The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(6)

What if she did it wrong?

Cecy remembered her journal. It is natural to feel shy and nervous, she had written, and then: The act will likely embarrass you at first, but you will soon come to regard it as commonplace.

She repeated those words in her head, and said resolutely, “You must teach me how to do it.”

“Yes,” Gareth said. He was still smiling at her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes and he didn’t look relaxed. Nor had he moved closer to her on the bed. In fact, he looked as if he’d rather climb back out of the bed.

Cecy had a moment of insight. He’s as uncomfortable as I am. That realization made her own embarrassment fade slightly. She reached out and touched Gareth’s hand where it lay on the sheet, and felt the tension there. “It’s not that difficult, is it?”

“No. A matter of rhythm, that’s all.”

“Then let’s do it now,” Cecy said, in as cheerful a tone as she could muster.

Gareth seemed to become even tenser. She felt it in his hand—muscle and tendon tightening, almost a flinch—and thought she understood why. “It will be a little embarrassing at first, won’t it?” she said.

Gareth grunted a laugh, and some of the tension in his hand eased. “Yes.”

“So we may as well get it out of the way, don’t you think?”

Her choice of words seemed to amuse him. He grunted another laugh, and then looked away from her and sighed. “This isn’t how I wanted it to be.” His voice was apologetic, and when he glanced back at her his smile was wry and rueful.

“I think wedding nights must always be a little awkward,” Cecy said. “It’s hard to imagine that they wouldn’t be.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Gareth turned his hand over and clasped her fingers lightly. After a moment, he said, “We don’t have to do this tonight, you know.”

“I think we should,” Cecy said, because if they didn’t do it tonight they’d have to go through all this awkwardness and embarrassment tomorrow night.

“Of course,” Gareth said, and released her hand.

“Tell me what to do,” Cecy said, and perhaps it sounded a little businesslike, but businesslike was better than embarrassed, because the more businesslike they were now, the more quickly the act would become commonplace and ordinary.

“Uh . . .” Gareth cheeks flushed faintly and he looked away from her again. “We should start by you, um, sitting on me.”

“Sitting on you,” Cecy repeated, feeling her own cheeks flush.

“Yes.”

Gareth sat with his back to the pillows, his legs outstretched, his feet tucked beneath the folded-back covers. His nightshirt covered him from throat to ankle, but she could clearly see the shape of his thighs beneath that thin layer of fabric. For such a lean man, his thighs were surprisingly muscular. The thighs of a man used to spending hours every day in the saddle.

Thighs that he wanted her to straddle.

Cecy’s embarrassment surged. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “Ah . . . your nightshirt?” Was he going to pull it up before she sat on him?

Gareth’s flush deepened. “Let’s leave it as it is, for now.”

Cecy nodded and rose on her knees.

Gareth glanced at her for a brief half-second, and then away. “You don’t have to face me if you don’t want to. You may face away if you’d prefer.”

“Oh, no!” Cecy said. She wasn’t certain why that suggestion was so horrifying. Because he’d be able to watch her, but she wouldn’t be able to watch him? Or because it implied that she might not want to look at his face? “I’d like to be able to see you.”

Gareth glanced back at her. Their eyes caught and held.

One of the things Cecy liked most about her husband was his face. He wasn’t handsome—his jaw was a little too long for that, his cheekbones a little too prominent—but he had one of the most attractive faces she’d ever seen. One glance at it told you that he was honorable, that he was kind, that he liked to laugh.

How could he doubt that she wanted to look at him? It made her heart squeeze painfully to think that he might believe that.

Cecy reached out and touched Gareth’s cheek lightly. He’d shaved again before they’d dined. His skin was smooth beneath her fingertips. Smooth and warm.

She trailed her fingertips down his cheek, along his jaw to the faint cleft in his chin, then retraced her path. She gazed into his eyes. Hazel eyes, with laughter lines at the corners. “I like your face very much,” she whispered.

Gareth blushed.

Cecy leaned closer and kissed him.

Their lips clung together for a moment. “I like your face, too,” Gareth whispered.

Cecy drew back and smiled at him, and felt in her heart how much she loved him. That was what was important tonight—how much they loved each other—not whether learning to ride St. George would be awkward and embarrassing. Get it over with, she told herself, and then she climbed determinedly onto his lap.

Gareth stiffened. Every muscle in his body went taut, and then—with apparent effort—he relaxed. Not completely, though. She could feel the tension in his thighs, could see it in those braced shoulders.

Cecy was tense herself. She felt as ungainly as a marionette, all stiff limbs and wooden joints.