The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband

“I’ll just go over to the corner,” she said.

“I’m already under the covers.”

Indeed he was. While she’d been fetching her nightgown, he’d slid down until he was supine and had pulled the blanket over his face.

She would have laughed if she were not so utterly mortified herself.

With quick and efficient motions, Cecilia stripped off her clothing and jammed herself into her nightgown. It covered her from head to toe, just as much as any of her day frocks, and certainly more than an evening gown would, but still, she felt indecently exposed.

She normally gave her hair fifty strokes with a brush before bed, but this seemed excessive, especially while he had a blanket over his head, so instead she braided it into a sleeping plait. As for her teeth . . . She looked down at the toothbrush and powder she’d brought with her from England, then back over at the bed. Edward had not moved.

“I’ll skip my teeth for tonight,” she said. Maybe it would make him less likely to want to kiss her the following morning.

She set the toothbrush back in the wardrobe and hurried over to the far side of the bed. Carefully, so as to disturb as little of the bedclothes as possible, she lifted the blanket and crawled in.

“You can open your eyes now,” she said.

He uncovered his face. “You’re very far away,” he said.

Cecilia pulled her right leg, which was half hanging off the side, back onto the bed. “I think it’s best,” she said. She leaned over and blew out the candle, allowing darkness to wash over the room.

It didn’t make her any less aware of the man lying next to her.

“Good night, Cecilia,” he said.

“Good night.” She shifted her position, rolling awkwardly onto her side with her back to him. This was how she generally slept, on her right side with her hands tucked under her cheek like a prayer. But it didn’t feel comfortable tonight, and it certainly didn’t feel natural.

She’d never fall asleep. Never.

And yet, somehow, she did.

Chapter 9

Do offer my greetings to Lieutenant Rokesby and assure him that if his siblings do not write as often as I, it can only be because they lead far more exciting lives. Derbyshire is nothing but dull this time of year. Oh, what am I saying? Derbyshire is always nothing but dull. It is a good thing, then, that I prefer an uneventful life.

—from Cecilia Harcourt to her brother Thomas

Edward woke slowly the following morning, his mind reluctant to pull itself out of what was an exceedingly delightful dream. He was in a bed, which was noteworthy in itself—he was fairly sure he had not slept in a proper bed in months. And he was warm. Toasty and lovely, but not too hot, the way one got during these oppressive New York summers.

Funny how nothing seemed to be actually happening in this dream; it was all about the feel of it. The cloudlike comfort of it all. Even his own body seemed eager to bask in the happy sensations. He’d woken up stiff, as he often did, but without the accompanying frustration of knowing nothing could come of it. Because in his dream he was curled up against a very delightful bottom, warm and plump, with a tantalizing little cleft that cradled him in a cozy, feminine embrace.

His hand stole down to cup one of her cheeks.

He sighed. Perfection.

He’d always liked women, liked the soft curves of their bodies, the way their skin lay pale and tender against his. He’d never been a rogue, nor had he been indiscriminate. Years ago his father had pulled him aside and put the fear of God and pox in him. And so while Edward had visited brothels with his friends, he’d never partaken of the goods. It was far safer, and in his opinion probably a great deal more pleasurable, to lie with a woman one actually knew. Discreet widows, mostly. The occasional opera singer.

But discreet widows and opera singers were not thick on the ground in the American colonies, and it had been a long time since he’d found himself so blissfully entwined with a set of female limbs.

He did love the feel of a warm woman next to him. Under him.

Surrounding him.

He drew her closer, this perfect lady of his dreams, and then . . .

He woke up.

For real.

Christ.

This was no dreamlike mystery woman in his arms, it was Cecilia, and her nightgown had ridden up in the night to reveal her very bare, very delightful backside.

He was still mostly dressed, having fallen asleep twice in his clothing, but his cock was protesting its confines mightily, and he really couldn’t blame it, pressed up as it was against Cecilia’s bottom.

Surely no man had ever found himself in such an exquisitely frustrating situation. She was his wife. Surely he had every right to draw her closer, to roll her over and begin kissing her until she was insensible with desire. He’d start at her mouth, then he’d move down the elegant length of her throat to the hollow of her collarbone.

From there it would be an easy slide to her breasts, which he still had not seen but was quite certain were perfectly sized and shaped for his hands. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, except that everything else about her had proved perfect, so why not this?

And he had a feeling that at some point during the night before, he’d had one of those breasts cradled in his hand. His soul seemed to remember it, even if his mind did not.

But he had promised her that he would not take advantage of this forced proximity. He had promised himself that he would give her a proper wedding night, not something fumbled and rushed with a man operating at only half strength and stamina.

When he made love to her, she would have all the romance she deserved.

So now he needed to figure out how to extricate himself without waking her. Even though every masculine fiber of his being disagreed.

Some fibers disagreeing more than others.

First things first, he told himself. Move the hand.

He groaned. He really didn’t want to move his hand.

But then Cecilia made a little noise like she might be waking up, and that seemed to jolt him out of his inaction. With a slow and careful motion, he pulled his hand away, letting his palm rest on his hip.

She mumbled something in her sleep, something that sounded remarkably like “salmon mushie,” then let out a sigh as she nestled into the pillows.

Disaster averted. Edward let himself breathe again.

Now he needed to get his arm out from underneath her. No easy task as she seemed to be using his hand as some sort of childlike lovey, pressing it up against her cheek like a favorite blanket or stuffed doll.

He gave it a little tug. She didn’t budge.

He pulled with a bit more force, only to freeze when she let out a sound of sleepy irritation and burrowed harder against his hand.

Sleepy irritation. Who knew there even was such a thing?

Very well, he told himself, it was time to get serious. With an awkward shifting of his weight, he pressed his entire arm down into the mattress, creating enough of a depression for him to slide his limb out from under her without disturbing her position.

Unentangled at last. Edward started backing away, inch by inch by . . . scratch that, he didn’t make it past the first two inches. It turned out that he had not been the one to cross the bed in the night, it had been Cecilia. And she apparently did not do things in half measures, because he was teetering right at the edge of the mattress.

There was nothing for it. He was going to have to get up and greet the day.

The day? He glanced toward the window. The dawn was probably more like it. Unsurprising, he supposed, since they’d fallen asleep relatively early the night before.

With one final look at Cecilia to make sure she was still sleeping soundly, Edward swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He didn’t feel as weak as the day before, which made sense. He might have eaten nothing but broth the previous night, but he’d managed a proper meal when they’d first arrived at the Devil’s Head. It was remarkable what a bit of meat and potatoes could do for a man.

His head felt somewhat better too, although some inner sense was warning him not to make any sudden, jerky movements. Which certainly ruled out a ten-mile ride up to Haarlem, but at least Cecilia had acquiesced on that score. He honestly didn’t think they would find news of Thomas up at the northern outpost, but he would take her there as soon as he was able. And in the meantime, they would continue their investigation here.