The Ideal Wife by Mary Balogh Page A

was afraid that you would say perhaps that we had met several weeks ago. But you had the courage to admit that it has been only three days.”
    “I think it was you who said that,” he said, still grinning.
    “Was it?” she said. “But I could see that that was what you wanted. Miles, you have spent the whole day with me. But you must not feel obliged always to do so. You must go out this evening if you wish. Do you belong to any of the clubs? I am sure you must. You would feel more comfortable spending an evening at one of them, would you not, and relaxing with your friends? I will be quite happy to find the library and take my embroidery there. I shall find a good book and not feel at all neglected.”
    “What I would really like to do,” he said, “is spend the evening in the library with you, Abby. A nice quiet read sounds like the perfect way to relax. Will you mind my company?”
    “What a foolish question,” she said. “This is your home, after all.”
    “And yours,” he said.
    And so they spent the evening together, exchanging scarcely a word once they had adjourned from the dining room to the library, which was all wood and leather and brandy bottles and masculine coziness. Abigail loved it.
    She could not, after all, read, she found. Her brain was teeming too actively with all the new facts and events of her life. She had never been an avid needlewoman, though she had been forced to acquire a taste for embroidery when living with Mrs. Gill. The woman spent most of her days indoors and inactive.
    But she enjoyed stitching that evening and looking about her at this most cozy room of her new home and at the sprawling and oblivious figure of her husband, his attention entirely focused on the large tome that was open on his lap.
    She was beginning to feel less intimidated by his good looks. After two days and a night spent in his company, she was growing more familiar with him and more comfortable with him.
    She was seated at her dressing table, brushing her hair, when he came through his own dressing room later that night. She was thankful that it was not the night before—very thankful. This night she could look forward to with some pleasure. She smiled at him and set down her brush and preceded him into her bedchamber. She lay down on her bed while he removed his dressing gown and blew out the candles.
    “I think perhaps your mother and your sisters do not wholly dislike me,” she said. “They will get used to me, won’t they, once they have got over being vexed with you for marrying without consulting them and once they have recovered from their disappointment in not having a chance to help you choose a bride. That is what their plans were for this Season, weren’t they? That is what they were referring to?”
    “Of course they did not dislike you,” he said, joining her on the bed and settling one arm beneath her shoulders. “Why should they? They do love me, after all, and you put on a splendid show of being deeply infatuated with me, Abby. You had me almost convinced. Are you less nervous tonight?”
    “Oh, yes,” she said. “I was very foolish. It scarcely hurt at all, and even then only for a moment.” She lifted her hips so that he could raise her nightgown to her waist. “It was more the fear of pain than pain itself—the feeling of ‘Oh, oh, here we go—pain on the way,’ and then the realization that it was over already.”
    He found her mouth in the darkness and kissed her. “I am glad,” he said. “Hurting you is the last thing I would wish to do, Abby.”
    His hand had slid up beneath her nightgown and was fondling one breast. His thumb was rough against her nipple, his palm warm as it covered the hardened tip and made circular movements over it.
    “That feels good, Miles.”
    “Does it?” he said, moving his hand to perform the same magic on her other breast.
    “And as for its being unpleasant,” she said, “that is so much nonsense. I heard it from wives when I was