Page 76 of A Portrait of Love

He snorted. “Did you think I meant to take one on our wedding night? Was that your intention.”

“No, of course—”

He released her as if she were a hot coal and stepped back. “Don’t repeat yourself. I know what you thought.” He flicked a contemptuous gaze over her huddled, cringing form. “And don’t worry about me forcing my attentions on you—I’ve never needed to do that, not even now that I’m not so pretty as I once was. This is the last time I will step foot in your bedchamber.” He dropped a mocking bow. “Good night, my lady.”

And then she was alone.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Simon should have gone through the damned connecting door.

As it was, he took four wrong turns before finding himself in front of his door. And then he fumbled with his key and dropped it twice, knocking his head hard on the rough wood when he bent to pick it up.

“Christ,” he muttered, massaging his throbbing forehead as he rammed the key into the lock. The door yanked inward and he staggered along with it.

“My lord?” A sleepy-eyed housemaid peered up at him.

“Oh.” Simon had forgotten about her.

She dropped a hasty curtsy.

“Everything all right and tight here?” he asked, annoyed by the slur in his voice.

“Yes, my lord. I told her ladyship I was to stay in case she needed me, but she never did, sir.”

Simon fished a coin out of his coat and handed it to her, only realizing when her eyes all but bulged out of her head that it was gold. Oh well, somebody should be happy on his wedding night.

“Is that all you need, my lord?”

Simon looked into soft brown eyes that bravely held his gaze and avoided the mess on the left side of his face. She was a girl—not more than fifteen or sixteen, but he could see that she knew what she was offering. His groin showed signs of stirring and he scowled, horrified by his own body’s urges. “Get out,” he said hoarsely.

She fled.

He made his way unsteadily to a chair and dropped into it. Too hard, it appeared, since it gave way beneath him with a deafening crash.

His tailbone would have screamed if it had a mouth.

Simon did have a mouth and the connecting door flew open in response to his yell.

His wife stood in the open doorway, her eyes wide and terrified. “What happened?”

He closed his eyes and groaned, in too much pain to speak.

“Simon?”

He opened his eyes to find her leaning over him.

“I don’t like that cap. Take it off.” It wasn’t what he’d thought would come out of his mouth.

She pursed her lips, but, surprisingly, held out a hand. “Take my hand.”

She was stronger than she looked, but it still wasn’t enough to deadlift thirteen stone. He shook off her hand and rolled onto his hands and knees, pushing himself slowly and unsteadily to his feet.

Bloody hell! It felt as if he’d snapped his tailbone off.

Her shoulder slipped beneath his arm.

“What happened?” she asked as they hobbled toward his bed.