Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(55)

At the first touch of his fingers, she gasped. Even though she was waiting for it, expecting it, even though he was only actually touching the top button of her dress. Her bodice loosened as he undid more buttons. And then she felt him—his hand inside her dress, the backs of his fingers brushing her back, grazing her spine as he worked free the last of the tiny, satin-covered buttons.

Her dress sagged, only her arms holding it up, covering her breasts. She couldn’t command her legs to move. Could only feel his fingers on her back, the spark of heat where their skin connected. The air had ceased to flow in and out of her. He didn’t move either and she wondered if she stood there long enough would he move and take the choice away from her? That would make it blessedly simple.

Marguerite’s scandalous advice whispered through her head. She’d been shockingly candid, explaining how Cleo might pleasure both herself and Logan without engaging in actual . . . relations.

Even with the advice swimming through her, leaving nothing to the imagination, one question still remained. How did she go about initiating the advice Marguerite had given her?

“There. All done.”

Rustling behind her indicated his return to the bed. Clutching her gown to keep it from falling to her feet, she scurried behind the screen. Stepping free of her gown, she flung it over the screen, angered at her cowardice. Her undergarments soon followed. Slipping the nightgown over her head, she emerged again, her gaze immediately flying to the bed. He was still there, square in the middle, naturally.

Only he no longer sat upright with pillows propped behind him as though he were waiting for her. He was lying on his side. She squinted, unable to even make out his face. He appeared to be . . . sleeping.

She lowered onto the stool before the vanity table and quickly removed her hairpins, sending the glossy dark mass tumbling to her shoulders. She quickly ran a brush through her tresses, inspecting herself critically.

Perhaps if she looked more like that curvaceous redhead she’d seen weeping in the village, he’d be more inclined to stay awake.

With decided vigor, she slammed the brush on the table. Now she was just being ridiculous. She’d ordered him to leave her be. That’s what he was doing. Even on their wedding night. She wasn’t about to nurse some wounded feelings because he took her request seriously. She wasn’t that fickle.

She moved to the bed, flinging back the covers, her movements agitated and excessive. In the back of her mind she knew she was trying to deliberately gain his attention. Like a child throwing a tantrum, she wanted to rouse him from sleep. She frowned, recognizing the bad behavior in herself. And yet she couldn’t stop.

She glared at the shadowy shape of his broad back peeking out from the covers. Even lying in the middle of the bed, there was plenty of bed left for her to occupy without touching him. She saw that now—and felt a stab of disappointment.

Turning, she beat her pillow loudly, as though getting it in the right condition for her head was of critical importance. At the very least, it was an excellent exercise in frustration.

She flopped back on the pillow with a loud sigh, her hair billowing all around her in a floating dark nimbus. She sent one last baleful look at his back. His shoulder moved the barest amount, a slow rise and fall matching his even breathing. He slept. The cad.

Rolling to her side so she did not have to endure the sight of him, she tucked her hand beneath her cheek. She doubted she would sleep a wink.

This was her last thought before drifting away.





Chapter Twenty-two

Logan didn’t move until he heard her breathing shift into that rasping cadence that marked sleep. Only then did he roll over to observe her, admiring the softness of her features relaxed in sleep.

She’d been spitting mad at his seeming indifference to her. It had taken every ounce of will inside him not to do more than unbutton the back of her gown. He’d had to force himself not to strip her gown all the way off and touch her, caress her as he longed to do. She was his wife now . . . and he couldn’t even lay a finger on her. The absurdity of it galled him. It was a situation beyond his imagining a month ago. He had envisioned himself married to a female. Perhaps one he didn’t want or crave with the intensity that he wanted Cleo, but a tolerable wife. Someone he could stomach, who could in turn tolerate him. He’d assumed she’d at least be willing to share his bed. That she would even expect it—desire it.

Cleo had moved about in a huff, clearly offended about something, before she succumbed to sleep. What did she expect of him? To attempt seduction after she’d already laid forth the terms of their marriage? No. He hardened his resolve. He’d wait for her to come to him. She was a passionate creature. He had proof of that—memories that left him aching with need.

He had to believe that she couldn’t spend night after night in this bed with him and not cave, not surrender to even one kiss. One kiss that could open the door to so much more . . .

He intended to make it as difficult as possible for her. Despite what he told her, he could have taken a chamber down the hall. His staff and siblings would have speculated, but he didn’t care. More than likely they would have thought it her English ways . . . a haughty Sassenach simply desiring her own chamber. Or they might think he was giving her more time to acclimate to her new role as his wife.

Reaching out, he slid a dark tendril back from her cheek and wrapped it around his finger. Honestly, he didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought. He cared only about making Cleo his wife in the truest sense. And he’d use all his cunning to make that happen.