"My nightgowns are rather plain." She licked some batter off a finger. "I've packed one that Juliana lent me—hers are much prettier."
"Why does Juliana have pretty nightgowns?"
She turned to him. "She likes them. She says they make her feel more womanly."
"I don't want to hear this," he repeated, lifting the bottle for another sip.
"Then why did you ask?"
"Will you be quiet and let me explain? When you're all ready and waiting in bed, he will come to you, probably wearing a dressing gown. To make things easier."
"Easier?"
"Easier to get undressed. Do I have to spell out everything?"
"I think so. I'm really quite innocent though the world thinks me a fallen woman." She handed him one of the pans and took the other herself. "I just want to know what will happen."
"So I've gathered." He followed her over to the brick oven and shoved his pan inside. "After he joins you in bed, he will probably kiss you and touch you—"
"I find touching to be very enjoyable."
"Splendid. You would not believe how happy I am to hear that." He didn't sound happy at all. "After that, he will open his robe and lift your nightgown."
"I think he will take them both off," she disagreed. "When he was sleepwalking, after all—"
"He may take them off," Griffin conceded wearily. "Will you stop interrupting? Let me finish."
"All right." She wiped her hands on her apron, then clasped them together in front of her. "I'm listening."
"He will ask you to open your legs." His face was turning all red again, and she didn't think it was due to the heat from the oven. "He will climb on top of you with his legs between yours, and sort of lie on top of you—"
"Ah." She could see it now. Almost. "But he's much heavier than I am," she said dubiously.
"Stop worrying. He'll support himself on his elbows. The part of him that will, um…"
"Plant the seed?" she supplied helpfully.
"Yes. That part will be hard so he can slide it into you. Don't ask how; it just happens. It's all quite simple, really." He looked relieved, like he was finished.
She took two thick mitts off hooks on the wall. "And then what?" she asked, shoving her hands into them.
"That's it, for the most part." When she stared at him, he raised the bottle for another long swallow. "He will, um, rub against you, more or less, and it will feel good—for you both—and he'll release his seed and it will be over."
"All right." It really did sound quite straightforward, if a little strange. And somewhat boring. "Thank you." She took the first pan out of the oven and set it on the big wooden table. The biscuits looked golden and smelled heavenly. "Would you like one?" she asked. "Just one, mind you, because they're for Hawkridge's—"
"It might hurt," he blurted out. "But just a little. And only the first time. I…I thought you should know."
Taking the second pan out, she froze. "Just a little? Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," he said. "In Spain, I slept with—oh, never mind. I'm sure. I'm sorry I even told you, because it's truly nothing to concern yourself with." He held the bottle up to a candle. There was only a tiny bit left in it. Looking like he wished there were more, he drained it and set it down. "Do you believe me? Please say you believe me."
"I believe you." She did. He'd never lied to her before. Teased her and misled her, perhaps, but never lied.
"Are we finished? Can you sleep now?"
"I think so." She put the second pan on the table and slid the mitts off. "Let's have some biscuits first, though. Two each. You've earned them."
And then she let him have three.
THIRTY
TRISTAN COULD scarcely believe he was a married man.
The wedding had been a simple affair, held in the old family chapel, witnessed not only by Alexandra's siblings and three female cousins, but the effigies of her ancestors dating back to the fourteenth century. When the minister asked if anyone present could show just cause why he and Alexandra should not be lawfully joined together, Tristan had half expected a five-hundred-year-old marble statue to pop up, sword and shield in hand, and take exception.
After all, it took a lot of nerve for a disgraced man to wed a lovely, proper Chase daughter.
He'd practically held his breath until the ceremony was over, until they'd shared a kiss that was decorous and chaste but set his blood on fire nonetheless. And then he still didn't quite believe she was his wife. And he couldn't decide whether their marriage was a dream come true, or—under the circumstances—a nightmare gone bad.
The wedding breakfast—which was actually a luncheon—had been a haze of delicious food mixed with feminine chatter and laughter. Alexandra, he'd been unable to help noticing, had spent a lot of time looking at him and very little time eating her meal. The latter wasn't all that surprising. His own stomach felt a bit sour from worry paired with exhaustion.
And anticipation.
His gaze kept drifting to the low, square neckline of Alexandra's simple wedding dress. She looked beautiful in the white lace, but he could barely wait to untie the pale blue satin sash and get her out of it.
Tonight he'd make her his.
That truth didn't quite hit him until they were in the barouche he'd borrowed from Griffin, making their way toward Hawkridge and hoping to arrive before dark.
It was a warm day with no threat of rain, so they'd left the top down to enjoy the setting sun. It was fortunate there were only two of them traveling, since Alexandra's luggage took up all the remaining room. In fact, Tristan couldn't even stretch his legs out. But with her seated beside him, snuggled against him, that seemed but a minor inconvenience.
She yawned, daintily covering her mouth with a gloved hand.
He took it to draw off the glove. "You're sleepy," he said, keeping his
