Page 30 of The Lover’s Eye

Her pulse quickened at the possibilities. There was still so much of their marital life they had not discussed, so many expectations yet to be revealed.

Without answering, he walked on until they reached a quiet niche beneath the stairs. He sat her down with excessive gentleness, her feet not making a sound as they connected with the tiled floor.

“You may go wherever you like,” he said, smiling down at her as she smoothed her skirts. “I only thought I’d take you away from the staff. Save you the trouble of introductions.”

Isobel paused in her task to look at him. “Why?”

“I could tell they made you nervous.”

“I—Well, thank you,” she said, smiling. She peered out into the deserted corridor. “I am sure I will grow more comfortable with them in time.”

“I am sure you will. And your lady’s maid will be here before day’s end.” Betsey had stayed back at Shoremoss Hall to gather the last of her and Isobel’s belongings.

“In the meantime,” Giles said, removing his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and checking the time, “would you like one of the staff to show you to your room? Old Finch might give you a history lesson, but he’d do a respectable job.”

Isobel recalled the crease-weary countenance of the aged butler.

As her husband had carried her into the house, she had tossed a momentary glance over his shoulder, and Finch’s face was the last she’d seen.

His eyes had locked with hers, and though he wore no expression—other than one of aged impatience—Isobel got the distinct, chilling sensation he did not approve of her.

“Perhaps you might show me, instead?” she asked in a small voice.

Something glittered in Giles’s eyes, and he offered her his arm. “The pleasure would be mine.”

They advanced up the grand staircase, and he guided her down a corridor new and unexplored to her, with gaping height and ornamental door casings. He stopped before a wide, oak panel door.

“These are your chambers,” he said, releasing her arm. “And mine are just there.” He pointed to the nearest door on the left.

Isobel glanced down the corridor in the opposite direction. A little gape of light was emerging from the next door on the right. “And what is there?”

Giles stiffened and wordlessly went to the open door. He shut it firmly, removing a little set of keys from his pocket to lock it. “It is nothing, but perhaps dangerous. Some unfinished renovations. I would not wish you to injure yourself.”

Isobel nodded, smiling and returning her attention to the unrevealed room before her. “May I?”

He was back at her side now and rested a light hand on her back. “Of course.”

She twisted the handle and stepped inside, pausing before they reached the room’s center.

Giles rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I asked Finch and Mrs. Taylor, the housekeeper, to bring it up to date for you. But if anything they have done does not suit you, I will only be too happy to—”

Isobel turned suddenly and, to his evident surprise, grasped her husband’s arm. She stared up at him, smiling until her cheeks lifted and her eyes crinkled. “Do not be silly, Giles. It is lovely. You did not have to alter it at all.”

“You would not say that, if you had seen it before,” he said, warmth pooling in his eyes. “My mother, God rest her soul, had created a chintz mausoleum of the place.”

“Well, I adore it.”

Isobel was being truthful. The cavernous chamber was more substantial than her room at Ridgeway House and did not have the stiff air of Shoremoss Hall. Each nook was tastefully occupied by carved antique furniture, making the largeness feel approachable and comfortable.

The walls had been papered in sage green silk with a subdued floral pattern that put her in mind of the walled garden, and complimentary pastel draperies enclosed the fourposter bed.

There was a chaise longue angled before the marble fireplace, its silken upholstery warming by the low-licking flames.

The space seemed to reverberate the comfortable familiarity of home, no matter that it was Isobel’s first time seeing it.

“I must take extra care to thank Mrs. Taylor and Mr. Finch for their good taste,” she said. “And thank you, of course.” Isobel lifted her eyes once more to Giles. Her hold on his arm had loosened, her hands sliding down to rest on his.

“You need not thank me.” He raised his unoccupied hand to smooth a hair from her forehead. “You are at home, now.”

The soft scrape of his fingertips sent little shivers across her scalp. Mere inches separated them from touching, from sharing some greater intimacy like the kiss Isobel longed to recapture.

But Giles cleared his throat and lowered his hand from her face. “Excuse me, I need to retrieve something from my chamber.”

She watched as he stepped away, expecting him to exit through the half-open door they had entered by. When he veered to a door on the adjacent wall, opening it to reveal a little dressing room and an adjoining bedroom, her mouth gaped. Their rooms connected?

Heat bristled up her neck. Only a week ago she’d grappled with the idea of being engaged to Giles. Now they would sleep just steps apart, separated only by two meager doors? Or …

Would her husband expect them to share a bed?

This was the question raised in Isobel’s mind when Giles came striding back into the room, having divested himself of his coat and cravat.

His shirtsleeves were pushed up slightly, revealing the tender anatomy of his wrists and forearms, and he held a book.

When he saw her face, he stopped at once. “Is something the matter?”

Isobel adjusted a nonexistent loose pin in her hair. “No, of course not,” she said brightly.

Giles looked at her for an extended moment, then turned and stared behind him at the open door. “You did not realize our rooms joined. I apologize for not mentioning it. I assure you I will not disturb you, if you are concerned—”

“No.” Isobel’s voice was firm, anxious to assuage his discomfort as much as her own. “I am not concerned. Only … surprised.”

He nodded, looking at the clothbound volume in his hands. “I set this aside for you,” he said, covering the distance between them. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

“‘ Plato’s Epigrams ’,” Isobel read aloud, running a thumb over the embossed title. “Thank you. This will make for excellent bedtime reading. I can hardly rest until I’ve had at least a few pages of a book.”

“It helps me, as well,” Giles said. “I often have difficulty sleeping.”

Their eyes connected, Isobel’s breath quickening under the confines of her dress. “Will you ever, um,” she paused, clearing her throat. “Ever be here? In this bed?”

“Not until you wish me to be,” he said simply, his eyes warm and steady.

His easy sureness was something Isobel found herself in raptures over. It was a quality no one else in her life possessed, and it instilled in her a reassuring comfort she hadn’t even realized she was missing.

“I told you I want to know you,” she said softly, peering up at him beneath fine lashes of black. Her fingers tightened around the sharp edge of the book.

“I want to know you, Isobel. Probably more desperately than you realize. But I have put you at a disadvantage, not being able to court you properly.” He raked a hand through his hair, ruffling the salt and pepper waves.

“Do not feel pressured to fulfill the full role of being my wife yet, if you need time …” He let out a quiet groan, rubbing his chin with his hand. “I sound like a damned idiot.”

“No, you don’t.” Isobel sat the book on the bed and took his hand. His scent seemed stronger without his coat, wafting to her in a delectable mix of mint and salt air. “I think you sound very gentlemanly. Very sweet.”

They both chuckled, soft and nervous vibrations that filled their throats.

“What I mean to say is I will wait on you,” Giles said. “For however long you need.”

He never mentioned how abominably Isobel had been treated before, but it was an unspoken knowledge between them. She could feel it now, his promise that he would never allow her to feel fear or pressure from his touch, regardless of his desires.

“That is just why I do not need extra time,” she said, her voice brightening with sensuality. “I trust you.”

She placed her hands on Giles’s chest as she had done that day on the terrace.

Without the heavy weight of a coat and lapels, her palms perceived the warm skin beneath his silk waistcoat and thin shirt.

He mimicked the memory, too, raising his hand to rest softly on the arc of her jaw. His thumb stroked her bottom lip.

“May I?” he asked, his breath coming in short, heavy striations.

“You may,” Isobel whispered, her voice no more than a hot gust on his thumb.

Slowly, Giles bent his head to hers, not stopping until his lips brushed the apple of her cheek. He kissed her lightly there, trailing down to kiss her ear, now the bent of her chin. Isobel’s breath quickened as her desire for his lips to take hers heightened with each teasing touch.

She ran her hands up to his neck until his soft curls filled the tender spaces between her fingers. A soft moan left Giles’s lips, and she smiled. It was a special thrill, knowing she could return the torture.

He drew his mouth to hers now, kissing her parted lips with slow, tender efficiency. He showed each corner and crease diligent attention—a thorough, undoing kiss, that made their first one seem chaste by comparison. Isobel responded in earnest, recapturing his mouth each time he paused.

“Isobel,” he breathed, pressing his lips to her forehead. He wrapped one arm behind her back and pulled her face against his chest, caressing gently.

“Yes?” She relished the warm solidity of him against her cheek. She imagined sleeping like this, and suddenly, knowing their rooms adjoined was no longer shocking.

It was electrifying.

“As much as I would love to remain here, I think we should attend to those matters we talked about the other day, and then have some lunch. Do you remember?”