The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband

The only thing that could have made him harder was if she’d said she needed him.

He had no strength. He’d lost at least a stone and could not even make it up the stairs on his own, but by God he could kiss his wife.

“Edward,” she gasped.

He tugged her through the door. “We’re staying married.”

“Oh God.”

He had no idea what she meant by that, but he didn’t think he cared.

The room was small, with a bed that took up nearly half the floor, so it wasn’t difficult for him to find his way to the edge of the mattress and sit, pulling her along with him.

“Edward, I—”

“Shhh,” he commanded, taking her face in his hands. “I want to look at you.”

“Why?”

He smiled. “Because you’re mine.”

Her lips parted into a delectable oval, and he took that as a sign from above and kissed her again. She did not respond at first, but she did not push him away. Rather, he had the sense that she was holding herself very still, holding her very breath, waiting to see if the moment was real.

And then, just when he thought he must pull himself away, he felt it—a tiny movement of her lips, the sound of her voice through his skin as she made a small moan.

“Cecilia,” he whispered. He did not know what he had done these last few months, but he had a feeling it had not been something to be proud of. It had not been pure, and lovely, and everything he saw when he looked in her eyes.

When he kissed her, he tasted the promise of redemption.

He brushed his mouth over hers, softly, like a whisper. But it wasn’t quite enough, and when she let out a little mewl of desire, he nipped her, his teeth scraping gently along the soft skin of her inner lip.

He wanted to do this all afternoon. Just lie next to her on the bed and worship her like the goddess she was. It would be just a kiss; he was hardly capable of anything more. But it would be an endless kiss—soft, slow, and deep, each caress melting into the next.

It was so strange—desire without urgency. He decided he liked it—for now. When he was strong, when he once again felt like himself, he would make love to her with every piece of his soul, and he knew enough of himself—and of her—that the experience would take him to the edge.

And then push him right over.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured, and then, because it seemed so important that she knew he saw the beauty she held within, he said, “and so good.”

She stiffened. It was the tiniest motion, but his every sense was so attuned to her he would have known it if she had breathed differently.

“We must stop,” she said, and although he heard regret in her voice, he did not hear a lack of resolve.

He sighed. He wanted her. He felt it inside like a growing plume, but he could not make love to her in this state—unwashed, exhausted. She deserved far more, and frankly, so did he.

“Your water will grow cold,” she said.

He glanced over at the tub. It was not large, but it would do, and he knew that the steam rising from the surface would not last long.

“I should go downstairs,” she said, awkwardly coming to her feet. The dress she was wearing was a soft, dusty pink, and her hand seemed to melt into it as she clutched at the skirts, twisting the material between her fingers.

She looked utterly mortified, and he could not help but find it adorable.

“You should not feel embarrassed,” he reminded her. “I am your husband.”

“Not yet,” she mumbled. “Not that way.”

He felt a smile rising inside.

“I really should go,” she said without actually taking a step.

The smile spread into a fully fledged grin. “Do not leave on my account. I believe in medieval times, bathing one’s husband was considered an important wifely duty.”

At that she rolled her eyes, and a warm happiness began to roll out within him. She was amusing when she was embarrassed, but he liked it better when she was holding her own against him.

“I could drown, you know,” he said.

“Oh please.”

“I could. I’m very tired. What if I fell asleep in the tub?”

She paused, and for a few seconds he thought she might actually believe him. “You’re not going to fall asleep in the tub,” she finally said.

He gave a dramatic sigh, as if to say—You never know, but he took pity on her and said, “Come back in ten minutes.”

“Only ten?”

“Is that a comment on my general level of filth?”

“Yes,” she said quite plainly.

He laughed aloud. “You are very entertaining, did you know that, Cecilia Rokesby?”

She rolled her eyes again, handing him the towel that had been left folded neatly at the end of the bed.

He feigned a sigh. “I would say it was why I married you, but we both know that isn’t true.”

She turned to look at him, her face oddly without expression. “What did you say?”

He shrugged as he pulled off his coat. “I obviously don’t remember why I married you.”

“Oh. I thought you meant . . .”

He regarded her with raised brows.

“Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

But her face had already gone quite red. “I thought perhaps you were referring to . . .”

He waited. She didn’t finish. “The kiss?” he supplied.

He had not thought her skin could reach an even deeper hue, but it did. He took the two steps that lay between them and touched her chin with just enough pressure to raise her gaze to his.

“If I had kissed you before our wedding,” he said softly, “there would be no doubt right now as to the permanence of our marriage.”

Her brow wrinkled in adorable confusion.

He brushed his lips against hers and then said against her cheek, “If I had known what it meant to kiss you, I should not have allowed the army to send me away.”

“You’re just saying that,” she said, her words a mumble near his ear.

He drew back with an amused smile.

“You would not refuse a direct order,” she said.

“From you? Never.”

“Stop,” she said, batting him playfully away. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

He took her hand and dropped a courtly kiss on her knuckles. Damn if he wasn’t feeling ridiculously romantic. “I assure you, Mrs. Rokesby, I would have found time for a wedding night.”

“You need to take your bath.”

“Ouch.”

“Unless you like cold water.”

He was beginning to think he might need cold water. “Point taken. But if I might add one more thing to the conversation . . .”

“Why do I think I will be blushing like a fiend a few seconds from now?”

“You’re already blushing,” he took great joy in telling her, “and I was merely going to say—”

“I’ll be downstairs!” she called, making a dash for the door.

Edward smiled from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, even when all that was left for him to look at was the inside of his bedroom door.

“I was merely going to say,” he said aloud, his happiness coloring each word warm and pink, “that it would have been spectacular.”

It will be spectacular, he thought as he stripped off the rest of his clothing and lowered himself into the tub.

Soon, if he had anything to do with it.

Chapter 6

What the devil are you talking about? You don’t have a freakishly large nose.

—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia

Edward had said he needed ten minutes, but Cecilia waited a solid twenty-five before venturing back to room twelve. She had been planning to remain downstairs for half an hour, but then she started thinking—he was still terribly weak. What if he was having difficulty getting out of the tub?

The water would be cold by now. He could be catching a chill. He deserved his privacy, and she certainly wanted to give it to him, but not at the expense of his health.

It was true that she had seen him in a most improper state when she was caring for him back in hospital, but she’d not seen all of him. She’d learned to be very creative with the bedsheet. She’d draped it this way and that, always managing to preserve his dignity.