A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(46)

Sherbourne’s reply to her babbling was to take her in his arms.

This embrace was different. Charlotte felt no circular bump where his pocket watch would have been. Her stays were loose about her middle and thus her breasts were unconfined. She felt Sherbourne’s heartbeat, not as a dull concussion through layers of clothing, but as the palpable ebb and flow of life.

He wasn’t nervous, which was doubtless good.

“I like that you are fierce,” he said. “That you don’t suffer fools, ever. I admire your marksmanship with a bow and arrow.”

Charlotte waited for more—she was very good at sums, competent at the pianoforte, fairly well read—but Sherbourne didn’t know these aspects of her. He was left to compliment the traits that others considered her shortcomings.

“Don’t be anxious, Charlotte. Just be yourself. Scold and fuss, give orders. Be blunt. What follows might not be wonderful in the first few instances, but it will at least be pleasant. We’ll manage.”

That he knew she needed reassurance should have been embarrassing, but Sherbourne was her husband. The firelight brought out a wealth of fatigue in his face, also patience and affection.

He was not nervous, he was determined that their wedding night go well, and thus it would.

“I’ll get into my nightgown.” Charlotte would have moved to the dressing screen, but Sherbourne stopped her with a hand around her wrist.

He kissed her, a slow tasting that promised pleasure and yet more patience. Charlotte borrowed his patience when she wanted to dive beneath the quilts and pull the covers over her head. Crossing the room with her dress unbound was another new experience, and knowing that Sherbourne watched her gave her the resolve to walk away slowly.

“Warm the sheets, please,” she said. “Your hair is still damp, and I can’t have you taking a chill.”

He laughed, though she’d been perfectly in earnest.

Charlotte made a thorough job of her ablutions, left her hair in a single braid, and donned her nightgown. The room was warm, and the bed was eight feet away. She emerged from the dressing screen without the benefit of a dressing gown, and without any sort of plan for the next hour.

Sherbourne was also without benefit of dressing gown, and once again sitting in his chair by the fire.

“Ready for bed, Mr. Sherbourne?”

He rose, his silk trousers riding low on his hips. “I’m ready, Charlotte.”

Ye gods, he was fit. His musculature formed a landscape, like a patchwork of rectangular fields on either side of the slight indentation down the middle of his belly. Chest, shoulders, arms…all were wrapped in sleek muscle and shamelessly on view.

“You look larger without your clothes,” Charlotte said. “Why is that?”

He snorted. “Maybe because part of me is larger when I’m about to be intimate with my wife.”

“You are naughty.”

Fatigue made his features sharper, and his smile more piratical. “Not naughty, married. Come be married with me, Charlotte Sherbourne.”

He held out his hand, and Charlotte took it. “Does one undertake this aspect of married life with or without one’s bedtime attire?”

For if she enjoyed looking at him, perhaps he might…that thought was beyond married.

Sherbourne paused with her by the bed. “Do you have a preference?”

“I’ve never done this before. How could I have a preference?” Except…she did have a preference.

Sherbourne took a step back, drew off his trousers, and tossed them over the privacy screen. “Now, do you have a preference?”

Charlotte couldn’t help but peek, then stare, then gawk. Sherbourne was all of a rugged, healthy piece. The taut geometry of his belly flowed into long flanks and defined calves, everywhere lean, smooth, and male.

And there, where the dusting of golden hair became a dense thicket…very male.

“You promise me we’ll manage pleasantly?” Charlotte asked.

“I promised to worship you with my body. Being worshipped should be pleasant, Charlotte.”

Valid point. “Then let’s to bed, Mr. Sherbourne.”

“Lucas,” he said, scowling down at her. “When I’m being worshipful, you will please call me Lucas.”

Charlotte considered rejecting that order—but, no. He was actually making a request, and a reasonable one under the circumstances.

“Lucas, dearest husband, please come to bed.”

In the complete, glorious altogether, he made a circuit of the room, blowing out candles one by one. Charlotte regretted the loss of illumination, but appreciated her husband’s respect for fire hazards.

“Shall I untie the bed curtains?” he asked.

“Yes, please, and then you can untie the bows of this nightgown.”

*



Sherbourne had fallen asleep in the tub, almost as soon as he’d sunk into the hot water. He’d woken in time to wash before the water had cooled too much, but fatigue still wrapped around him like wet towels.

Which was good. A husband consummating his nuptial vows ought not to be in a frantic rush. He should be relaxed, calm, and prepared to delay his own pleasure. Sherbourne was as calm as possible, considering he had a cockstand at full salute and a willing wife parading around in a single layer of linen.

“Let’s get comfortable beneath the covers,” he said. “We can see to your nightgown later.”