The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband
Her lips parted with surprise. He could not tear his eyes from them.
“You know how many times I brush my hair each evening?”
He gave a little shrug, even as his body tightened at the sight of her tongue moistening a dry spot just to the left of the center of her upper lip. “You’re a creature of habit,” he said. “And I’m observant.”
She set down the hairbrush, as if cutting off her routine might somehow change who she was. “I did not realize I was so predictable.”
“Not predictable,” he said. He reached across her and took the silver brush in his hand. “Consistent.”
“Con—”
“And before you ask,” he interrupted gently, “that is a compliment.”
“You don’t need to brush my hair.”
“Of course I do. You shaved my beard, if you recall. It’s the very least I can do.”
“Yes, but I don’t—”
“Shhh . . .” he admonished, and then he took the brush and drew it through her already shining and untangled locks.
“Edward, I—”
“Twenty-nine,” he said before she could complete yet another protest. “Thirty.”
He could pinpoint the moment she finally surrendered. Her steel-backed posture softened, and a soft breath—not quite a sigh—crossed her lips.
To himself he counted thirty-two, thirty-three, and thirty-four. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Mmmm.”
He smiled. Thirty-five, thirty-six. He wondered if she’d notice if he went past fifty.
“Does anyone ever take care of you?” he asked.
She yawned. “That’s a silly question.”
“I don’t think it is. Everyone deserves to be cared for. Some, I imagine, more than others.”
“Thomas does,” she finally answered. “Or did. It’s been so long since I last saw him.”
I will, Edward vowed.
“You took great care of me when I was ill,” he said.
She turned, just enough so that he could see her puzzled expression. “Of course.”
“Not everyone would have done so,” he pointed out.
“I am your . . .”
But she did not finish the sentence.
Forty-two, forty-three.
“You are almost my wife,” he said softly.
He could see only the edge of her face, not even a true profile. But he knew that she had stopped breathing. He felt the instant she went still.
“Forty-eight,” he murmured. “Forty-nine.”
Her hand came over his, held it in place. Was she trying to prolong the moment? Freeze time so that she did not have to face their inevitable move toward intimacy?
She wanted him. He knew that she did. It was there in the soft moans he heard when they kissed, sweet sounds he doubted she even knew she made. He felt her desire when her lips moved against his, artless and curious.
He took her hand, still resting atop his, and brought it to his mouth. “Fifty,” he whispered.
She didn’t move.
On soft, silent feet he made his way around to her side, transferring her fingers from one hand to the other so that he could set the hairbrush back on the small vanity. Again, he brought her fingers to his lips, but this time he gave her a gentle tug, urging her to her feet.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, but the words seemed insufficient. She was so much more than her lovely face, and he wanted to tell her that, but he was not a poet, and he did not know how, especially with the air between them growing hot and thick with desire.
He touched her cheek, marveling at the soft silk of her skin beneath his callused fingers. She was looking up at him, her eyes wide, and he could see that she was intensely nervous, far more than he would have expected, given how close they had become in the past week. But he’d never been with a virgin; maybe they were all like this.
“This isn’t our first kiss,” he reminded her, brushing his mouth gently against hers.
Still, she did not move, but he would swear he could hear her heart pounding. Or maybe he was hearing it through her, from her hand to his.
From her heart to his.
Was he falling in love with her? He could not imagine what else could make him feel like this, as if his days did not truly begin until he saw her smile.
He was falling in love with her. He’d already been halfway there before they had even met, and maybe he’d never remember the events that had led him to this moment, but he would remember this. This kiss. This touch.
This night.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, kissing her again, this time teasing her lips with his tongue.
“I’m not afraid,” she said, in a voice that was somehow just strange enough to give him pause. He touched her chin, tipped her face up to his, and searched her eyes for something he could not even define.
It would be so much easier if he knew what he was looking for.
“Has someone”—he didn’t want to say it—“hurt you?”
She stared at him, uncomprehending, until the moment he took a breath to explain further.
“No,” she said suddenly, understanding his meaning just in time to save him an explanation. “No,” she said again. “I promise.”
The relief Edward felt hit him like something solid. If someone had hurt her, raped her . . . It would not matter to him that she was not a virgin, but he would have to spend the rest of his life bringing the cur to justice.
His heart—nay, his soul—would not allow otherwise.
“I will be gentle,” he promised, his hand lightly tracing the line of her throat to the bare skin at her collarbone. She had not changed from her day dress to her nightgown, and so while the fabric was tighter, with meddlesome buttons and laces, it nevertheless revealed a wider swath of skin, from the curve of her shoulder to the gentle swell of her breasts.
He kissed her there, right where the lace edging of her bodice met her skin, and she gasped, her body instinctively arching toward him.
“Edward, I—”
He kissed her again, closer to the shadow between her breasts.
“I don’t know if—”
And then at the other side, each kiss a soft benediction, a mere hint of the passion he was holding tightly in check.
His fingers found the fastenings at the back of her dress, and he brought his mouth back to hers as he slowly set her body free. He’d thought to distract her with kisses, but he was the one made stupid by desire, because once her lips parted beneath his, he was utterly consumed.
And so was she. What started as something playful quickly burned hot until they were both drinking of the other like this might be their only chance of union. Edward had no idea how he got her dress off without tearing it; probably the last shred of his rational mind recognized that she had only two frocks here in New York, and they needed to keep both of them in working order.
She was wearing a light chemise, knotted loosely at the front, and his fingers trembled as they grasped one end of the tie. He pulled it slowly, watching as the corresponding loop grew smaller and smaller until it finally slid through the knot.
He edged the chemise from her shoulder, his breath quickening as each inch of her peach-pale skin was exposed.
“It goes the other way,” she said.
“What?” Her voice had been soft; he wasn’t sure he’d got her meaning.
“The chemise,” she said, her eyes not quite meeting his. “It goes over the head.”
His hand went still, and he felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He’d been trying to be so gentle, so gentlemanly, and here she was offering directions for her disrobement.
She was delightful. No, she was magnificent, and he could not imagine how he’d ever thought his life had been complete before this moment.
She looked up, her head tilting to the side as she said, “What is it?”
He just shook his head.
“You’re smiling,” she accused.
“I am.”
Now she was smiling too. “Why?”
“Because you’re perfect.”
“Edward, no, I—”
She was still shaking her head when he pulled her into his arms. The bed was mere steps away, but she was his wife, and he was finally going to make love to her, and by God he was going to sweep her off her feet and carry her there.