergency. She was to follow in a few days with my things.”
“Why didn’t you hire a companion?”
Because I tore out of London in the middle of the night…
She lifted her chin. “A companion was unnecessary. I can take care of myself.”
He snorted, crossing his own arms; they were like solid logs. “Because that worked out so well.”
His sarcasm rekindled the frustration that had been ever-present since that night. “I had a coachman.”
“Who left you alone on the side of the road to freeze to death.”
“Who left to get help. My goodness.” She clasped her hands primly in front of her in an effort to smother any outward sign of emotion.
His throat bobbed as though swallowing a retort. He was trying to be civil. She could be civil.
“I can’t see how it signifies now anyway,” she said. “That’s yesterday’s bread, so to speak.”
They tumbled into awkward silence. What in heaven’s name was she supposed to say to a husband she didn’t know? On her wedding night?
His face softened a fraction. Not into a smile, nothing that welcoming. Just as if he were made of soft soapstone rather than granite.
“Come stand by the light.” He gestured toward the dresser. “I’ll get you out of your dress.”
Her cheeks warmed—never had she been spoken to so intimately—yet they were married now, and she had no desire to sleep in her gown.
She stood in front of the dresser, her back to him as he reached for the top button.
The touch of his fingers against the nape of her neck ignited shivers that travelled the length of her spine and set goose bumps running across her skin. He was so close, his very presence sucked the air from her lungs. One button came free, and then another, the coolness of the night air across her neck a stark contrast to the heat from within.
She looked at his reflection in the dusty mirror. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he worked on one fabric-covered button after another. The candle threw a wash of golden light over one side of his face, throwing the other into shadow. The line of his jaw was harsh, the skin roughened by short stubble a shade darker than his hair and slightly reddish. His complexion, already tanned, took on a fiery glow. In this light, his eyes looked midnight blue. Everything about him was rough, nothing like the soft, elegant men of London.
“How many blasted buttons are there?” His voice, low and gruff, reverberated through her. He caught her eye in the mirror. “How attached to this dress are you? I could just…” He made a wrenching motion with his hands.
