Chapter Eight
They’d been marriedfor six weeks, James realized one evening while he and Abigail took turns making up silly sentences from a stack of books she’d picked out. Sipping his brandy, he watched her find a word inGulliver’s Travels, her nose twitching a little as she set her pencil to paper and jotted it down.
They’d formed a companionable bond. And while he believed it would help them be happy together, he never stopped hoping there could be more. Occasionally, he wondered if he ought to risk pulling her into his arms for a kiss. But then he’d worry that doing so might destroy what they had. And he truly loved what they had.
Hell. He loved her. And he would do anything – anything at all—to make sure she didn’t feel threatened by anyone ever again. Certainly not by him. So he kept his distance and did his best to hide the desire he felt for her. But it wasn’t easy when she was right there – his wife, for heaven’s sake – his to have if that was what he wanted. And he did want, but he wanted her to want as well.
“Your turn,” she said, her gorgeous blue eyes dazzling him with their brilliance.
He smiled and set his glass aside, then gave his attention to the task at hand. These moments they shared were special and he cherished each one. But tonight his heart felt oddly heavy, as if weighed down by defeat. And yet he still managed to laugh when she read her line, even though he rather felt like weeping.
If she sensed something wrong, she didn’t address it. Instead, she chatted about all sorts of curious things when he led her upstairs to her bedchamber later, from the correct density of whipped cream to her favorite embroidery technique to the need she felt for a longer handle on her pall-mall mallet.
“I’m sure one can be fashioned,” he said with a weary sigh when they reached her door. As usual, he stepped away so he wouldn’t be tempted to press his advances, and prepared to retire to his own room. “We can discuss it in the morning, Abby. For now, I shall bid you good night.”
“I...I rather thought...” Her voice quivered in the dimly lit hallway.
The caution with which she spoke, bordering on nervous anxiousness, pricked his awareness. His gaze sharpened and he looked at her – really looked at her for the first time since they’d left the library ten minutes earlier. And he saw that she looked as lost and uncertain as she had when they’d first been introduced.
Disconcerted, he reached for her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Is something the matter?”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
But she didn’t really sound fine. In fact, she sounded as if she’d rather crawl under the carpet and hide. James frowned. What on earth was going on? She’d been perfectly normal before in the library, yet now...
“What is it then?” he asked more gruffly than he’d intended.
She licked her lips and he muttered a silent curse. If she would only refrain from being so bloody tempting and—
“I was wondering if you might like to spend some more time with me tonight.” She cleared her throat and dropped her gaze. “In my bedchamber, that is.”
James stood like a statue, utterly still and afraid to move. Although her face was averted and the only available light came from an oil lamp he carried, he could see her face had turned a bright shade of red.
“Are you suggesting...that is...what I mean to say...or rather, what I need to know, is um...” Christ! He’d no idea speaking could be so difficult. Least of all when he wasn’t sure how to obtain the information he needed without sounding crass or desperate.
She raised her chin just enough to meet his gaze with what had to be tremendous courage, considering the creased lines on her forehead, the way her teeth caught her lower lip, and the convulsive way she swallowed. To say she felt completely unmoored would probably be a tremendous understatement.
