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Or maybe he couldn’t.
Who was he kidding? If he entered her room, he would take her hand. And if he took her hand, he would bring it to his lips. He would kiss each slender finger before giving them a little tug, and she’d tumble against him, her body warm and innocent and his. He’d have to wrap his arms around her; he could not possibly resist. And then he would kiss her the way a woman was meant to be kissed, long and deep, until she whispered his name, her voice a soft plea, begging him to—
He swore viciously, trying to cut his imagination off before it led him to bed. Fat lot of good it did, though. He was burning for his wife.
Again.
Still.
The entire evening had been torture. He could not remember anything he’d said at supper, and he could only hope that he’d managed at least a semblance of intelligent conversation. His mind kept wandering to extremely inappropriate places, and every time Iris licked a bit of food from her lips, or smiled at him, or bloody hell, every time she just breathed, his body tightened until he was so hard for her he thought he might explode.
If Iris had wondered why they remained at the table for so long after the meal had concluded, she had not said anything. Thank God. Richard didn’t really think there was a polite way to say that he needed half an hour just to get his erection to settle down to half-mast.
Good Lord. He deserved this. He deserved every moment of torment for what he was going to do to her, and yet the knowledge wasn’t really helping right now. Richard was no sybarite, but nor was he one to deny himself pleasure. And every nerve in his body was begging for it. It was absolutely insane how badly he wanted his wife.
The one woman who, by all rights, he ought to be able to take to bed without an ounce of remorse.
It had all seemed so easy when he’d plotted it out that afternoon. He’d charm her all evening, then kiss her passionately good night. He’d make up some romantic nonsense about wanting her to know him better before they made love. One more kiss, and he’d leave her breathless.
Then he’d touch her chin, whisper, “Until tomorrow,” and be gone.
As plans went, it was perfect.
As reality went, it was bollocks.
He let out a long, exhausted breath and raked his hand through his already mussed hair. The connecting door between their rooms was not nearly as soundproof as he’d thought. He could hear Iris moving about, taking a seat at her vanity table, perhaps brushing her hair. She expected him to visit her, and why wouldn’t she? They were married.
He had to go in. If he did not, she would be confused. She might even feel insulted. He did not wish to hurt her. Not any more than he was going to, at least.
He took a breath and knocked.
The movements coming from inside her room stilled, and after a long, suspended second, he heard her bid him enter.
“Iris,” he said, keeping his voice easy and smooth. And then he looked up.
He stopped breathing.
He was fairly certain his heart stopped beating.
She was wearing a thin silken gown, the palest of blue. Her arms were bare, and so were her shoulders, save for the narrow straps that held the silk in place.
It was a garment designed solely to tempt a man—to tempt the very devil. The neckline was no more revealing than a ball gown, but somehow it hinted of so much more. The fabric was so thin as to be almost translucent, and he could see the faint outline of her nipples puckering underneath.
“Good evening, Richard,” she said, and it was only then that he realized he’d been struck utterly dumb.
“Iris,” he croaked.
She smiled awkwardly, and he saw that her hands were fluttering at her sides, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them.
“You look lovely,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Her hair was down. It rippled down her back in soft waves, ending just a bit above her elbows. He’d forgotten how badly he wanted to know how long it was.
“It’s my first night at Maycliffe,” she said shyly.
“It is,” he agreed.
She swallowed, obviously waiting for him to take the lead.
“You must be tired,” he blurted out, grasping the only excuse he could think of in the heat of his desire.
“A little.”
“I will not bother you.”
She blinked. “What?”
He stepped forward, steeling himself for what he must do. What he must do, and then what he must not do.
He kissed her, but only on the forehead. He knew his limits. “I will not be a brute,” he said, trying to make his voice soft and reassuring.
“But—” Her eyes were huge, bewildered.
“Good night, Iris,” he said quickly.
“But, I—”
“Until tomorrow, my love.”
Then he fled.
Like the coward he was.
Chapter Twelve
AS A MARRIED lady, it was Iris’s prerogative to take her breakfast in bed, but when she woke the following morning, she gritted her teeth determinedly and got herself dressed.
Richard had rejected her.
He had rejected her.
This was not some roadside inn, too “dusty” for a wedding night. They were in their home, for heaven’s sake. He had flirted with her all evening. He had kissed her hand, charmed her with his witty conversation, and then, after she’d donned a sheer nightgown and brushed her hair until it shone, he told her she looked tired?
She had stared at the door between their rooms for untold minutes after he left. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until she’d suddenly gulped back a huge, awful sob and realized that her nightgown—the one she now swore she’d never wear again—was wet with tears.