Isobel opened her eyes, looking over his shoulder as they settled into a less frantic, deeper kiss. The chamber was cavernous. There were towering windows, steepled at the top with gothic arches. Moonlight spilled bright spears of silver across the stone floor. The only other light was a jumping fire in a massive hearth. Against the longest wall, between the windows was—
She blinked, squinting now.
A cot?
Yes, it was a cot. A rumpled, dingy cot, as flat and hard as a workbench.
Isobel broke off the kiss and leaned around him for a better look.
It was one of three forlorn pieces of furniture in the palatial bedchamber.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, dropping kisses along her neck. His fingers found the buttons on the back of her dress and worked through them, flicking each one free with effortless proficiency.
“Well,” she mumbled, scanning the room again. There were no linens, no tapestries, no rugs.
“Why is this room so... empty?” she asked.
Jason paused in the act of pushing her gown from her shoulders and looked around.
“Bollocks,” he swore. He began to reverse the direction of her gown, pulling it back up.
“No. No. No.No,” she chuckled, sliding it down. “It’s not as bad as all that. I’m simply—It is not what I expected.”
“This is the ducal bedchamber,” Jason explained, kissing her between each sentence. “But I had the furniture of the previous dukes hauled away and bade the servants bring in whatever could be found in the attic.” He left her mouth and attacked her neck with kisses. “Only until you arrived. I couldn’t bear the other and I expected you’d have your own preference for the room.”
He pulled away and frowned at the cot. “Poor planning,” he said, turning back to stare at her mouth. “Extremely poor planning.”
She laughed again. He cared, she could tell, although not so very much. He was not a man who stood on ceremony—and thank God.
Andif it meant she could decorate the room however she liked...
Furthermore, if it meant she would share this room with him every single night?
She did not care. Not even about the cot.
She assured him with a deep kiss, and he answered her with a knee-weakening moan. Oh, how she loved the noises he made when she kissed him; he gave off a sort of animal enthusiasm, a relish.
His enthusiasm for her had never been in doubt—well, except perhaps for the four terrible weeks he had not come for her—beyond that,when they were together, he had never made her doubt.
How Isobel had longed to be free from doubt, to feel looked after, to look after someone in return, someone worthy of the effort.
She fingered the ring on her hand, relishing the cold pricks of each cut stone. It was so lovely to bechosen, just as he had said.
He gathered her around the waist and pressed her to him. She felt his arousal through the layers of skirt and shimmiedjust so, ramping up the exquisite pressure. He moaned again, kissing her.
“I’ve a bedroom down the hall,” he said. “It’s been mine since I was a boy. I meant to take you there, and then I...” he kissed her, “...forgot. There’s still time.”
Isobel shook her head, bussing him with a kiss and a lick with each pass. He allowed it until the third pass and then captured her mouth.
While he kissed her, she worked the gown from her arms and pushed it over her hips. It fell into a poof at her feet. She released his neck and worked her petticoats free, allowing them to fall the way of the dress. She broke the kiss and stepped from the circle of silks, standing before him in her corset and shift.
“No boyhood bedrooms,” she whispered. “We’re all grown now.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice choking a little. “So very grown.”
He stripped from his shirt and tossed it. She blinked twice, very slowly, allowing herself to enjoy the sight of his broad chest, slim waist, and so many cleverly ridged muscles.
He put his hands on his hips and looked around. “Where shall we—?”
