She took extra care with her appearance that evening.

Shannon, Christina’s new maid, was a pleasant change, with plenty of kind words and sound advice. Christina found the young girl’s demeanor relaxing and the two were soon laughing together. She’d never had cause to laugh with a servant before, not even back in London where the staff had been familiar but much more interested in currying the countess’s favor than the happiness of a small child.

From Shannon’s tales, Christina learned that Oliver cared about his staff, treating them much more like family members than hired help. It made sense, she supposed, that a recluse would come to appreciate those around him, as they were the only source of contact. Besides, Oliver was kind and generous, no doubt a fair employer.

“Mr. Hawkes, now he usually eats with Mr. Gill or by himself,” Shannon was saying as she fastened the tiny buttons of Christina’s evening gown. It was the best Christina owned, an ivory silk with a demure neckline and a coral underskirt. Matching coral roses were sewn into the bustle and train. Of course, she had a harder time enjoying the dress since realizing Lord Avington had been duped into paying for it.

Shannon finished and went to fetch Christina’s gloves. “It’ll be nice to have a wife here to eat with him instead.”

When the gloves were buttoned, Christina started for the door. “Wait, madam,” Shannon called. “What about jewelry?”

Christina glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, I have none. My parents . . . well, the pieces are gone now.” No use explaining how everything had been sold back in England.

“But Mr. Hawkes, he had a box of it sent up. Have you not seen it?” Shannon walked to the tiny dressing table and picked up a dark blue velvet case Christina hadn’t even noticed.

When the lid opened, Christina’s jaw dropped. There were hundreds of glittering stones staring up at her, jewels of all colors and sizes. Necklaces, bracelets, ear bobs . . . she could not wrap her head around it all. Where had they come from? Had he purchased these things? “Did all this belong to his mother?”

“And grandmother, from what I understand. The Hawkeses are an old New York family. Would you like to try on some of it?”

“I couldn’t . . . it is all too precious.”

“Nonsense. Mr. Hawkes had them delivered for you to wear. And you are his wife. It is only fitting.”

Even when she owned jewelry, none of the pieces had been this exquisite. These jewels were meant to stun, to draw every eye in the room. She would feel foolish wearing them, as if she craved attention. “I would rather—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Shannon dropped a diamond choker around Christina’s throat. “There,” the maid said. “Now you are perfect.”

No amount of protesting would dissuade the maid and Christina, helpless with her gloves on, had no choice but leave the choker in place. It rested on her collarbones like an expensive semaphore designed to signal the eye to her chest. She fought the need to cover the piece as she went down to dinner.

Oliver waited at the bottom of the main stairs, head bent as he stared at his toes. He wore just shirtsleeves tonight, no coat, with a slate gray waistcoat covering his chest. A black necktie and trousers completed the ensemble. On anyone else the outfit would have seemed dark and somber, but somehow instead it came off sleek and elegant, as if he could step into the dining room of Delmonico’s or Sherry’s. How did he manage such effortless confidence?

Conversely, she felt like a fool. She had assumed he would dress for dinner, so she’d asked her maid to press her best gown. Had taken care with her hair. There was a fortune in diamonds draped around her neck. She was completely overdressed, acting as if this were a true romantic evening between husband and wife instead of two people merely sharing a meal together.

Idiot.

She stopped and decided to disappear back up the stairs—but Oliver’s head snapped up at that moment, his gaze widening as it traveled the length of her. When he finally caught her stare, his eyes were dark, hooded, and filled with a heat that curled her toes in her evening slippers.

Patricia’s words from earlier came back to mind. Trust me, he is attracted to you.

Based on this stare alone, Christina might be tempted to believe it. But if such a thing were true then why turn her away last evening? If he desired her, refusing to consummate the marriage made no sense.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Her skin burned with humiliation as she stood there. She longed to dash up the stairs, strip all this off, and forget the whole evening.

His lids opened, revealing familiar clear and bright green irises with none of the heat from before. Had she imagined it? “Good evening,” he signed, then smiled and held out his arm.

He has already seen you. No use in hiding now.

She heaved a sigh and gestured to her attire. “I feel silly. I thought I was to dress for dinner.”

“You look lovely,” he signed and spoke at the same time. “You did nothing wrong.”

“It will only take a moment to change.” She lifted the hem of her skirts and prepared to turn around.

“There is no need for that. Come down and let us eat.”

Admitting failure, she descended the stairs and placed her palm on his forearm. As they moved to the dining room, she could feel the strong tendons and powerful muscles shift in his arm, an intimacy that caused her heart to race.

He seated her at his right, not the opposite end of the table as was customary. She recalled he’d done the same last night. Another example of the lack of formality here.

He waved at the footman to begin service. “It is my fault for not telling you. I never wear a coat unless it is absolutely necessary.”

She should have known. He’d worn a coat for their wedding but that was the only time in their acquaintance he had bothered. “I will remember for next time.”

He winced ever so slightly and she could have bitten her tongue. Of course there would be no next time. They were to live separately, not as husband and wife. Yet another mistake on her part.

Silence descended as dinner service began. Gill poured the wine while a footman delivered a silver platter bearing the first course of oysters.

His brow furrowed, Oliver signed to Gill. The butler set the decanter down and signed back. No one spoke so Christina could not follow the conversation, however Oliver’s lips were pressed into an unhappy line as his hands moved in response. Clearly this was a disagreement of some kind, but over what?

After their terse exchange, Gill threw up his hands and instructed Michael to place all the food on the table. Soon dishes of all types—from soup and roast duck, carrots and parsnips, to broiled salmon—covered the surface of the wooden table. She struggled to take it all in. Were they feeding the staff as well?

“Select whatever you’d like,” Oliver said when they were alone.

She touched his arm as he reached for the oysters. “Were you and Gill having a disagreement?”

“No. I merely prefer to serve myself.”

Ah. So the butler had wanted to serve à la russe, as was customary in England. It was more formal and required the help of the servants to move dinner along. Was Oliver so anxious to get this over with, then?

If he found her so repulsive, then what about that spark in his gaze earlier?

She gave a quick shake of her head, attempting to clear it. Married not even a full day and she could affirm that husbands were dashed confusing.

“Are you planning to eat?”

She looked up from her empty plate to find Oliver already scraping the bottom of his soup bowl. “Yes, of course. Though I daresay not as quickly as you.”

He had the grace to appear abashed as he ladled soup into a bowl for her. I apologize, he signed after passing her the bowl. “It is usually just me.”

She tried the soup while watching his hands, the long, graceful fingers dusted with dark brown hair between the first and second knuckle. Competent hands. Not the hands of a gentleman or a laborer, but somewhere in between. He fascinated her, always had, yet they barely knew one another. She had so many questions about his parents, his childhood, losing his hearing, his inventions . . . Her life seemed positively boring in comparison. She vowed to get answers before this year was out.

“Would you like a tour of the house after dinner?”

Blinking, she tore her attention away from his hands. “Yes, I should like that very much.”

For a supposed smart man, Oliver continued to act the complete fool around Christina. At dinner, she’d been closed off, remote, barely eating and staring strangely at his hands. Guilt had again nagged at him—guilt and responsibility. Perhaps it was the desire to crack the shell that seemed to surround her, to help her feel comfortable in her new home.

Or perhaps you merely want to spend more time with her.

Yes, he could admit it. There was something about her quiet, reserved nature that intrigued him. He needed to learn what drove her, what interested her . . . all the various parts that comprised this complex woman. She was a puzzle and he could not resist.

A gorgeous puzzle, if truth was told. When he’d first spotted her tonight, a heart-stopping visage in her fitted silk gown and his mother’s diamonds, his body had instantly reacted. My wife, a voice deep inside him whispered, and blood had started pumping, heat gathering between his legs to thicken his cock. Only closing his eyes and thinking very bland thoughts had caused the moment to pass. The whole thing had been damned near embarrassing.

Then he’d foolishly suggested a tour of the house. And after she had eagerly accepted, he hadn’t the heart to rescind the offer even though it would prolong their evening together.

However, now they were nearly done, thank God, with only one room remaining between him and the ability to excuse himself for the night. Then he could gain reprieve from her scent, the brush of her skirts against his leg, and the way she bit her lower lip when concentrating.

That lower lip had plagued him all evening.

Not that he had rushed the tour. He’d shown her the entire house, even the areas belonging to the staff, and saved his favorite room for last. The portrait gallery was a square space in the middle of the first floor, with four walls of stacked paintings in heavy gilded frames. Long sofas and deep chairs were strategically placed in the middle of the room to create a cozy spot, one he often employed to merely sit and contemplate.

The room was a bittersweet reminder of his parents. His mother had collected these paintings over years of travels and he knew the story behind each one. Not all were the works of great masters; some were from local artists peddling art directly on the street. His mother had often said that magic could be found in unexpected places.

Christina was moving slowly, carefully studying the sixty-six paintings, her lovely brow furrowed in concentration. He did not interrupt, just let her explore in peace. Eventually she stopped in front of a canvas with red-and-purple streaks, staring at it intently, and he was immediately drawn to her side. “What do you think?” he asked and signed at the same time. Even as he used his voice more and more with her, he still found it easier to sign as he spoke.

With her face in profile he only saw her mouth move. He tapped her shoulder. “I need to see your face.” She spun so quickly that she wobbled. He caught her shoulders, steadying her, and chuckled. “Easy.”

She bit her lip once more and gave him an adorably sheepish smile, one that he felt in the pit of his stomach. “It is a bleeding heart, is it not?”

Distracted, he missed what she said. “A . . . I am sorry. What?”

“The painting. It looks like a bleeding heart.”

He glanced at the painting over her shoulder. His mother had purchased it in Montmartre some twenty years ago. “It is called Sunset Over Cape Town.”

She craned her neck to see the painting and he realized he was still holding on to her. He dropped his hands but did not move away.

“I love it,” she said when she faced him. “This painting could represent anything. The interpretation is up to the person viewing it.”

He turned toward the image, trying to see the bold colors as something other than a sunset over water. He even squinted his eyes but could not do it. The artist’s vision was completely clear. “It is a sunset.”

She stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the painting. “Then you are not trying. Here,” she said and then moved around, out of sight. He started to follow but she held his shoulders to keep him in place. Soft, slender fingers slid over his eyes as her front pressed against his back. The world went dark as his lids fell—and he tensed. He hated having his eyes covered, one more sense deprived him.

This is Christina. Breathe, Oliver.

He forced himself to relax, unclenching his hands.

With his vision hindered, his entire focus became her gentle touch, the swells of her breasts molded to his back as she balanced on the balls of her feet. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest, the warm breath on the skin of his neck. Her smell wrapped around him, a light and flowery scent that intoxicated him far more than the champagne at dinner. Desire raced through his veins, with his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in every part of his body.

Had she any idea of what she was doing to him?

Just when he thought it might be too much to take, her hands slid from his eyes and she waited, perfectly still, behind him. The painting was there, a blur of colors and shapes, his gaze unfocused, and then suddenly everything aligned into a heart on its side, the organ oozing onto the canvas in a trickle of deep purple. How remarkable. Never in his life had this painting arranged itself in such a fashion. It was like seeing the work for the first time, a complete revelation to an image he’d been quite familiar with.

Everything different. Everything rearranged. Exactly as she had done to him.

He nearly vibrated with excitement, his body alive with the thrill of discovery as well as an appreciation for this clever, unusual woman. Spinning, he stepped closer, not stopping until her front met his chest. Her gaze went wide with surprise, the gold flecks of her irises shimmering with heat. She did not retreat, merely stood as he crowded her, and the air suddenly left the room.

All that existed were the two of them, alone.

What he wanted in that moment nearly overwhelmed him, so much that he shook with it. He wanted to pull this woman, his wife, into his arms and kiss her. Tonight. Every night. Whenever he wished, damn it. Because the urge to kiss her right now was undoing him, building into a living thing he could almost touch and feel. This beautiful, clever woman who had endured so much, yet had not buckled.

She waited patiently to see where this led. Hell if Oliver knew the answer. Indecision rioted inside him, a cacophony of thoughts and desires he had not experienced in a long time. He was desperately hard now, his erection aching in the confinement of his clothing, yet he could not consider slaking his base needs on this innocent girl. She had been placed in his keeping for only a short time.

She does not belong to you.

The muscles in his arms strained at the effort to keep from touching her. He’d imagined it often in the past few days, the warm and soft texture of her skin. Her nipples, her backside. The slick folds between her legs. He desperately longed to discover those secrets for himself.

Her lips began forming words and he had to shake his head to clear it before he could concentrate. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“I do not know,” he answered honestly. “Being foolish.”

“By staring at me?”

He dropped back a step. Staring at her was the least of what he wished to do at the moment. He’d prefer to start with removing all her clothing and finish by tasting her orgasm on his tongue. Swallowing, he closed his eyes and settled for some deep breathing instead. Clearly, he had gone far too long with only his hand for company. If he were not so starved for a woman, he’d be able to ignore Christina.

Liar, a voice in his head said.

Still, he absolutely could not sleep with her. She must remain intact to ensure a good match after the annulment instead of scandal.

A tap on his arm had him opening his eyes. Concern lined Christina’s brow. “Did I upset you? With the painting?”

“No. I was astounded, not upset.”

Her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth for a moment. Christ, he wished she would stop doing that. “Sometimes it is hard to tell what you are thinking.”

“A common complaint, I am afraid.” The result of spending most of his time alone. He had to work to communicate with others, an effort he often forgot to expend. “I shall try to do better with you.”

“Because we are friends.”

He nodded, a bit desperately. “Yes, of course. Because we are friends.”

“If we are friends then will you always be honest with me?”

“Yes, of course,” he answered without hesitation. Indeed, whatever she asked, he would not lie to her, not about her parents or Van Peet. No matter how distasteful the subject, she deserved the truth.

“Were you . . .” Another nibble on her lip caused his breath to catch. “Were you about to kiss me a moment ago?”

His jaw fell open. No wonder she had requested honesty—not that he could give it in this instance. He merely had to do a better job at hiding his own desires, burying them deep until they no longer arose at inopportune moments. Like now. “I promised I would not.”

It was an evasion and he hated himself for it, especially when her shoulders fell slightly. Was she disappointed? All the more reason not to tell her the truth. They both had to remember what was between them for this to work.

She lifted her chin and straightened her spine. Her gaze fixed on his forehead. “I feel a bit tired. Would you mind if I cut our tour short?”

“Of course not. I shall show you to your rooms.”