Above all, the woman who owned that beautiful face, the one who dwelled in that extraordinary body, was herself as remarkable: clever, intuitive, and, best of all, she could always make him laugh. He thought he had a fair sense of humor, he appreciated a good joke and could make clever comments. But he wasn’t a merry fellow, he knew that. He just wasn’t lighthearted. It would have been amazing if he were. Heir to an old title and considerable fortune, he’d been brought up to shoulder responsibilities, and was sent off early to all the proper schools by disinterested parents. Although he had a brother and a sister, he’d never really gotten to know them and still did not.
He’d always been drawn to laughter, as though he could warm himself at it. That was how he had found his bride. He’d been at some foolish affair in London, bored to extinction—until he’d heard a woman’s full, rippling laughter. He’d turned to see her, and been caught. She’d seemed like a bonfire, a beacon, a bright and shining, warm and giving lady. So she was, or had been, until tonight. She’d been a delight to talk to, a pleasure to make love to, a perfect bride, an astonishing lover, reserved until he touched her, and then turning to flame under his hands and lips.
Yet he sometimes wished she weren’t so very obliging with him. At times he caught a vagrant hint of some wish on her part that was unexpressed. She sighed and moaned most agreeably when they were making love, but never spoke. He didn’t know how to deal with someone so tender and untried, so he continued to be gentle and careful with her, hoping experience would tell him what she could not as yet. He felt time would loosen her lips.
It had, tonight, and with a vengeance.
Hesitant with him? Ha! he thought, flopping over to his other side. She’d pinned his ears back. Which was just as well, because if she hadn’t she’d have shattered his eardrums.
Jonathan, Viscount Rexford, lay alone in his great bed and shivered with the cold. He thumped over to his other side again to capture a hint of heat from the feathers he’d just deserted. He missed his wife for more than her warmth. They hadn’t spent a night apart since they’d married. Amazing how fast a fellow became accustomed to comfort and pleasure.
He was tempted to go to the dressing room, fling open the door, take her in his arms, carry her back to bed, and tell her to forget the plans to go to the Fanshawes’ for Christmas, before he made amazing love to her. He suspected all would be forgiven if he just capitulated.
But he wasn’t good at surrender. And he’d given his word. And she was his wife. And, damn it all, she was wrong. He turned again, and tried to think warm thoughts. But they were all about his wife, so he sought a solution to his insolvable problem instead.
His wife, in the dressing room, turned over again. She was very warm and comfortable, physically. The doubled silk of the great feather quilt upheld her, with enough left over to cover her. But she was cold to the heart. She missed her husband. She hated his being angry with her. She shivered at the thought of his disdain for her. She wished she could just get up, march into the bedchamber with the coverlet, throw it on the bed, along with herself, and beg for his forgiveness, his lips, and his love.
But he was wrong, and she had nothing to be sorry for. Except for her marriage, her disappointment with her husband, and Christmas, which had always been such a joy and might now become the ruination of all her dreams, and her love, and her lovely marriage.
Pamela woke yet again from the fitful slumber she’d finally fallen into before dawn. She hadn’t heard Jonathan moving around in the bedchamber, so she rose and slowly cracked open the dressing-room door to put an eye to it to see if he was still sleeping. The sun wasn’t full up yet. But in the night she’d realized how embarrassing it would be if her maid came in to bring her morning chocolate as usual, only to find her mistress sleeping on the dressing-room floor. She had to get back into bed before anyone realized where she’d passed the night, but not until after he’d left it.
The floor was cold under her bare feet, and her heart felt colder as she tried to see into the great bed. It was empty. As was the room. He was obviously already dressed and gone.
She quickly went into the room, threw the coverlet back on the bed, and scurried under it. She only meant to do it for appearances, but when her maid came to open the curtains at noon, she was still soundly asleep.
Pamela awoke, stretched and yawned . . . until she remembered the night and the nightmare that had not been a dream. Then she stared dully at the ceiling. She’d had an inspiration in the night, sometime between headache and turn over again. But she didn’t know if she had the courage to carry it out today. She’d dress and go downstairs. Then time would tell if she had found a solution, or would instead spend the Christmas holiday all by herself. That seemed to be her only option unless they came to some sort of resolution.