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’s hero. 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 maids emerged 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?”
“I’ll find it.”
He came closer and she stiffened. “Is something the matter?” he asked her.
“No.” Her voice squeaked.
He sauntered toward the window and cast a quick glance at the bed. Ah. A very filmy nightgown lay draped on the bed, which had already been turned down.
Damn the convention that kept brides ignorant until their wedding night. He glanced at her again. Her skin was chalky pale and, now that he was looking, he could see she was trembling.
Did she expect him to pounce on her without warning? To rip her clothes off and have his wicked way with her? She might.
Surely her sister-in-law had explained it all to her. Though women were strangely inhibited about such things—why, he had never understood. Men weren’t. Yet from what he gathered few women even knew what to expect from childbirth, even though the bearing of an heir was a woman’s premier role in life.
Lily had been to boarding school, he recollected. Some girls’ school in Bath. Hordes of schoolgirls had attended her brother’s wedding, he remembered. No doubt those school friends of hers had filled her ears with lurid tales of gory wedding nights. Girls’ schools were hotbeds of misinformation, the more dramatic the better, and the spinsters who ran them were no doubt just as ignorant. Or worse, men-haters. No doubt she’d been taught that all men were ravening beasts who couldn’t control their carnal appetites.
One of his flirts had told him that on her wedding night she’d expected to be practically disemboweled. “The reality was such a letdown,” she’d told him, laughing.
That was another reason for such secrecy and misinformation; it suited many men to have their brides ignorant. If a bride had no expectation of pleasure, the men’s skills were not called into question. Ned had no patience with it.
In his experience women whose husbands didn’t satisfy them wandered. And brides who were mishandled often became reluctant bedfellows. He wasn’t having his own bride
