She swallowed nervously as he slipped the silk from her fingers. "I was up most of the night." With her free hand, she motioned toward a covered basket perched carefully on top of her other belongings. "I made coriander biscuits for your staff."
Removing her second glove, he stifled a smile. Such a gesture was all but unheard of, but so very Alexandra. "They're certain to be surprised."
"Pleasantly surprised, I hope."
"I have no doubt." He pressed a kiss to her bare palm. Carefully, because his bottom lip was still tender where Griffin had bashed him in the teeth. But he'd have endured any pain to hear the rough hitch of her breath.
Smiling into her palm, he kissed it again. "I wish I'd known you were baking. I would have kept you company."
"Griffin did, instead," she told him, obviously struggling to appear unaffected. "He was rather cheerful for a bloody and bruised man."
He nodded, completely understanding. "In an odd way, it felt good to fight."
"Odd is an apt description. How can hurting each other feel good?"
"I cannot explain it. You'd have to be a man to understand." He kissed her palm once more, then flicked it gently with his tongue, smiling to himself when he felt her shiver.
Recovering her composure, she slanted him a curious glance. "He said he hit you first."
His smile spread into a grin so wide it hurt. "But I got the better of him, didn't I?"
"You look rather the worse for wear yourself." She ran gentle fingers over his bruised jaw and across his sore lip, then blinked and snatched her hand away, apparently surprised to find herself touching him so boldly in public. "But the black eye Griffin woke up with this morning was more colorful."
"He was suffering from the headache this morning, too, I do believe."
"That was because he drank most of a bottle of Madeira." Her smile was the fond smile of a sister. "Why did he hit you?"
"Because I told him to."
She blinked up at him. "Whyever would you do that?"
"Another thing you'd have to be a man to understand."
Shaking her head, she looked back toward the road. Her hair, which had been covered by a lace veil for the ceremony, was very simply dressed. Several strands had blown loose. Sweeping the baby hairs off her neck, he leaned closer to kiss her nape.
She shivered again, not hiding it this time. He laid a hand on her cheek to turn her face toward him and brushed his lips across hers.
"The coachman," she whispered.
"He's not watching." But he wished they'd taken a closed carriage. This ride was beginning to seem like the longest of his life.
"He has only to turn his head."
"We're allowed to kiss. We're married."
She blushed and looked down. "Yes, we are," she said, twisting the wide gold band on her finger. "I didn't expect you'd have a ring on such short notice."
"On the way back from London, I stopped at Hawkridge to pick it up."
"It fits me perfectly." She rubbed the plain surface, burnished from years of wear. "Is it old?"
"Very. A family heirloom," he said, reaching to gently pull it off. "There are names and dates inside." He handed it to her so she could see.
"So many!" She held it up to the setting sun, squinting at the tiny, engraved letters. "Henry and Elizabeth, 1579. James and Sarah, 1615. William and Anne, 1645. Randal and Lily, 1677." She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "And more. So many generations."
Such a long, noble line whose reputation he'd destroyed. And now, Alexandra's and her family's, too.
He wouldn't think about that, he decided as his gaze drifted to her lips. Maybe tomorrow he would think about those things, but not now. He wanted her, and she wanted him. Before reality intruded, the least he could do was give her a lovely wedding night to remember.
The wedding night she deserved.
He would be kind and gentle, and he would do his best to put her at ease. Perhaps this marriage was ill fated, but they would both have tonight.
When she clenched the ring in her fist, he smiled. "I'll have our names and year added the next time we're in London. You don't mind that it's old?"
"Sweet heaven, no." She slipped it back on her finger possessively. "I cannot imagine a more wonderful ring."
Knowing how she valued tradition, he'd hoped she'd feel that way. But he hadn't been sure. "I'm glad," he told her, pleased.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Do you suppose all the other wearers were happy?"
He shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea."
"I think they were," she said decisively. "And we will be, too," she added through a yawn.
He wished he could be so confident.
He wasn't at all sure that she'd adjust well to his isolated life. That she wouldn't come to resent him. That she'd retain her calm assurance without society's stamp of approval.
That he wouldn't unknowingly do her harm.
That, in the long run, he wouldn't lose her.
Her family would always be there for her, and she could eventually decide to run back into their comforting arms. There she could make a different life for herself, perhaps including a discreet affair or two. Husbands and wives who lived apart were all too common among the aristocracy.
Her head felt heavy against his sore shoulder. He reached up to stroke her hair, welcoming the dull ache, because it meant that she was his, at least for now. Because, frightened as he was, he couldn't bring himself to be sorry they'd married. Not now—not with the sun sinking quickly and their wedding night just over the horizon.
"Tris?" she murmured sleepily.
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
His stomach clenched. His fingers tangled in her tresses and stilled. Not I think I'm in love with you, but I love you. Three simple words said with a quiet conviction he would never, ever have. Such deep emotion was beyond him.
She fell asleep waiting for the response he couldn't give.
THIRTY-ONE
