West reached for his new wife’s hand.

Felt the pounding of her pulse through her trembling fingers.

He pulled her down until she was sitting beside him on the mattress, her spine a determined knot. He’d only meant to tease her a little, but it seemed his words had taken them backward, not forward to where he wanted them to be.

“Why are you wound so tightly?” he asked gently. “Surely you aren’t frightened of me.”

“We did not discuss . . . that is . . .” She stared down at her hands. “I am not . . . proficient in these matters. You say so many things, and I don’t . . . I don’t even know what you mean when you say half-cocked. Or fully cocked.” Her gaze shifted to a distant point on the carpet. “I understand, however,” she said, her voice slowing, “that you are very experienced.”

“Yes.” He grinned at her. If there was one good thing he could say of his vast experience on the matter, it was that he knew quite well how to take care of the intimate needs of his new wife, thank you very much.

“How experienced?”

Her question caught him off guard. “Experienced enough to make this pleasurable for you. Do you have questions for me about . . . er . . . it?” Because truth be told, he’d rather show her what it was all about. It was arguably one of the things he did best.

Better, even, than practical jokes.

She peeked up at him, worrying her lower lip. “Did you really have relations with your sister’s governess?” she blurted out, the words all but tumbling from her.

Bloody hell. So, Mary had questions about his past sexual exploits, did she? She really shouldn’t ask questions when it was clear she feared the answers. “Yes,” he admitted. “Their former governess, mind you. I was in my first year at university, and came home to London to find she had . . .” He hesitated, but there was no sugar-coating it, was there? “She had aged well,” he finished lamely.

“Oh.” Mary seemed to mull over that a moment. “I suppose that isn’t so bad, if you were old enough to be at university. I’d imagined a lad of twelve or so, trying to toss up the governess’s skirts.”

“I would have probably tried to do such a thing at that age, if I’d thought I would meet with success,” he chuckled. “Only, my sisters didn’t think twice about boxing my ears when I misbehaved. And they dearly loved their governess.”

“That isn’t funny, West.” A moment passed, where he could almost swear he could hear the cogs turning inside her head. “I had heard . . . that you engaged in intimate relations in public view. With Scarlet at the opera. Is it true?”

West stared at her. “What on earth are you are talking about?”

“Don’t try to deny it, West. My sister saw you herself.”

He searched his mind. Came up empty. He hadn’t done anything of the sort with Scarlet at the opera—though she’d made it clear he could have had her there, if he wanted. He’d left, gone out to have a smoke, annoyed by it all. He’d left her, in fact . . . with Grant.

“That was actually my friend Grant with Scarlet in the box,” he answered carefully, the truth clicking into place. He wondered why he didn’t feel angrier about it. Probably because Scarlet hadn’t meant much to him. Not the way this woman did. “Not me.”

“Oh.” There was a moment of heavy silence. And then Mary’s gaze slid sideways, hot across his skin. “It is said you had four women at once.”

“Well, that is simply not true.” West’s legend was not nearly as large as the gossip implied. His prick, on the other hand . . . well, some rumors one encouraged, especially when there were plenty of whispers to the contrary.

She closed her eyes. “Oh, thank heavens.”

“It was only three other women,” he clarified. As her eyes flew open, he added, “There is no need to look so shocked. It is not as unusual as you think.”

“Did you . . . enjoy it?” she asked, stumbling over the question.

“Not as much as I enjoy the full attentions of a single partner,” he answered truthfully. There was something distracting about too many arms and legs, not to mention the expectations of too many women. “I like to linger over my lovemaking, and multiple partners don’t permit such leisure,” he told her, wishing he could somehow soften the slope of those stiff shoulders. Perhaps he should just kiss her. Chase away these doubts the best way he knew how.

“Were two of them . . . sisters?” she asked.

“Good God, no!” The very thought made him break out in a sweat. “How could you think that?” he asked indignantly.

“Eleanor heard about it from Lord Ashington, who must have heard it from someone.” She blinked rapidly. “But if it isn’t true, then how did such rumors gain a foothold?”

Annoyed now at anyone and everyone who had burned his new wife’s ears with such sordid tales, West leaned back onto the mattress, glaring up at the bed curtains above his head. He wrestled a moment with impatient memories of his past, of the various women who had shared his bed. He didn’t regret those experiences, any more than he regretted marrying Mary. But while he didn’t give a fig about what others thought of him, he didn’t want her thinking so poorly of him. “I don’t know how such rumors have persisted, but I am not as depraved as you have been led to believe, Mary.” Though, he was depraved enough to want to pull her down beside him and kiss the pinch of uncertainty from her lips.

She gripped the coverlet with two fists. “Then you should know,” she said miserably, “you are rumored to have had intimate relations with a corpse.”

He chuckled. “Oh, that one is true.”

“What?”

He let her stew for a moment. But after a second of watching her panicked breathing, he relented. “Mary, it isn’t what you think. It was only a barmaid dressed as a corpse. White powder on her face, ragged clothing, chains. It was All Hallows’ Eve and we were out guising, having a bit of fun, knocking on doors.” He chuckled, which was his usual reaction when remembering that night.

How old had he been, sixteen? Seventeen?

The woman in question had been a local barmaid in Harrow, and well known to the more adventurous youths. She’d been as game for the adventure as he was, rattling her chains and moaning in a theatrical way. That she had chosen to indulge her fun with him instead of Peter Wetford, the now Duke of Southingham, had eventually led to the infamous standoff with the rats. “Well, an actual corpse would be beyond the pale, don’t you think?” He reached out a finger and trailed it down his wife’s wool-covered arm, trying to earn a smile. “I promise you she was very much alive.”

Mary jerked away from his touch. “Even if the worst of the rumors aren’t true, the parts you have admitted are bad enough. Surely you can see why I would hesitate to be intimate with someone like you.”

West lifted himself onto one elbow. “No, darling, I can’t.”

“But you . . . you’ve been with so many women!”

“Shouldn’t that make you curious?” He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her down, until she was lying beside him, stiff as . . . well . . . a corpse. “Shouldn’t that make you want to jump into my bed?” He lowered his voice, turning on his side to face her. “See what all the fuss is about?”

“No,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering half-closed.

There it was, her favorite word again. But she hadn’t said “no” below stairs, when she’d recited her vows. And in spite of the tension in her limbs, she didn’t sound convinced of her refusal on the matter now, either. “There is more to it than I showed you last night,” he pointed out, knowing she had at least enjoyed that much.

“I know,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “I have read about it.”

“Ah. I see.” His lifted his fingers to trail them across her cheek, counting the lack of a resultant flinch as a small victory. He suspected books were part of the problem here. The ones she had been reading had made her too nervous by far. But that only meant she was reading the wrong kind of books. “Well, I enjoy reading myself, on occasion. And if I’m reading you correctly, you want me, every bit as much as I want you.”

Her shoulders twitched. “You . . . you want me?” she breathed.

“I do.” His fingers danced across the fine curve of her chin.

She bit her lower lip, worrying it in a circle. “Well, I don’t want the pox.”

Good God. His finger stilled. “Is that one of the rumors?” He drew his finger away. “I am not pox-ridden, Mary. You may trust me on that.”

“That is just what the villain always says.” She pushed herself to a sitting position. “But then the heroine always dies at the end.”

For a moment, he gawped at her.

No doubt he was reconsidering the wisdom of marrying a woman who would accuse him of such a horrid thing. About such a delicate place.

But she’d read far too many books to take it back.

Unexpectedly, a low chuckle escaped his lips. “I suppose you could always examine me.” He gestured to the upper area of his trousers, as if daring her to do her worst. “Confirm for yourself that I lack any symptoms. Or, I could provide a doctor’s note certifying my good health.”

She didn’t quite know what to think of that, other than the fact that no hero in her reading memory had ever offered a heroine quite such a choice. “You would have a physician examine you before demanding your rights?” she asked, incredulous.

His smile faltered. “Let us be clear here, Mary, I do not intend to demand anything that passes between us. In fact, I plan to have you so thoroughly kissed and pleasured you will beg me to indulge you.” He leaned forward, and she held her breath, not at all sure what he was about in this moment. After all, she had just more or less accused him of having the pox.

Slowly, purposefully, he pressed a kiss against her cheek, a featherlight promise of what might come. She could feel his breath, fanning out against her skin, rippling through her like a wave on water. “Pleasure is meant to be shared,” he said, his voice low and husky, “not commanded.” He pulled back. Met her eye. “I would never want anything but an eager partner in my bed.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. Good heavens, even her ears felt warm. She was knocked off-kilter by the dark promise in those words, and even more by the wicked hope they inspired. None of the heroes in her precious books had ever said anything like that.

She looked down at her hands, knotted in her skirts. She recalled how he had touched her last night, so thoroughly. She had no doubts that he could kiss her until she forgot about the pox and the pretend corpse and the scores of women who had come before her.

Drat it all, he could probably make her forget her own name.

“Unfortunately, pleasure isn’t the only thing that can be shared,” she said, shaking her head slowly. Oh, how she wished they could just go on with beautiful kisses, and pretend the other pieces of it didn’t matter. But her imagination had settled over her like a cold, wet blanket, and it wasn’t so easy to pull it off, now that the worst of it had been said.

“Then let me show you this.” He pushed up to a sitting position and reached for a drawer in the bedside table.

Mary tried not to notice the way the muscles of his back rippled beneath his silk waistcoat and shirt. Tried, too, to analyze the quiver of her own nerves. Pox-ridden or no, after last night’s misadventure in the coach, she could admit he possessed talents that could unlock an immense sort of pleasure. He wasn’t the sort of husband she would have chosen from the pages of a book, but he was her husband. He could legally demand this of her, whether she hesitated or not.

Why was she acting like such a ninny about it?

He pulled something out of the drawer and turned back around holding a silver case. As he opened it, she saw three objects lying in a nest of blue velvet. They were long, nearly transparent, and had delicate pink ribbons threaded through the tops.

“For you.” He held the case out.

She reached out a finger, tracing the outline of one. “What are they?”

“French letters. A brand-new set.”

When she snatched her hand away as though touching a snake, he laughed out loud, then laid the box on the bedside table, next to the revolver. “I have always used one faithfully, in all of my exploits. When my brother-in-law Dr. Merial realized my . . . er . . . early proclivities, he encouraged me in their use. They protect the user against the risk of the pox, as well as one’s partner from a possible pregnancy.”

“I . . . see,” she stammered. Though she didn’t really.

“If you wish,” he said, cocking his head, “we can continue to use one until you are ready to trust me.” His eyes softened, and for the first time in this entire conversation, he looked pensive. “Until you can accept my past, and understand that you, alone are my future. I would not hurt you, Mary. Not purposefully.”

“Oh.” She felt very foolish now. He was putting this choice in her hands.

If she asked him to, he would put one of those on his . . . and she would tie it about his . . . and then they would . . . heat suffused her cheeks.

Well, now she did see, thank you very much.

And the part he’d said about she alone being his future . . . the thought made her chest tighten in what felt like hope. She wanted to believe this marriage—while necessary and rushed and somewhat contrived—could evolve into a future happiness. But it was hard to imagine that a man of his legend might be satisfied with only one woman—and a wife, at that—in his bed.

Harder, still, to expect him to keep such a promise, knowing so little as she did about the matters shared between a husband and a wife.

“Thank you. For telling me the truth about your past.” At least, she hoped it was the truth. There was still so much about this man she felt she did not know. Every layer she peeled back only raised more questions. “And thank you for my wedding gift,” she added weakly.

Though, it was surely the strangest gift ever given a bride on her wedding day.

“Oh, that is not your gift.” He chuckled, then reached back into the drawer and withdrew a slim novel, presenting it to her with a flourish. “This is your wedding gift. I had to go to three different bookstores before I found one who would sell it.”

“You are giving me a book?” Tears welled up in her eyes, and her breath grew tight in her throat. She ran a finger over the gold embossed letters of the title, trying to make it out through the sudden shimmer of tears. “The . . . Lovely . . . Turk?” She’d never heard of it, but it didn’t matter if the author was obscure, or if the writing was terrible.

It was a book. Its very existence meant West had thought of her, considered what she might enjoy, and then gone out to purchase it.

Unexpectedly, she felt the press of his thumb against her cheek, wiping away tears. “Not exactly. Look again.”

She blinked away the moisture. The letters swam into view. “The . . . Lustful Turk?”

“And perhaps, once you’ve read it, it will prove a gift for both of us.”