bedchamber and I imagine there will be only one bed.”
“We shall have to make do, then.” She gazed up at him. “Besides, it is only natural that Lord and Lady Matthew share a room. I do not imagine they are the type of couple that would insist on separate
sleeping accommodations. Do you?”
“Not at all. But my imagination is rather active.” A slight smile played across his lips. “It does not bother you, then?”
“Not in the least,” she said, ignoring a tremor of what was part apprehension, part anticipation. “I like a man with a vivid imagination.”
He laughed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant. However, if you are waiting for me to swoon at the thought of sharing your room—”
“And my bed.”
“And your bed.” Her voice was serene, as if she were speaking of something of no consequence whatsoever and not discussing the very thing she had dreamed of night after long, lonely night. “I should think you would no longer expect hysterics from me on this subject after the last time we spoke of your so-called conditions.”
“I never know what to expect of you, Princess,” he said under his breath.
“And do stop calling me Princess. Or Your Highness. Someone is bound to overhear and—”
“Very well, my lady…”—he bent close, his lips near to her ear—“wife.”
The word whispered against her skin, provocative and promising. Delight shivered through her and raised the hairs at the back of her neck. She might have to swoon after all. Why should she not share his bed? Had she not been in his arms in her dreams every night since they’d parted? Regardless of what happened between them now, would she not always consider herself his wife? And wouldn’t he always be her love?
Why should she wait until that love was returned, if indeed it ever was? It was clear that his feelings already went beyond mere physical attraction. The odd debate they had had a few moments ago proved that. He might not love her now, but he did tolerate her, and surely he liked her just a little. Still, even if he detested her, it was a fine and passionate hatred. And was there not little more than a thin line between love and hate?
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes?” He stared down at her. “Yes—what?”
“Yes is the answer to your question.”
“And which question would that be?” he asked slowly.
“You wanted to know if there were any of your conditions I intended to honor.” She glanced up at him, pleased to note the distinct look of trepidation in his eye. “The answer, my lord husband, is yes.”
Chapter 7
It was the look in her eye he couldn’t get out of his mind. She’d cast him what he now thought of as the look every time he’d seen her since her return. In the stables, at her residence and his cottage, and then earlier tonight, when they had entered the inn. Even now, as she sat across the table from him in the privacy of their room, eating the meal Matt had arranged for, her dining was punctuated by the periodic directing of the look . He couldn’t quite describe the look : It was a mix of flirtation and determination. Of innocence and challenge. Somehow, she managed to peek up at him while keeping her lashes lowered. He couldn’t have duplicated the maneuver if he practiced in front of a mirror for years. It was distinctly feminine and not particularly straightforward. In the section of his mind reserved for mechanics he wondered how anyone could give the impression of gazing down in a most modest manner while glancing upward in a way that could only be described as enticing. In various other parts of his body, he didn’t care about the how of such a feat, only the why.
Potent. That was the word for it. The look was extremely potent. No doubt the kind of look Delilah ensnared an innocent Samson with or Cleopatra employed on an unsuspecting Marc Antony. Tatiana was probably trained from birth in the use of such looks as a national defense in time of
“We shall have to make do, then.” She gazed up at him. “Besides, it is only natural that Lord and Lady Matthew share a room. I do not imagine they are the type of couple that would insist on separate
sleeping accommodations. Do you?”
“Not at all. But my imagination is rather active.” A slight smile played across his lips. “It does not bother you, then?”
“Not in the least,” she said, ignoring a tremor of what was part apprehension, part anticipation. “I like a man with a vivid imagination.”
He laughed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant. However, if you are waiting for me to swoon at the thought of sharing your room—”
“And my bed.”
“And your bed.” Her voice was serene, as if she were speaking of something of no consequence whatsoever and not discussing the very thing she had dreamed of night after long, lonely night. “I should think you would no longer expect hysterics from me on this subject after the last time we spoke of your so-called conditions.”
“I never know what to expect of you, Princess,” he said under his breath.
“And do stop calling me Princess. Or Your Highness. Someone is bound to overhear and—”
“Very well, my lady…”—he bent close, his lips near to her ear—“wife.”
The word whispered against her skin, provocative and promising. Delight shivered through her and raised the hairs at the back of her neck. She might have to swoon after all. Why should she not share his bed? Had she not been in his arms in her dreams every night since they’d parted? Regardless of what happened between them now, would she not always consider herself his wife? And wouldn’t he always be her love?
Why should she wait until that love was returned, if indeed it ever was? It was clear that his feelings already went beyond mere physical attraction. The odd debate they had had a few moments ago proved that. He might not love her now, but he did tolerate her, and surely he liked her just a little. Still, even if he detested her, it was a fine and passionate hatred. And was there not little more than a thin line between love and hate?
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes?” He stared down at her. “Yes—what?”
“Yes is the answer to your question.”
“And which question would that be?” he asked slowly.
“You wanted to know if there were any of your conditions I intended to honor.” She glanced up at him, pleased to note the distinct look of trepidation in his eye. “The answer, my lord husband, is yes.”
Chapter 7
It was the look in her eye he couldn’t get out of his mind. She’d cast him what he now thought of as the look every time he’d seen her since her return. In the stables, at her residence and his cottage, and then earlier tonight, when they had entered the inn. Even now, as she sat across the table from him in the privacy of their room, eating the meal Matt had arranged for, her dining was punctuated by the periodic directing of the look . He couldn’t quite describe the look : It was a mix of flirtation and determination. Of innocence and challenge. Somehow, she managed to peek up at him while keeping her lashes lowered. He couldn’t have duplicated the maneuver if he practiced in front of a mirror for years. It was distinctly feminine and not particularly straightforward. In the section of his mind reserved for mechanics he wondered how anyone could give the impression of gazing down in a most modest manner while glancing upward in a way that could only be described as enticing. In various other parts of his body, he didn’t care about the how of such a feat, only the why.
Potent. That was the word for it. The look was extremely potent. No doubt the kind of look Delilah ensnared an innocent Samson with or Cleopatra employed on an unsuspecting Marc Antony. Tatiana was probably trained from birth in the use of such looks as a national defense in time of
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