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His new wife couldn’t turn any redder. Daisy looked … not afraid, but cautious. Not nervous, but not experienced, either.

It occurred to him that she looked like a virgin, but that was absurd. What did he know of virgins, anyway? His erotic history had played out with dancers who dressed as flowers precisely because it was easy to drop their petals.

Daisy cleared her throat. “All right. But first I’d like to talk.”

Her response wasn’t precisely enthusiastic, but Miles had no intention of arguing. He promptly began unbuttoning his coat. “I’m happy to talk.” Hopefully she didn’t want to tell him about her former lover. He’d pulled off his shirt before he noticed how tightly Daisy was clutching her towel.

He strolled closer and ran a finger over her white knuckles. “Would you like something to drink? We could ring for champagne.”

“I’d rather have a clear head. Could we have a cup of tea?”

He burst out laughing.

“I suppose that request might startle the household,” Daisy conceded.

“It does lend itself to the suggestion that you are bracing yourself.”

She backed away. “I suspect any number of women long for a cup of tea as the wedding night approaches. Just imagine if we had to have a bedding ceremony.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “During which the whole village tucks a man and wife under the sheets? I’d need something stronger than tea.”

Some of the color had faded from her cheeks. She nodded toward his chest. “Very impressive musculature for a gentleman.”

Just how many men was he being compared to? Miles choked back that unfair, jealous thought. Daisy had come to him with her baby. She trusted him. “Thank you.”

“Was it improper of me to comment? I don’t know how to behave like a wife, for obvious reasons.”

“I don’t know how to be a husband,” Miles said, realizing it was true. “My parents died long ago.”

“Don’t model yourself on my father, and you’ll already be ahead,” Daisy said wryly. “Or Livie’s,” she added.

“I have not committed homicide, and as yet I’ve had little inclination to do so,” Miles said, though in the back of his mind, he reserved the right to slay her married lover, if he ever found out the lout’s name.

He moved to stand just before her and bent to whisper his lips over hers. The tip of her tongue slid along his lower lip. Belying the light touch, it felt like a burn scalded his body, racing down his spine, wrapping around his loins. Hungry yearning took hold of him, wiping everything from his mind but his wife’s curves.

His hands wrapped around her waist, and he lifted her to the edge of the bed so that he could kiss her easily.

“You mustn’t get the habit of carrying me around,” Daisy observed. “I’m not a bag of laundry.”

“I won’t,” he muttered, gently tipping her backwards. As he braced his arms on the mattress on either side of her, her full, soft breasts flattened against his chest. His lips hovered over hers.

They were silent, looking into each other’s eyes for long enough to become awkward, but Miles couldn’t find any words. His mind—his body—was focused on Daisy rather than on shaping language.

“Kiss me,” she said finally, her voice raspy and deep. “Then we’ll talk.”

Miles didn’t follow orders very often; he rarely received them. But his lips covered hers so quickly that he caught the sound of “talk” with his tongue.

Kissing his wife was like kissing a firecracker. The impulsivity and brightness, the sparkle that made Daisy into … Daisy, shot through his body as their tongue knit together. The kiss wasn’t sensitive and sweet, but wild and demanding. One of his hands slid over the toweling, reached her plump arse, and curved around it, pulling her even closer. Their tongues stroked until she broke free with a strangled gasp for air.

Miles let her breathe, lowering his head to kiss her jawline before his hands cupped her face and tilted her head back so that he could ravage her mouth again, his broad tool pressing into her warmth.

A soft alarm sounded in his head, warning that her taste was like a drug. Ignoring it, Miles trailed his mouth over her closed eyelids, sliding his hands around the elegant frame of her head, arrowing his fingers into her hair. It was still damp, curling around his fingers.

Daisy’s eyes opened, lashes fluttering. She didn’t look alarmed or frightened, but as desirous as he. “May I?” he asked, hooking a finger into the toweling that miraculously had remained wrapped around her body.

She blinked and shook her head. “Not yet. I want to talk before we …”

He nodded. “In a few minutes.” Her hands were soothing his chest, fingers spread wide like starfish. They brushed his nipples, and his whole body jolted.