Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“I don’t know who Lady June is. I’m sorry you weren’t able to marry her.”
“I’m sure you are.”
He regretted his snide tone at once and rested his chin on top of her head, wondering why he wasn’t inside her where he ought to be.
“Ophelia, why do you make me so cross? We’re on our honeymoon and I think you’d rather be anywhere else.”
She turned toward the window. The curtains had been tied open, revealing a bright autumn moon overlooking the gardens and fields. Her lids looked drowsy, and he wondered if she’d fall asleep right there in his arms.
“I used to think people were saying ‘honeyed moon,’” she said a moment later. “I thought they meant the time the moon looks amber, as if it’s covered in honey. Have you ever seen a moon like that?”
“I have, more than once. A honeyed moon? I like that. It’s very poetic.”
He could see his simple praise pleased her, which made him feel oddly pleased in turn. How sweet a wife she might be, if she put all her prim, shrewish nonsense aside. As he held her in his arms, images came unbidden to him, so vivid his heart thumped in his chest. Images of Ophelia as a mother, singing to a baby snuggled in her arms. Singing to their baby, her Vienna-trained voice echoing in the Abbey’s spacious nursery where generations of his forebears had been raised.
His blood rose along with his imagination. His cock went hard, and he wanted to mate with her, to make her pregnant right away. He wanted to be inside her for pleasure, for legacy. He wanted her God-given voice to cry his name when she reached her satisfaction, clinging to his shoulders. She’d done that at the inn, clung to his shoulders and writhed beneath him in bliss.
When? he thought. When can I have you again? I’m dying to be inside you.
He wanted to part her legs wide and thrust inside her, fuck her, excite her as she was exciting him, but when he looked down to tell her so, she’d fallen asleep, and he knew that, no, he could not have told her such things. She would have reacted with horror and run from the bed.
She turned her head against his chest in sleep, and he knew he must let her sleep, and let her come to him in her own time even if he felt like he was about to die.
He eased her back on her pillows and stared out at the moon. It was not a honeyed moon tonight, not amber gold and sensuous, but cold, stark, and white.
If he kissed Ophelia’s lips, would she wake? He kissed her forehead instead and lay back beside her. His body burned for her, like the fire in her screaming nightmare, but his fleeting kiss was a surrender.
I will wait, he thought, for he had no other option. I will wait as long as I can before I go mad.
Chapter Nine
Afraid
On Ophelia’s fourth day at the Abbey, after luncheon, Rochelle brought her a walking gown and told her the marquess requested her company. Her first impulse was to plead exhaustion, as she had the three previous days, but she could not hide in her rooms forever.
Instead she rose and put on the silver-gray gown Rochelle brought her, and let the maid fuss and putter over her hair. When she finished, Ophelia looked at herself in the vanity mirror. She looked awfully pale, although the gossamer silver gown flattered her eye color. She pinched her cheeks, then wondered why she bothered. The last thing she wanted was for her husband to develop a deeper attraction to her.
“Your bonnet, my lady,” said Rochelle, handing her the pale gray hat that matched her gown. “I’ve a feeling Lord Wescott wants to get you out in the sun.”
“Is it a nice day?”
“I believe so, my lady.”
Ophelia had been inside so long she didn’t know. She let Rochelle arrange the bonnet atop her loose chignon and went to meet Lord Wescott at the bottom of the sweeping staircase. He looked every inch the country peer, from his fitted navy coat to his spotless buff trousers. He’d pulled his hair back in what she’d come to think of as his “civilized” look, and held a hat between his fingers. His eyes raked over her, and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. Did he find her pretty, attired for a walk in the garden?
Did she wish him to find her pretty?
She lifted her chin as she came face to face with him, waiting on the second stair.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “How are you today?”
“Tired, my lord.”
Of course, he knew that, for he spent each night drawing her from repeated fiery nightmares. The first night, she dreamed she started the fires herself, that her hands burned everything they touched. Another night the fire came to her onstage, a flaming ball from the wings. She ran to the stage door to escape it, but this time the marquess didn’t come, or her parents, or anyone to save her. The dreams felt so real, she’d choke and gasp for air, and then the flames would envelop her, bringing unbearable pain that made her scream.