Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(79)

“As fair as moonlight,” another said.

“Thank you,” Christopher said. “Now stop wooing my wife, and take your leave.”

“We started the job,” one of the officers said. “It’s left to you to finish it, Phelan.”

And with cheerful catcalls and well wishes, the Rifles departed.

“They’re taking the horse with them,” Christopher said, a smile in his voice. “You’re well and truly stranded with me now.” He turned toward Beatrix and slid his fingers beneath her chin, nudging her to look at him. “What’s this?” His voice gentled. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Beatrix said, seeing him through a shimmer of tears. “Absolutely nothing. It’s just . . . I spent so many hours in this place, dreaming of being with you someday. But I never dared to believe it could really happen.”

“You had to believe, just a little,” Christopher whispered. “Otherwise it wouldn’t have come true.” Pulling her between his spread thighs, he wrapped her in a comforting hug. After a long time, he spoke quietly into her hair. “Beatrix. One of the reasons I haven’t made love to you since that afternoon is that I didn’t want to take advantage of you again.”

“You didn’t,” she protested. “I gave myself to you freely.”

“Yes, I know.” Christopher kissed her head. “You were generous, and beautiful, and so passionate that you’ve ruined me for any other woman. But it wasn’t what I had intended for your first time. Tonight I’m going to make amends.”

Beatrix shivered at the sensual promise of his tone. “There’s no need. But if you insist . . .”

“I do insist.” He smoothed his hand over her back and continued to hold her, making her feel safe. And then he began to kiss his way along the side of her neck, his mouth hot and deliberate, and she began to feel not entirely safe. She drew in a quick breath as he lingered at a sensitive place.

Feeling the ripple of her convulsive swallow, he lifted his head and smiled down at her. “Shall we have supper first?” Standing in an easy movement, he pulled her up with him.

“After that enormous wedding breakfast,” Beatrix replied, “I’ll never be hungry again. However . . .”—she gave him a brilliant grin—“I wouldn’t mind a glass of champagne.”

Taking her face in his hands, Christopher kissed her swiftly. “For that smile, you can have the entire bottle.”

She pressed her cheek into his palm. “Would you unfasten my dress first?”

Turning her away from him, he began on the row of concealed hooks that held the back of her dress together.

It felt like a husbandly act, this unfastening of her dress, both comforting and pleasant. As he bared her nape, he pressed his lips to the delicate skin, and strung more lingering kisses to the top of her spine.

“Shall I do the corset as well?” he asked, his voice close to her ear.

Beatrix was privately amazed that her legs were still supporting her. “No, thank you, I can manage that by myself.” She fled to the privacy of the dressing screen, and tugged her trunk behind it. Opening the lid, Beatrix found her neatly folded clothes and a drawstring muslin bag containing a brush and a rack of hairpins, and other small necessities. There was also a package wrapped in pale blue paper and tied with a matching ribbon. Picking up a small folded note that had been tucked under the ribbon, Beatrix read:

A gift for your wedding night, darling Bea. This gown was made by the most fashionable modiste in London. It is rather different from the ones you usually wear, but it will be very pleasing to a bridegroom. Trust me about this.

—Poppy

Holding the nightgown up, Beatrix saw that it was made of black gossamer and fastened with tiny jet buttons. Since the only nightgowns she had ever worn had been of modest white cambric or muslin, this was rather shocking. However, if it was what husbands liked . . .

After removing her corset and her other underpinnings, Beatrix drew the gown over her head and let it slither over her body in a cool, silky drift. The thin fabric draped closely over her shoulders and torso and buttoned at the waist before flowing to the ground in transparent panels. A side slit went up to her hip, exposing her leg when she moved. And her back was shockingly exposed, the gown dipping low against her spine. Pulling the pins and combs from her hair, she dropped them into the muslin bag in the trunk.

Tentatively she emerged from behind the screen.

Christopher had just finished pouring two glasses of champagne. He turned toward her and froze, except for his gaze, which traveled over her in a burning sweep. “My God,” he muttered, and drained his champagne. Setting the empty glass aside, he gripped the other as if he were afraid it might slip through his fingers.

“Do you like my nightgown?” Beatrix asked.

Christopher nodded, not taking his gaze from her. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“This was all I could find.” Unable to resist teasing him, Beatrix twisted and tried to see the back view. “I wonder if I put it on backward . . .”

“Let me see.” As she turned to reveal the na**d line of her back, Christopher drew in a harsh breath.

Although Beatrix heard him mumble a curse, she didn’t take offense, deducing that Poppy had been right about the nightgown. And when he drained the second glass of champagne, forgetting that it was hers, Beatrix sternly repressed a grin. She went to the bed and climbed onto the mattress, relishing the billowy softness of the quilts and linens. Reclining on her side, she made no attempt to cover her exposed leg as the gossamer fabric fell open to her hip.