He muttered a curse, drew up knees, and turned on his side. The dressing gown fell open. He shivered and pulled it closed again. That didn’t help. The room was cold. The feathers beneath him were warmer than the air around him. He’d slept on the ground in Spain when he’d been with the troops, and had slept like a dead man every night. But he’d been younger then, and full of courage—exhausted every night as well, and probably too full of patriotic fervor, fellowship, and good red wine to notice things like temperature. Besides, Spain had been warmer.
He was sure there was another coverlet somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t call the housekeeper or his valet to get it or tell him where it was. He stepped out of bed and went to the dressing room to get a greatcoat or such to fling over himself, and stopped at the door. She was in there. He’d be damned if he’d give her that satisfaction. Especially when he’d been cheated of the satisfaction he’d wanted to give her.
He stormed back to the great bed, until he realized she could probably hear him, and then he went soft-footed. He crept into bed and curled up in a knot. Damn. He wished he knew what had set her off.
She’d known they were going to the Fanshawes’, he’d swear to it. And why should she carry on, even if she hadn’t? He hadn’t slept with Marianna for a decade, and didn’t want to again. She’d been a fascinating older woman then; she was just a jolly old friend now. Compare her to his bride? That was obscene. He was outraged at his wife’s accusation—but then he stilled. In truth, when he’d been younger, he supposed he had compared his intimate experiences of women, at least in his own mind, rating them, grading then, remembering them when he’d see them again. It was inevitable, it had been eventually depressing.
In the old days, in the days he now considered his cold days, he sometimes might find himself at a social affair with one or more women he’d bedded too. At first, he’d been appalled by the unforeseen occurrence, almost as much so as his bride had just been. But in time, he admitted, he’d felt a frisson of pride. It had shocked and disappointed him, making him aware that he was in danger of becoming someone he didn’t care for.
That was one of the reasons why he’d been so eager to marry Pamela. One look at Miss Pamela Anne Arthur and he knew he had met his match. The daughter of a country squire, she was young, but had two seasons and so was not an infant. He’d been out of town for her first season and the moment they’d met he’d been determined that she not spend another in London without him at her side, and in her bed.
She was well born but not infatuated with her heritage, as he’d found too many other young women in the ton to be. She was educated, but neither a bluestocking nor a pedant. She was fresh and unspoiled, candid and honest, nothing like any woman he’d ever known. Since he married her he’d discovered she was nothing like any woman he’d ever had and he’d known how right he’d been to hasten her into marriage. Because he’d never want any woman but her again.
Or so he’d thought, before tonight.
But damn it, she was wrong about this. He didn’t want Marianna anymore, and actually felt a little queasy remembering their intimate moments. They’d been hushed and rushed and though carnally fulfilling, totally unsatisfactory in all other ways. At least, so they seemed to him now. Now he was married to a female who thrilled him in ways he’d never dreamed about then.
Lord, but his wife was lovely! Even tonight, as she’d stood there screeching at him at the foot of his bed, backlit by the hearth fire, he’d seen her magnificent breasts heaving with distress and had a hard time remembering what she was so distressed about. A very hard time, literally.
She was as desirable in her fury as she was when she lay there smiling up at him with warm welcome. It went beyond beauty, though she had that in plenty. She had milk white skin and dark russet curls, and a shape to make Venus on that clamshell look like a dried-up winkle left on the shore. She was full-breasted, slim-waisted, with a firm pert bottom that could not be ignored. He’d have called out that young fool for talking about her adorable bottom the other day, but not only would that have made the remark famous, the truth was she had the best one he’d ever seen or been privileged to hold.
He’d known greater beauties whose faces hadn’t captivated him half as much, perhaps because they hadn’t held half as many expressions as her lovely face regularly showed. Pamela’s features were small and even, except for those huge brown-gold eyes of hers. And she had the most remarkable mouth, with a slight overbite that showed off that plump, tilted upper lip that drove him mad.