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What now? She wasn’t ready to sleep.

You could clean yourself up a bit.

She glanced down her body.

Oh…my.

Just the sight caused her cheeks to heat. She was splayed across the counterpane, her skin red from the scrape of his bristles against her sensitive skin. And between her legs…there was blood, and her wetness, and his seed, enough to make her warm at the memory.

She was his wife now.

And he was hers.

She rolled out of bed and padded barefoot across the room. The water in the ewer was warm, which was good because she wasn’t ready to venture into their shared bathing chamber just now. She cleaned herself, then pulled her nightgown back over her head.

Now what?

Well, there’s always the Wensleydale.

Yes, there was, wasn’t there? With a little grin, she climbed back into bed and reached for the plate of her bedtime treats. Then she pulled out The Book once more.

She ached a bit between her legs, but it was a satisfied sort of ache. As she bit into the moist Yorkshire cheese, she smiled, flipping through the pages. Which of these positions could she convince Alistair to try with her? He obviously could be a caring lover. Suddenly, Olivia was quite looking forward to their nights together.

Chapter 7

The day after he got married was a Wednesday. On Wednesdays, Alistair reviewed the finances for the London townhouse in the morning, and in the afternoon he wrote correspondence regarding the welfare of children in the East End.

What made this Wednesday different from most was that he entered his study three hours earlier than usual and locked himself in, in the hopes of not having to look anyone in the eye for the entire day.

He’d skipped breakfast, skipped his usual sparring with Hiro, skipped everything which made up his routine on Wednesday mornings…all because of last night.

Yesterday, he’d been married.

Last night, he’d had his wedding night.

He must be the only lord in Britain who’d made it all the way through his university days without having any experience with women, no matter how many times Kipling and Fawkes tried to drag him on proper carousing opportunities. The thought of trying to woo a woman without words had been almost as humiliating as the thought of attempting to speak to her at all.

And then, after university, he’d fallen easily into his responsibilities, and evening entertainment hadn’t involved women at all.

But Alistair was well-read and curious, and had quite the collection of novels and scandalous pamphlets, many of them with extensive illustrations. Illustrations that were most informative. He understood techniques, and had been eager—nay, desperate—to try out his technique on Olivia. For his lips to give the pleasure they couldn’t with words for the woman who had become his.

His bride.

But…

But he’d brought her no pleasure.

He’d been so Goddamned desperate for her, he’d found his own orgasm before hers. That was embarrassing enough; he should’ve made sure she’d come once or twice before ever entering her.

But she’d held him and said his name, and he’d lost all control, all good intentions.

She’d called him Alistair when he’d been licking her cunny, as if…as if he was important to her—not as a duke, but as a man.

And then he’d gone and fooked the whole thing to hell and back by taking her virginity—causing her pain!—and offering no pleasure in return. He’d been so embarrassed after that he hadn’t done what he should’ve done, which was get right back in there and try again!

Instead, he’d slunk off to his room like a defeated dog.

With a silent groan, Alistair dropped his forehead to the desk, not caring if he smeared the ink.