Page 91 of Marry in Scandal

She shook her head. “I’d rather wait. It’s more entertaining to talk to them in person.”

“I’m amazed. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who wasn’t forever dashing off a note to this friend or that, or writing down secret thoughts in a diary.” He glanced at the writing desk, all set up with a freshly trimmed pen, a stoppered bottle of the best ink, and a neat pile of perfectly trimmed writing paper. “You don’t have wedding letters to write—thank-you letters?”

Her mind went blank. Everyone knew the bride always wrote the thank-yous. But then it came to her. “I do, of course, but I left my address book at home. I’ll do them when we get back to London. Besides, I’m not in the mood,” she added, thinking he’d suggest she write the dratted letters now and post them when they returned to London.

“So you’re not in the mood for writing letters—what about reading?” His voice was deep, almost accusative.

She stiffened, thinking her secret had been discovered. “N-no.”

He put his pen down, rose and prowled toward her with a menacing expression. “Then I think, young lady, you need to be banished to your bed where you will contemplate the sin of idleness.” He tossed her over his shoulder and carried her, shrieking and laughing, up to her bed.

It wasn’t the sin of idleness she contemplated, either; he kept her very busy until dinnertime. Which they ate, again, in bed.

• • •

Friends by day, lovers by night—or whenever the mood struck. It was more difficult than Lily expected, keeping her feelings in check. They wanted to spill from her, to bubble up like a fountain. But all he wanted from her was friendship.

He made love to her almost every night. And if not at night, then he came to her in the morning. That was Lily’s favorite, coming slowly awake to the feel of Edward’s mouth and hands caressing her, feeling ripples of pleasure coil through her.

And then his possession, sometimes slow and dreamy, as sweet a thing as Lily had ever experienced, sometimes swift and fast and... glorious.

Of course it engendered emotion, and she refused to deny it. If he wanted to, he could, but Lily knew what she felt. She learned not to speak of it, for anytime she so much as hinted at an emotion, he withdrew, like the sea anemone he’d shown her in a rock pool, closing up at the slightest touch.

She was loving the seaside in all its variations. Most mornings they rode down to the beach before breakfast, long, leisurely rides together, sometimes racing—he nearly always won—sometimes just walking the horses quietly. And occasionally talking.

At least Lily talked. Getting information out of Edward was like talking to an oyster. He was a hard man to know. It was as if he’d built walls around certain aspects of his life and placedKeep Outsigns all over them. Even with the things he was prepared to talk about, any details or feelings were sparse; he stuck to a few bare facts and left her to fill in the gaps.

“My father and I didn’t get on,” he’d told her one time. “Never did. I went to live with Grandpapa when I was six. The old man raised me.”

“And your father and mother?”

“Dead.” That was it—his life in a nutshell. With no embellishments. It was quite frustrating.

She knew better than to probe him about his wartime experiences—his grandfather had warned her about that—but even on the subject of his years with his grandfather and the things he’d done as a child, up came that wall with its bigKeep Outsigns.

Questions she thought would be harmless, about boyhood mischief, or playing Robin Hood that he’d once mentioned, made him clam right up, as chatty as a doorpost. He’d change the subject, or make some excuse, remembering something he needed to be doing.

It was a mystery. She had her own secrets and that kept her cautious, but she kept trying.

“How old were you when you went away to school?” sheasked him one morning as they walked their horses in the shallow waves. Up to now, the conversation on his side had been a series of one-word answers.

“Twelve.”

“Did you like it or hate it?”

He shrugged. “Neither.”

“Didn’t you resent being sent away?” She’d had an impression that he’d enjoyed living with his grandfather.

“Not really. I didn’t want to go, but schooling is necessary for boys. I was lucky. Most boys are sent away much younger.”

With a little smile she edged her horse closer, reached out and placed a hand on his forehead.

He jerked his head back. “What are you doing?”

“That was four sentences in a row. I thought you might be delirious.”

His mouth twitched. “You little—”