Cecily opened the door. “Gareth,” she said, and suddenly his smile felt much more natural. How could he not smile when she stood there in front of him, candlelight gilding her golden hair, a shy smile of her own on her sweet, soft lips? Gareth lost himself in her eyes for a moment, so incredibly blue, like gentians and summer skies, and then remembered his wits. “Would you prefer to do this in your room or mine?”

And then he mentally kicked himself. Do this? That was the sort of thing a farmer would say when putting a ram in with the sheep. Shall we do it in this paddock or that one? Blunt and matter-of-fact and not at all romantic. Nothing like a man about to make love to his wife for the very first time.

He felt himself flush with shame, but Cecily didn’t seem offended by his choice of words. “I don’t mind,” she said, and she took his hand, her fingers warm and slender, and Gareth stepped into her bedchamber and the decision made itself: her room, not his.

Cecily tilted her face up to him in silent invitation.

Gareth bent his head and kissed her gently, reaching for her with his left hand to draw her into an embrace—only to remember that he no longer had a left hand. He felt the familiar sick jolt of realization, the jolt that came a hundred times a day, and his kiss faltered for a moment, and then he managed to force his way past it, to pretend that it didn’t matter if he couldn’t put both his arms around his wife.

Cecily’s lips parted and her tongue shyly touched his lower lip. Gareth mirrored the movement. They eased into the kiss slowly, two people who were still discovering one another. Cecily released his hand and slid both her arms loosely around his waist, and if he couldn’t do the same to her at least he could bury his fingers in her soft hair, could cradle the back of her head in his palm and draw her a little closer. They leaned into one another, their bodies touching lightly, and it was a new intimacy: standing this close to his wife, only two thin layers of linen separating them, his nightshirt, her nightgown. He felt Cecily’s warmth, her slenderness, her curves.

Gareth set himself to learning how his wife best liked to be kissed, discovering what made her tremble and what made her clutch his nightshirt and press herself eagerly against him. The softness of her lips was intoxicating, the smoothness of her teeth, the heat of her mouth, and the tiny moan she uttered when he sucked on her tongue made him groan in response.

Heat began to gather in his groin—and confidence began to gather in his heart. He could do this: satisfy his wife, give her pleasure, make love to her.

They kissed . . . and kissed . . . and kissed, kisses that were sweet and eager and tender and passionate, while the candlelight flickered and the shadows shifted and the fire mumbled in the grate. Finally they parted, both breathing raggedly. Gareth dragged air into his lungs and stared down at his bride. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy and kiss-swollen, her pupils dilated. She looked as dazed as he felt.

Dimly, he heard the sound of a clock chiming the quarter hour. Had they really been kissing for almost fifteen minutes?

Cecily blinked several times, and he saw awareness flood back into her face. Her gaze dropped from his and the flush in her cheeks deepened, shyness now, not arousal—and he was suddenly a little shy himself.

Gareth turned towards the bed—and the shyness became anxiety. Kissing, he could do; it didn’t require two arms. But sex?

The warmth at his groin evaporated abruptly. His chest grew tight. It was suddenly a lot more difficult to breathe. I can do this, Gareth told himself. I can. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, forced a smile to his mouth, and took Cecily’s hand.

He drew her towards the bed, with its pillows piled high and the covers turned back at one corner to display clean, white sheets, and was faced with a dilemma. He couldn’t hold Cecily’s hand and pull the bedcovers back enough for them both to climb in. Gareth released her and tried to peel back the covers, but they were tucked in so tightly that he had to tug, and when he tugged the pillows spilled everywhere.

Cecily caught one before it hit the floor. She met his eyes and uttered a little giggle.

Gareth struggled for an answering laugh. He gathered up the pillows awkwardly while Cecily pulled back the covers, her movements as swift and deft as his were clumsy. His cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. If this had happened to him last year, when he’d had two arms, he’d have laughed. Now, though, it wasn’t amusing; it was mortifying. He couldn’t even turn back the covers without making a mess of the bed, because he had only one goddamned hand—

He caught himself before he could spiral into futile, helpless anger. Not anger at Cecily—anger at the world for doing this to him, and at himself for coping so badly with it. He breathed in through his nose, exhaled slowly, and released as much of his tension as he could. Tonight wasn’t about pillows; tonight was about making love to his wife.

Except that he’d never felt less like making love than he did at this moment. What he wanted was to scuttle back to his bedchamber and shut the door and pretend that this wasn’t his wedding night.

Gareth set his jaw. He’d never deserted in battle; he wasn’t going to desert now.

The pillows were all in place again, a teetering pile against the headboard, and the covers were pulled back enough for the two of them. The bed should have looked inviting; instead, it looked intimidating. He tried to smile at Cecily, to project a confidence he didn’t feel. “After you.” He held out his hand to her and Cecily clasped it and climbed up onto the bed and slid sideways, making room for him.

The eagerness he’d experienced while kissing her was completely gone. The hum in his blood was anxiety, not arousal.

Cecily was waiting for him to join her in the bed, sitting in her nightgown looking shy and flushed and quite delicious—and Gareth was horribly afraid that he was going to disappoint her tonight. He dragged a shallow breath into his lungs. I can do this.

Cecily had climbed onto the bed gracefully; he did it awkwardly. A panicked little voice whispered in his head: Oh, God. Oh, God.

Gareth sat back against the piled-up pillows and inhaled another shallow breath. He didn’t like to rush things in bed. He enjoyed taking his time, bringing his partner to release with his hands or his mouth before taking his own pleasure. But most of the things he was good at were things he could no longer easily do. It wasn’t just that he had no left hand, it was the tenderness of his stump, the fact that he couldn’t rest his weight on his left arm at all, couldn’t brace himself on it while he knelt over Cecily and teased her with his right hand or with his tongue.

Gareth’s brain froze in something close to panic—everything he wanted to do with Cecily required two hands and two arms—and then began to work again. He managed to smile at his bride, sitting shyly in the bed alongside him. “Um, I think riding St. George would be best tonight.”

Cecily’s shyness became tinged with confusion. “Riding St. George?”

Gareth tried to think what other names her husband might have called it, but came up with nothing. “Did your husband never lie on his back and have you, um . . . mount him?”

Cecily shook her head. “Frederick and I were only married for two weeks before he died.”

“Oh,” Gareth said, dismayed. He knew she’d been widowed not long after she’d married, but he hadn’t realized that her marriage had been quite so appallingly brief.

Perhaps Cecily saw his dismay because she said, as if offering an apology: “Frederick and I only had congress with one another five times.”

“Oh,” Gareth said again, while he realized two things. Firstly, that Cecily wasn’t nearly as experienced as he’d thought she was. And secondly, that tonight was going to be a lot more awkward than he’d feared.