Then he suddenly pulled from her, gasping. His shoulders shuddered as he surrendered to his release, his head bent. She looked between their bodies, watching in a mixture of fascination and confusion as he spent himself in his hand.
Their breaths slowed in the charged silence. He looked up, his gaze searching her face. A sudden bout of self-consciousness seized her. Too late, she knew, but there nonetheless. She lifted one ankle from around him and dragged her knees together.
He hopped from the bed. She watched, her avid gaze crawling over the lean, muscled lines of his body. He really was beautifully shaped. She drank in the sight of him as he worked at the basin, his biceps and forearms flexing as he washed his hands and wrung out a linen.
She couldn’t even look away when he returned, a damp cloth in hand. He lowered himself to the bed beside her and nudged at her legs. “Wh . . . nu-uh.” She shook her head, heat swamping her face.
“Come. Let me attend to you. There are no secrets between us anymore. Allow me to do this, Aurelia.”
She stiffened, wondering if this was the manner of intimacy shared between all men and women. Had he often done this for other lovers? That though only brought an ugly swipe of jealousy.
“Aurelia.” His gaze snared hers, his voice unyielding. “Let me do this for you.”
With a resigned nod, she relaxed her knees. He cleaned between her legs with efficient movements. Finished, he rose and disposed of the cloth. Returning, he sank back beside her on the bed. Close, but not touching. His gaze skimmed her, and she must have been seriously confused because she thought she saw heat flare to life in his eyes again. He was utterly at ease with his nudity, and she tried to feel equally as confident.
It didn’t work.
She reached for her chemise and pulled it over her head. Feeling somewhat better, a little less vulnerable at least, she curled her knees beneath her and faced him expectantly.
She waited, certain he would say something. This changed everything. This was no longer a name only marriage.
“Why did you do that?” she heard herself asking, motioning to the basin.
He shrugged. “It’s the courteous thing.”
“No. That’s not what I meant.” She propped herself up on one elbow so they were at eye level.
“You . . . withdrew from me. At the end. I’ve never heard of a man doing that.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Do you often discuss such matters?”
She flushed. “Well. No, but I read. I’ve never come across such a thing in any of the medical texts in the library at Merlton Hall, and those texts have been quite forthcoming on matters such as these. Why would you—”
“It’s done to prevent procreation. A child. So that I don’t spill my seed inside you.”
It took her a long moment to process his words. She understood their meaning, but she still could not understand. Once she did, her chest sank. He did not want to have a child with her.
“I don’t want children,” he added, in case she failed to grasp his meaning.
“What of your line . . . the title—”
“I care not what happens after my death. I’ll be dead. The title can pass to some distant relation for all I care.”
“But I thought every man wants progeny,” she insisted. She knew that her mother had two miscarriages after her birth and it had been a great disappointment to her father. He had hoped for more children. Sons specifically. That was the way of a nobleman. He wanted sons.