Ash cinched his dressing gown and tied the sash. Then he undid it and tried again. He’d made such a tight knot on his first attempt, he’d impeded his ability to breathe.

He was damnably anxious. Emma wouldn’t be the only inexperienced one tonight. He was hardly a virgin himself—but he’d never bedded a virgin before, and he wasn’t sure what to expect from her quarter. Would she be merely timid, or outright terrified? How much pain was he likely to cause?

He supposed there was one comfort he could offer her. Considering how long it had been for him, the whole matter ought to be over within minutes. If not seconds.

He padded down the corridor on bare feet. When he arrived at her bedchamber, he gave a knock of warning before opening the door a few inches.

“I assume you’re ready,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He entered, extinguishing his candle soon after. She had a few tapers of her own burning, and he went about the room snuffing them in turn. When he’d banked the fire to a dim red glow, he turned to join her on the bed.

On his first step forward, he bashed his knee on the edge of . . . something. A table? The leg of a chair?

The bedclothes rustled. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he said tersely.

“You know, a bit of light might be a good idea.”

“No. It would not be a good idea.”

“I’ve seen your scars already.”

“Not like this.” And not all of them. The scars on his face were merely the prologue to an epic tale of deformity.

She might be able to stomach his appearance from across the room or in a darkened carriage, even at the dinner table. But within the intimacy of the marriage bed? Unclothed, in the light? Not a chance. The point been made painfully clear the first—and last—time he’d allowed a woman to view him that way.

The memory remained as sharp and painful as a poison-tipped arrow.

How could I bear to lie with . . . with that?

How, indeed.

Ash had no wish to relive that moment, and not merely to preserve his pride. This was a matter of saving his bloodline. He couldn’t afford to frighten Emma off. When it came to bedding, she was already timid about the enterprise. He couldn’t risk giving her any further reason to demur. A man was only allowed one wife. If she didn’t give him an heir, that would mean the end of his line. At least the end of the decent side of it—the one without irredeemable prats.

“I’m over here,” she said. “This way.”

He followed the sound of her voice, stumbling a bit over some carpet fringe, but otherwise arriving at the edge of the bed in one piece. After tugging at the sash of his dressing gown, he undid the knot and slipped free of the garment, setting it aside.

He settled his weight toward the foot of the mattress and reached out to grasp—well, whatever part of her he could grasp. This would be a tricky business, deflowering a virgin bride in near-total darkness. Perhaps he ought to have strategized more in advance.

It was too late now. Ash felt around the quilted coverlet until his hand landed on what seemed to be a foot. An encouraging sign. He followed upward, sketching the shape of a leg.

Hm. Her calf was a bit stouter than he’d been expecting. But then, perhaps she was one of those women formed more amply below the waist than above it. It made no difference to him. The female body came in all shapes and sizes, and he’d never seen any reason to complain about the variety.

His hand swept over the familiar knob of a knee, and then up the slope of what must be a thigh. Now he was getting somewhere. A tightness gathered in his loins.

Ash stretched out beside her on the bed, the better to aid his explorations. He tried to murmur something soothing as he skimmed over the prominence of her hip and further upward, until he located the edge of the coverlet. But truthfully, his voice didn’t lend itself to calm tones at the moment. Years’ worth of pent-up lust coursed through his body. His cock swelled and stiffened against the bedding. By the time he grasped the hem of the coverlet and began to draw it downward, his body was ready. Very, very ready.

He peeled the quilted satin downward and prepared to lay his palm on what he expected would be the linen of her night rail, and some part of her warm body beneath. It was like playing darts blindfolded. There was little way of knowing on which target his touch would land. He would have been satisfied with a shoulder or her belly, he supposed, but by God, he was hoping for a breast. Fate owed him a stroke of luck.

He braced himself for that pleasant jolt of first contact.

No jolt occurred. Instead of her shift and tempting body, his hand connected with . . . a wool blanket? Well, then. It would seem he had another layer to remove.

He drew the blanket downward and made another attempt. This time, his hand connected with a thickly padded quilt. Good God, she was layered like an onion. No wonder her leg had felt thick enough to support a small tree.

“How many of these are there?” he asked, trying to locate the edge of the quilt.

“Only five or so,” she answered.

“Five?” He flung back the quilt, not bothering with patience any longer. “Are you attempting to deter me? Exhaust me before I even get to the act?”

“I was cold. And then you banked the fire.”

“I think you’re playing me a trick. Perhaps I’ll keep peeling these away and find there’s nothing beneath them but a pair of pincushions and a broomstick.”

“You’re down to the last one, I swear it. Let me.”

Fabric shifted beside him, and beneath it, her body wiggled in a way that was pure torture. He was desperate to be between her legs, inside her. He had a vision of her beneath him, naked. Her legs locked around his waist, and her back arched in pleasure.

Abandon that fantasy, he told himself. It wasn’t going to be that way. Not tonight, not ever.

“I’m ready,” she whispered.

His cock throbbed at the husky sound of her voice.

Thank God.

When he reached for her this time, he found what he’d been seeking. Her. Emma. His bride. His hand did not land on a breast, he realized with some disappointment, but her waist instead.

That would do.

He made a fist in the fabric of her shift. As he hiked the linen—only daring to raise it as far as her waist—his breath was shaky.

He stroked his hand downward, over her bared hip. He gave a helpless groan. God. He wanted to touch every part of her. The tender skin at her wrist, her lips, her hair. Her hair. He wondered if her hair was undone, and whether he dared to reach for the dark, heavy silk of it, twining his fingers round and round.

An imprudent idea, he decided. The way this night was going, he would probably poke her in the eye instead.

He moved his hand in a lateral caress, aiming for the center of her. As his fingertips brushed the tantalizing curls covering her mound, he cursed himself. He’d meant to bring some oil to ease the way.

He couldn’t go back to retrieve it. If he stopped now, Lord only knew how many layers she’d be buried under when he returned. Instead, he raised two fingers to his lips and sucked them into his mouth, wetting them.

Then he reached between her thighs.

She gasped.

Clenching his jaw in an attempt at restraint, he focused on the task at hand. He slid his fingers up and down the seam of her cleft. Her breathing quickened—with apprehension, no doubt.

“You do understand what will happen?” he asked belatedly, his voice thick with lust. “What goes where, and all that?”

He felt her nod. “Yes.”

“I’ll try to be gentle with you. Failing that, I’ll be quick.”

He parted her folds, and then pressed his second finger inside her heat. Just a fingertip at first, and then a few inches more.

Goddamn. Bloody hell. Jesus Christ.

Fuck.

And every other bit of blasphemy he would have been thrashed as a youth for daring to say.

She was so hot, so tight, and made of the same flawless silk inside as her body was without.

Her breath came faster still, thin at the edges. Damn, he was a monster. She was anxious, even fearful. He was mindless with lust. Lost in the instinctive desire to lick and taste and suck, then take her hips in both hands and thrust deep.

If this didn’t happen soon, he was going to spill his seed on all five of her blankets, and the entire exercise would have been in vain.

He pushed another finger inside her, sliding in and out, stretching her body to prepare his way.

Was she ready?

He withdrew his fingers to the tips, then thrust them both inside to the hilt, driving deep.

She cried out in surprise, and her hips bucked. “Please.”

Her breaking voice pierced through his haze of lust.

Please.

Ash removed his hand at once. Struggling to catch his breath, he pushed himself up on one elbow, then rose to a sitting position. “Sorry.”

He fumbled for his dressing gown, and then thrust his arms through the sleeves. By the fact that the thing barely covered his arse when he stood, he deduced that he’d put it on upside-down.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Truly. We can continue.”

“No. I’ve pressed you too far, too quickly.” He thought about attempting to retrieve his candle, then abandoned the idea. His eyes had adjusted enough that he could find his way to the door.

“But—”

“It will wait for tomorrow.”

He opened the door, went through it, and closed it behind him. He paused, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. But when he started to leave, he felt something tugging him back.

Damn it. He’d shut a fold of his dressing gown in the door.

He thunked his head against the doorjamb. Did marriage make utter fools of all men? Or was it just him?

He turned the doorknob again.

“Did you change your mind?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, defensive. “I came back to tell you that I hadn’t.”

“Oh.”

“So you needn’t worry I’ll be returning tonight. Aside from this time, of course.”

He shut the door on her reply, but it followed him into the corridor.

“If you say so.”

Ash took all his unsatisfied lust and carried it out-of-doors, into the night. He’d considered giving himself some manual relief. However, the idea of spending his wedding night with his own hand was too pathetic to contemplate.

Walking it off was the only respectable option.

He stuck to the narrower lanes and the alleyways behind the mews, keeping the collar of his cloak upturned and his hat pulled down over his brow.

Eventually, he out-walked the aching tension in his groin. Yet there was something else he couldn’t seem to shake.

Please, she’d whispered.

Please.

The word had shocked him. He’d pulled away at once, uncertain whether she’d uttered it in pleasure or pain. Her breathless voice almost suggested the former—but that was too absurd to contemplate.

First, she was a virgin. Second, she was a vicar’s daughter. Third, she was a virgin vicar’s daughter. And fourth, he was the scarred, ill-tempered—if fantastically wealthy—wretch who’d strong-armed her into in a marriage of convenience with no courtship whatsoever.

He must have hurt her, or scared her, or—most lowering to contemplate—repulsed her.

At best, he’d merely pressed her beyond her comfort for the first night.

Ash kicked at stones as he walked. Until he kicked something rotted and soft. Ugh. He didn’t know what it was, but he was not stopping to investigate. He switched to poking at obstacles with his walking stick.

He would have to revise his plan, he decided. Take the bedding slowly, even if the waiting was torture. If he pushed her too far, too fast, and she shied from him . . . It all would have been for nothing. He would have no legitimate heir, and his father’s legacy would die with him.

Unthinkable. He would not allow that to happen.

Please.

It echoed through his mind again. A fresh shiver of arousal traveled the length of his spine.

He gave himself a mental shake.

She was not sighing in ecstasy, you clotpole.

That was only his desperate, lonely, sex-starved imagination, grasping at any phantom resembling affection.

He walked through the shuttered stalls of Shepherd Market, using his walking stick to push refuse out of his way and into the middens.

He prodded at a heap of rags.

The heap of rags stirred.

It unfolded, transforming into the figure of a young girl. No doubt she’d been left there to keep watch on the family stall by night.

“Whassat?” She drew herself up to a sitting position, rubbed her eyes, and turned to blink up at his face.

She blinked again.

And then she shrieked, loud and long enough to wake the dead.

“It’s all right,” Ash muttered. “I don’t wish to—”

She paused for a breath, then unleashed another high-pitched scream. Dogs nearby began to snarl and bark.

“Be still, child. I’m not going to—”

“Get away!” She kicked at his shin, shouting. “Get away! Leave me be!”

“I’m going.” He fished for what coins he had in his pocket, placed them beside the boarded-up stall, and made a hasty retreat. His heart was pounding.

See? he chided himself, once he was some distance down the lane.

Children screamed at the sight of him. Dogs howled as they would at a fiend.

No woman would be begging for him now. Not in bed, in the dark.

For that matter, not by day in the park.

Not on land, not at sea. She does not want you, Ashbury.

God, he was a blithering idiot.

Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered. He halted in his paces, turning an ear toward the sound. From the same direction, he heard a wallop, followed by a coarse shout.

Ash frowned. Then he started into motion, following the sounds in brisk strides. Walking stick at the ready.

Whatever the trouble, it wasn’t his concern.

But it might prove a welcome distraction.