Or perhaps Sherbourne was becoming attached to his wife.
Which made no sense at all. Fondness was acceptable, but attached?
“I want our wedding night to be memorable too,” Charlotte said, sitting up. “Last night was very memorable.”
Sherbourne’s cock heard that bit of encouragement. “Would you like to do again what we did last night?” How casual he sounded, and yet, he couldn’t get the damned hair ribbon wrapped around her braid, much less secured into a proper knot.
“No, thank you.”
Well, hell. He’d been fairly certain his wife had enjoyed herself. With women, though, a man never—
“I want to see your face,” Charlotte said. “I want to touch you too. I want to see your eyes.”
He finished with her braid, though his bow was lopsided. “I want to see all of you.”
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Said the man who just spent the better part of an hour lounging about in the altogether. I’m glad you’re not overly shy.”
“I was overly in need of a bath. One usually bathes in the altogether.”
Charlotte rose and disappeared behind the privacy screen. “Would you mind warming the sheets? The footmen can deal with the tub in the morning.”
When filled with cold, less than pristine water, the tub was not a fixture in any erotic fantasy Sherbourne could conjure. He pushed the whole business into the corridor, which exertion reminded him that his hip was sore, and likely to be downright painful in a day or two. He set the empty buckets outside the door as well, and gave himself up to a moment of resentment.
He resented being married. Resented having to think of a wife, share a room with a wife, consider her social priorities, and send her notes. Listening to Charlotte humming softly behind the privacy screen, Sherbourne resented all the servants who knew he’d abandoned the lady of the manor for dinner more often than he’d joined her.
He resented the weather, which would go from bad to worse to awful.
He resented Brantford, who couldn’t be bothered to spend a night under the roof of a business associate, but must instead prevail on His Grace of Have-A-Title for accommodations.
“Your turn,” Charlotte said, emerging from the privacy screen. “I left you some warm water, though you hardly need it.”
“The sheets…”
“No matter.” She unbelted her robe, and damned if the woman wasn’t naked. “I’m sure we’ll be quite cozy in no time.”
She climbed under the covers, depriving him of an opportunity to gawk—for now—but he’d glimpsed a slim haunch, the curve of her breast.
Sherbourne used his tooth powder and blew out the candles, but he didn’t bank the fire. Charlotte had said she wanted to see his eyes, or some damned nonsense to that effect, so a little illumination was basic husbandly consideration.
He shrugged out of his dressing gown and draped it over a chair. “My hair is still damp.”
“All the more reason for you to get under the covers lest you take a chill. You seem to have the constitution of a bull, but tempting fate is for fools.”
Sherbourne got under the covers, the sheets cool rather than frigid. He considered waiting until morning to make love with his wife—they were both tired, the hour was late, he wasn’t at his best—but in the morning, he’d be off to the colliery, arguing with Jones about moving a row of houses that should probably never have been laid out at the foot of the hill.
“Lucas?”
He found Charlotte’s hand beneath the covers and brought her fingers to his lips. “You’re sure?”
She tucked herself along his side. “I’m more sure by the moment.”
Sherbourne draped himself over his wife and kissed her. His hip hurt, which was good, because a little pain would offer a distraction when a distraction was needed. Charlotte kissed him back, which was very good.
He needed her kisses. He needed the pleasure he could share with her while he forgot, for one blessed, private hour, the tons of mud that had destroyed his schedule, his budget, and some of his confidence.
As Charlotte took his hand and tucked it over her breast, Sherbourne spared one last thought for his commercial undertakings: He, who thrived on a challenge and had schemed for years to bring mining into the valley, resented his colliery.
He resented his colliery mightily.
*
Charlotte considered letting Sherbourne drift off to sleep, or—more likely—lie beside her, fretting over his tenant houses, tram lines, and business associations. Two thoughts stopped her from pursuing that course. First, she refused to yield the very consummation of her vows to the press of business. Beginning as she intended to go on in the marriage meant that in this instance, she was owed her husband’s attention at the time and place of her choosing, exactly as he’d promised.
The second thought that weighed against allowing Sherbourne his rest was the growing realization of how alone he was, and how much responsibility he carried.
Finding a set of widow’s weeds for a ruined laundress or scraping together a few pounds for coach fare had been significant accomplishments in Charlotte’s eyes. Sherbourne sought to employ scores of people, to provide sustenance for many families, and this was only one of his ventures.
He deserved a respite from his obligations. He deserved one place where business could not intrude and where his satisfaction mattered.
“You make a lovely quilt,” Charlotte said. “All warm and friendly.”
Sherbourne nuzzled her ear, which tickled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been accused of friendliness.”
The texture of his chest hairs against Charlotte’s bare skin was peculiar, his beard slightly abrasive. Blunt warmth nudged against her thigh.
“Should I be doing something?”
Sherbourne rested his forehead against her shoulder. “You and I are alike in this regard. We worry less when we’re busy. You should be enjoying yourself.”
Difficult to do, when uncertainty and arousal were evenly matched. “I liked it when you…” Charlotte could not say the words. She was naked in bed with her husband, and she could not say the words.
“Show me.”
She took his hand and closed his fingers around her nipple. Not too hard, but not too lightly either.
“As it happens,” Sherbourne said, “we both enjoy that. Let’s try something.”
In the next moment, he had her atop him, which meant Charlotte was more or less sitting on a particularly tumid part of his anatomy, and her abundant glories were on display.
And Sherbourne was admiring them. He smoothed his hands over her breasts, filling his palms, and curling up to press his face between them, rough beard and all.
Charlotte wrapped a hand around his head, his hair warm and damp where it had been against the pillow, cool where it grazed her breasts.
“Shall I use my mouth?” Sherbourne asked. “Did you like that too?”
“This is not an interview, Mr. Sherbourne.”
He laughed and hugged her, the sensation of bare skin tightly pressed to bare skin a lovely shock.
“You are modest and passionate,” he said. “An inconvenient combination for you, I’m sure. What if I bumble along as best I can, and you let me know if I’ve chosen the wrong direction?”
Charlotte put his hand back on her breast. “That will suit.”
His bumbling was an entrancing progression of kisses, caresses, and suggestions. Charlotte was to touch him too, apparently, for he used her third finger to draw light circles around his nipple, and when she added a slight pinch and a scrape of her fingernail, he arched into her touch.
All the while, his arousal was evident against her sex, a hot, hard, intimate promise all its own.
Charlotte cast about for how to form a question, but “Shall we get on with it, Mr. Sherbourne?” struck her as ridiculous. “When do we…?” wasn’t much better, but she hoped it was soon.
Very soon.
“You make me ache,” Sherbourne said, flexing his hips. “You make me ache and rejoice.”
He rearranged himself so Charlotte lay on her back beneath him as he slid that part of himself against her sex.