Page 80 of Marry in Scandal
His mouth was beautiful too; firm, cleanly cut lips. She recalled the taste of those lips. She would taste them again tonight.
She snuggled deeper into the furs.
He glanced up at her, turned a page and crossed his legs. For the journey he’d changed into buckskin breeches and boots. The soft chamois leather of his breeches clung to his thighs—horseman’s thighs, long, lean and hard. She shivered, but not from cold.
She wasn’t sure which she preferred him in—breeches and boots, or the severe black-and-white formal attire he’d worn for their wedding. Any way you dressed him, he was magnificent. And he was her husband.
A little thrill of excitement passed through her.
• • •
Ned stared at the print and turned the pages blindly, taking in almost nothing of what he was reading. Pretending to read. He’d tried very hard to concentrate on his book, but it just wasn’t possible, not with Lily curled up on the seat opposite, swathed in that fur rug, watching him surreptitiously.
He’d become aware of her subtle surveillance shortly after they’d passed out of London and were bowling smoothly along the Brighton road, her gaze like a light breath of warm air, almost a touch. It was damnably distracting.
She was so unselfconsciously sensual in everything she did, whether it was eating—he’d never forget the way she’d relished that pudding at the inn that time, licking every last morsel of sweetness off her spoon—or simply kicking off her shoes, tucking her small white-stockinged feet beneath her and curling up on the seat. Almost an invitation in itself. And all with the most innocent air.
Genuine innocence too. Though not for long. He forced his mind away from the night to come.
She sighed and shifted her position, a rustle of silk sliding over flesh. The way she snuggled into that wretched fur rug, evoking memories of her almost naked beneath that same rug—how could any man concentrate on a dry old book?
He should have given her a nice thick woolen blanket. There was nothing evocative or sensual about wool, especially next to the skin.
Though he supposed it depended on the skin. Hers was satin smooth and silky to the touch. Cool on the surface, and warm beneath.
Her eyes appeared closed, her lashes a delicate sweep of darkness fluttering against creamy skin. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes briefly as a blush rose softly on her cheeks. She wasn’t asleep.
Arousal swirled through him and he stared out the window, willing himself savagely under control. This was neither the time nor the place. When he took her he intended to be restrained, disciplined, fully in control of himself, his appetites firmly leashed.
Not only because she was a virgin and deserved his consideration, but also because he didn’t want to raise expectations in her breast. There was a light in her eyes when she looked at him sometimes that made him... wary. Unsettled.
She needed to learn that despite their first encounter—the real one, not her brother’s wedding—he was nobody’shero. It was dangerous—worse, foolhardy—for anyone to place their happiness in his hands. He always let people down, those who loved him most of all.
Eventually she did fall asleep; he could tell by the way her body softened and her breathing became deep and even. In sleep she was as sensual as ever.
She had hopes of him, he could tell. He would set her straight tonight. That was what a honeymoon was for—to get things settled, establish the rules, clarify the expectations. Limit them.
He watched her sleeping, her chest rising and falling. She was so young and vulnerable. But also strong, he reminded himself.
• • •
The sun hung low in the sky, and as the carriage turned into a driveway between two tall stone pillars and rattled over a small bridge, Lily awoke, looking adorably mussed.
“Are we here?” She yawned and stretched, and looked out the window. “Oh, so this is Tremayne Park. What a pretty house. And the garden is charming.” She tidied her hair—unsuccessfully; tawny curls sprang in all directions—crammed her hat over them and put her shoes back on. In the middle of pulling on her gloves, she started and turned a guilt-stricken face toward him. “Oh! I didn’t even ask you about your friends. Quickly, Edward, tell me who we’re staying with.”
He laughed. “It’s all right. My friend, Tremayne, is not here. He’s gone to Paris for a couple of months. We have the place entirely to ourselves.” He didn’t add that Tremayne had taken his mistress with him. It occurred to him that he probably shouldn’t have brought her here. Tremayne was far from respectable. It was a sign of how Galbraith’s life was going to change, now he had the responsibility of a wife.
“Not quite to ourselves,” Lily murmured as servants spilled from the house to meet them. The very respectable-looking butler; a neat, older woman who he presumed was the housekeeper; two footmen and a couple of maidsemerged from the front door to greet them. Several grooms came running around the side.
Edward had arranged for his own valet and a maid for Lily to travel ahead with their luggage. They came out to welcome the newlyweds too.
After introductions, the housekeeper conducted them to a large suite of rooms, where hot water and Lily’s maid awaited her. Ned was in the adjoining room. There was a connecting door between them.
He poked his head around it. “Everything to your satisfaction, Lily?” He jerked his head at the maid, who hastily made herself scarce.
Lily stood stiffly in front of the bed, as if hiding something from him, and said in a subdued voice, “Yes, thank you.” She swallowed and, seeming to feel the need to say something else, added, “I can see the sea from my window—through the trees.”
She was very pale. Was she ill? He strolled into the room, wondering what she was concealing on the bed. “Yes, the beach is quite close. I’ve ordered dinner for an hour’s time. The dining room is on the floor below this. Do you want me to collect you, or will I send someone?”