He collapsed against her, but his was a warm, welcome weight. It seemed a long time before she managed to come to her senses, to breathe a languid sigh.
"I feel very sorry for Griffin," she said at last.
She felt Tris smile against her neck. "Why?"
"He said it would feel good. Can you imagine describing that as good?"
"No," he said with an exhausted chuckle as he eased off her. "That strikes me as a very insufficient word."
"It was glorious. No, that isn't strong enough to describe it. I don't think the right words exist." Feeling drained and yet somehow better than she ever had before, she snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder.
He pressed a slow, warm kiss to her brow.
"I love you," she whispered.
He squeezed her close and kissed her forehead again much harder, but he didn't respond in kind.
It didn't signify, she decided, ignoring the stab of disappointment. He'd shown her how he felt with his body, with his hands, with his cherishing kisses. His experiences in the past had left him reluctant to trust love, and she was sure he wasn't the first man who found it hard to say those three words. She'd just keep telling him, assuring him, and he'd respond in time. Soon.
This marriage may have been precipitated by scandal, but everything was going to work out fine…especially after they cleared his name.
In the meantime, she'd content herself with the wonder—the pure pleasure—of simply lying here, skin to skin. She'd never felt another sensation so sublime…except perhaps the events of the past hour.
As she drifted off to sleep, she replayed every exquisite moment in her head.
She never had worn Juliana's nightgown. And she'd forgotten to kiss his bruises.
THIRTY-FOUR
GINGERBREAD CAKES
Take three pounds of flour, one pound of sugar, one pound of butter rubbed in very fine, two ounces of ginger beat fine, a large nutmeg grated then take a pound of treacle, a quarter of a pint of cream, make them warm together, and make up the bread stiff. Wait a while and then make round balls like nuts and bake them on tin-plates in a slack oven.
These are reminiscent of home, and excellent with a good gossip.
—Helena, Countess of Greystone, 1783
ALEXANDRA WOKE first and watched Tris sleep in the dim early light. His lashes lay dark against his cheeks, making him look young and sweet and vulnerable. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm, his breath drifting in and out between slightly parted lips.
She breathed along with him. She wanted to do everything with him, but for now, breathing would have to do.
When he opened his eyes, she smiled. "Good morning."
He closed the inches between them and kissed her. A long, sleepy kiss. "A good morning indeed." His seductive smile didn't look young, sweet, or vulnerable in the least. He raised his head to peek at the clock on the oak mantel. "Do you always wake before six? I thought ladies all slept until noon."
"I had a house to run for my brother. And now a house to run for you."
"For us," he corrected, making her heart turn over in her chest. He reached for her.
"Wait," she said. "I owe you something."
He only raised a brow. Then laughed when she threw back the covers and began kissing each of his bruises, slowly, one by one.
His skin tasted divine, tinged with a hint of salt and the faint, musky scent of last night's coupling. When her lips brushed a fading mark that sat above his heart, she could hear it beating wildly in a rhythm to match her own. By the time she was finished, they were both short of breath.
"Better?" she asked, her voice thick and unsteady.
"Immensely," he assured her, gathering her close.
Then he kissed her again, his body against hers still overwarm from sleep. He skimmed a hand down her naked back, over her bottom, between her legs, where she was already slick and aching. But he took his time, matching lazy kisses with gentle caresses. When he finally slid into her, she sighed with relief and let him carry them both to bliss.
She'd never slept nude, but she thought she could get used to it. She'd always risen immediately upon awakening—but she thought she could get used to lingering, too.
He rang for Vincent and Peggy, and by seven they were both dressed and in the dining room.
Alexandra smiled at him across the breakfast table. "I cannot believe how happy I am."
"I'm glad." His smile more tentative than hers, Tris sipped from a steaming cup of coffee.
"What shall we do today?" She lifted the pretty little jam pot that matched the crested breakfast service, hoping for marmalade but setting it down when she saw the contents were red.
"I believe those are cherry preserves. I asked Vincent to tell Mrs. Pawley you cannot eat strawberries."
"Oh!" She dipped her knife and happily coated her toast. "Would you care for some?"
"I cannot abide anything sweet in the morning." He spread butter on his own toast, then speared a bite of eggs. "In answer to your earlier question, I'll need to make a circuit of the estate today, having been away for a while. There are matters that will require my attention. And I must spend some time at the new gasworks; I've left the builders long without my supervision. Would you care to accompany me?"
Alexandra hesitated, suddenly realizing that what happened
