Page 74 of A Portrait of Love

“Honoria?”

She rose, snatched her dressing gown off the back of the chair, and opened the door beyond a crack, but not much.

He held up a bottle with two glasses. “May I come in?”

“I was just getting into bed.”

His eyes flickered to her nightcap and a notch formed between his unnaturally blue eyes.

The hand holding the bottle lowered. “Please?”

Honey realized the delicate peace they’d established at dinner was in the balance. Already. She stepped back and gestured to the small sitting area before the fire.

“Have a seat.”

He held up the bottle. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

She shook her head. “I’ve already cleaned my teeth.”

He expelled the air in his lungs slowly. “I see. Well, would you mind if I had a glass.”

It did not sound like a question to her. “Please do.”

She took a seat in the chair, leaving him the loveseat. He glanced at her, the loveseat, and then poured himself a glass and sat.

“So,” he said.

She swallowed. “So.”

“You were getting into bed.”

She nodded.

“Weren’t you forgetting something?”

Honey frowned. “I don’t think so.” He took a drink of wine. A big drink. “Did I forget something?” she asked when it seemed he was finished speaking.

“This is our wedding night.” He looked up from his glass of wine, his pupils expanding, until his blue irises appeared almost violet.

Honey opened her mouth to acknowledge the truth of that statement but froze.

No.

He could not mean that. He couldn’t.

Could he?

“I thought we had begun to make up our differences over dinner,” he said.

She nodded vigorously.

“I thought perhaps we might continue to make them up in bed.”

“What?”

His eyebrows arched. “It is our wedding night. I wish to bed you.”

She felt light-headed. “But—”