Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

A fter Simon ordered plates of food brought to each of the three rooms, he pulled out his pocket watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed since he'd left Charlotte. He spent a few more minutes chatting with the innkeeper, assuring him all was well and the rooms were more than adequate.

In fact, the room he and Charlotte shared was more than adequate, and his mind wandered to the comfortable poster bed filling half the room. So many pleasant things awaited on that bed.

Back upstairs, he raised his fist to knock, paused but a moment, and decided to make a small change to his announced return.

Knock, knock. "Charlotte, it's Simon. Are you indecent?" He chuckled to himself and pressed an ear to the door, waiting for her vexed reply.

"I'm—what?!"

The door swung open, and he stumbled forward into her. "Hello. "

Using both hands, she pushed him away. "Ugh! Have you been drinking? You can't even remain upright."

"Of course not. It's only been twenty minutes. I'm as sober as—well, I would say Aunt Kitty, but she's been known to enjoy her sherry. I simply pressed my ear to the door to listen for your dulcet tones of joy upon my return. I didn't expect you to be so eager to see me that you would fling the door open quite so forcefully."

She rewarded him with a bone-chilling glower.

"The food has arrived." She pointed to plates of steaming food on the table.

"Excellent. I'm starving."

He held out a chair, and she took a seat, giving him the side-eye. He leaned down, keeping his lips a hair's breadth from her neck. "Worried I'll yank the chair out from under you?"

She grunted. "I wouldn't put it past you."

They ate in relative silence—well, other than Charlotte complaining the chicken was overcooked and the vegetables were dry.

He swallowed a bite of crusty bread, which, in his opinion, was delicious. "Are you always so critical? I thought you reserved your umbrage for me alone."

"No. For you especially."

He chuckled. "Ah. That makes me feel so much better."

With vigor, she tore off a chunk of bread, then waved it at him. "Do you find everything amusing? It's most annoying."

"What would you have me do? This is our meal. Complaining about it won't make me enjoy it more." He laid his fork down. "Try to find one thing about it that you like. One thing, Charlotte."

She stared at her plate, her mouth pursed in thought.

He liked her lips. Very much.

"Well," she said. "This bread is tolerable. And the butter is creamy. "

Creamy. Like a magnet, his gaze pulled to the exposed skin above her nightrail. Her hair had been brushed and braided for bed, draped lazily over her shoulder, the dark end resting on her left breast. He'd like to be the end of that braid.

"What are you staring at?"

His mind jerked back to reality. "Was I staring?"

She adjusted her nightrail, checking the little ribbon that tied it together at the neck.

He wanted to tug on it and let it fall loose, then he would . . .

"You're staring again."

"Can I help it if I have such a desirable wife?" Used on any other woman, his words might have paved a swift path to the bed. But Charlotte? He braced himself for a scathing retort.

She blinked, appearing nonplussed, but quickly recovered. "Empty words." She poked at the tiny remaining piece of chicken, her gaze fastened to it as if it might regrow its feathers and flap away. "Have they proved effective in the past?" Had she developed the ability to read minds?

Best to keep that bit of information to himself. He wasn't as daft as she believed. "At the moment, I'm only concerned about their effect on you."

"None." She pushed the plate away and rose. "I'm going to retire."

Energy pulsed through him as she strolled toward the bed.

Her hips swayed, the nightrail swishing against her legs.

He pushed away from the table with such force the chair screeched in protest. With speed he didn't know he possessed, he set the plates outside the door, then locked it, double-checking the bolt. "I'll join you."

As she perched on the edge of the bed, he couldn't take his eyes off her. Was that a coquettish, come-hither smile?

He shook his head to clear it.

The smile remained .

He shucked off his coat, tossing it onto the settee behind him. His neckcloth followed.

Her smile widened, displaying?—?

What was that in her cheek? He sucked in a breath. Oh, dear God. She had a dimple. He was a fool for dimples. His fingers fumbled with the buttons on his waistcoat, shouldered off the garment, and threw it behind him.

His boots and stockings were next, and as he yanked each one off, Charlotte's eyes followed his every movement. He slipped the braces from his shoulders, letting them fall loosely against his hips and thighs, and when he pulled the shirt over his head, those dark eyes of hers widened.

Satisfaction—or perhaps pride—swelled in his chest at the way her gaze locked on his bare chest, and he withheld the grin threatening to break free. She might deny it with words, but she was attracted to him, perhaps even as much as he was to her.

But when his hands moved to the buttons on his trousers, her demeanor shifted from interested to alarmed.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting undressed for bed. I thought that was clear."

"At least have the courtesy of putting on a nightshirt before you remove your trousers."

"Nightshirts confine my movement. I'm told I'm a restless sleeper." At that, he released the grin. Let her make of that what she will.

"Which is yet another reason you will be spending the night on the settee."

Another reason? He spun around to the clothes-cluttered, and much-too-small-to-sleep-on settee. "Do you mean you had been planning on relegating me to sleep on this"—he pointed to the offending piece of furniture—"all along?"

She made a show of studying her nails. "Of course."

"But you . . . that smile . . ." He squinted at her. The termagant had teased him into believing she wanted him. No! She did want him. He hadn't lost his instinct for sensing that in a few short days of being married.

"That settee isn't made for a man of six-feet-two. Why, even Boney wouldn't fit on that thing—though it would be fun to watch him try."

"You're not suggesting I sleep on it?" The harpy had the gall to appear affronted.

"No. Even you're too tall for it."

As tall as he was, her forehead topped his shoulder. Exceptionally tall for a woman, she had to be at least five-feet-eight. Why, he didn't even have to stoop much to kiss her, and in bed they would fit perfectly. Which, speaking of . . .

"Besides, contrary to what you believe, I would never be so ungentlemanly to force you to sleep on a hard piece of furniture when there is such a soft— big —bed at our disposal. Big enough to share, Charlotte."

Her shoulders squared, becoming so perpendicular to her body, he could have balanced one of their supper plates upon it and not spilled a bit of food. "You promised."

He arched a brow at her. "If memory serves, you also made a promise. I will abide by mine. As I said, the bed has plenty of room for both of us, and I will not do anything you don't want me to. But our marriage doesn't stand a chance if you keep me at arm's length." He allowed her some time to let that sink in.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and he silently screamed for his mind to still. His fingers had already mutinied, drumming against his thigh.

After an excruciatingly long time—at least for him, although in truth, only about a minute had passed—she nodded. "Very well. But keep your trousers on."

"No." He had to draw the line somewhere. "And you've seen me without them before. It shouldn't be some great shock. We're married, Charlotte. "

Her bottom lip protruded enough to make him want to take it between his teeth and?—

"Fine. If you must be that way." She stood and strolled toward the settee. Surely, she didn't prefer trying to sleep there. Did she really detest him that much? Instead, she removed a blanket thrown over the back.

"This should work." Back at the bed, she studied the canopy. "If I can hang this up there, it could drape down and provide a dividing line."

He laughed. "You can't be serious?"

Her icy glare told him otherwise, and to prove her point, she climbed up on the mattress. With wobbly steps, she reached up to tuck the blanket into one end in canopy's frame.

Tilting precariously, she stretched, perhaps a little too far, and he raced up, catching her before she stumbled and fell to the floor. Her back pressed into his chest, and in his haste to right her, although his right arm looped around her waist, his left hand latched onto something soft and very familiar.

She froze against him. He could almost feel the chill coming from her body.

"Unhand me." Imbued with more than anger, she croaked the words as if she were in pain.

Releasing her breast, he spun her around, needing to see into her eyes to be certain. "What is it? More than my misplaced hand."

The trembling in her voice vanished. "Misplaced? You manhandled me!"

"It wasn't intentional. You were going to fall."

"A likely story."

"Is this because of Davies? What you don't want to talk about? Because I am not him. Get that through your stubborn head."

She eyed him for a moment, then nodded.

When she started to climb back onto the mattress, he tugged the blanket from her hands. "Allow me." Although the mattress sagged beneath him, he kept his balance, and his height made it easier to reach the frame. "And don't flatter yourself. It's not like I can't keep my hands off you. You're not that tempting."

Liar.

With both of the blanket's ends secured, a curtain formed in the middle of the bed, neatly dividing it in two.

Simon jumped down, placed his hands on his hips, and said, "Now, if you don't wish to view my nakedness, I suggest you move to the other side."

With a sound harrumph, she turned to do just that, but he caught her arm.

"But first, what about your promise to give me a chance?"

Miss Haughtiness jerked her chin at him. "What do you suggest? If it's anything that involves removing clothing, I politely decline."

"Politely! Ha! You wouldn't know politely if it bit you on the—" Speaking of biting, he bit his tongue. She could rile him like no other. He was a congenial fellow, really he was. He blew out an exasperated breath. "At least give me a kiss goodnight. It's no more than we did last night."

Why he bothered to ask would forever remain a mystery. The hostility on her face would mean it would be like kissing a marble statue.

"I have an idea," she said.

His normally eager-for-adventure mind screeched to a halt. This was Charlotte, after all. He canted his body away from her. "What kind of idea?"

"We never finished our card game. You win, you get a kiss. I win, I ask a question."

The glint in her eyes should have made him nervous. But he had a secret weapon.

If necessary, he would cheat.

Charlotte studied her atrocious hand of cards. Fifteen! Could it be any worse? Possibly, but not much. Should she ask for another card? Simon had appeared pleased when viewing his hand, giving the slightest upward twitch of his lips. When Nash taught her to play, he called them tells. To Charlotte's knowledge, the only woman who was a more proficient card player was Lady Miranda. Charlotte had always requested Miranda as a partner for whist, and they rarely lost.

What would Miranda do in this situation?

"Well?" Simon said, perhaps a little too impatiently. "Do you want another card?"

"I'm thinking." A difficult task considering the man sat half-naked before her. The hard planes of his chest, covered with a curious smattering of dark hair, constantly drew her attention.

"You can count, can't you? It's rather simple. If need be, remove your slippers and use your toes."

"You are insufferable." Her muttered complaint elicited a chuckle from her husband. Buffoon.

The nasty habit resurfaced twice in one night, and her bottom lip found its way between her teeth again. With Simon's reaction to his cards, he must believe he had a winning hand. Without an additional card, she would surely lose anyway. Simon had already won one hand, kissing her wrist as he had done on their wedding day. And as before, her blood raced through her veins like a thoroughbred at the Epsom Derby. He promised a more intimate kiss when he won again.

Losing was not an option.

She met his gaze—realizing her mistake too late and falling captive to his wickedly blue eyes. "I believe I will have a card. Thank you." She added an extra dose of vitriol to the last.

Simon's hand hovered over the top card of the deck. "What was that? Did someone knock?" His gaze swiveled toward the door.

She turned, following suit, frowning at the closed—and locked—door. "What? I didn't hear anything."

When she turned back, Simon lifted his shoulder in that careless and irritatingly attractive manner. "Must have been the wind. Now, you were saying?"

"A card."

"What's that?" He cupped a hand around his ear. "I must have missed the please."

"Please," she said through gritted teeth.

Before looking at her card, she pulled in a breath and held it. A ten! Gah! She flung the cards at him, wishing they had more weight as they flew against his chest.

"My. My. No need to be such a sore loser." He rose, his movements slow and measured, like a cat stalking its prey. That exasperating grin spread across his lips. "Especially since your loss is actually a win." He moved behind her.

"A win! I hardly think—" She pulled in a gasp as his fingertips brushed the back of her neck. Then his lips pressed against a spot under her right earlobe. "Oooh." Unbidden, the sound of pleasure rose from deep within her.

He chuckled, his mouth still so close his breath brushed against her already sensitive skin. "Told you."

"Ugh!" Stupid traitorous body! She pushed her chair back, hoping he would topple to the floor from the force of it. "I'm going to bed."

"This was your idea. I never imagined you as a quitter, Charlotte. And I still haven't received my proper kiss goodnight. That was going to be when I won next."

"Fine! Take your infernal kiss and let me go to sleep." She braced herself, closing her eyes, lifting her chin, and pursing her lips, determined not to succumb to his talented mouth.

Some battles are lost before they've begun .

She didn't have to open her eyes to sense he was near. Every nerve in her body tingled at his nearness. Faint scents of sandalwood and leather teased her nose, the heat of him radiating through her clothes as he stood in front of her. Sounds of his breathing, at first slow and even, grew more rapid.

The weight of his arm slipping around her secured her to him, and he tugged her closer, her breasts pressing against his bare chest. Heat from his skin traveled through the thin cotton of her nightdress.

His other hand, large and warm, cupped her cheek. "Open your eyes, Charlotte. I want to look into them before I kiss you. You have the most beautiful eyes. Dark and mysterious, as if you're holding secrets."

She opened her eyes. Not because he had asked her, but to see his amusement from his lies and manipulation. Confusion—no, fear—tripped up her spine at the sincerity shining in them. Her lips parted as she drew in a shocked breath.

"Better," he said, then lowered his head.

The soft press of his lips first caressed then captured hers more fully, and her eyelids drifted shut of their own accord as she surrendered herself to the kiss. Barely discernable, a hint of wetness traced along the seam of her lips.

In truth, her mind was so muddled she wasn't sure what she was feeling, except for the riotous fluttering in her stomach.

Something rigid pressed into her abdomen. No, not something . She knew what that was, and her mind shook itself from its dangerous stupor as she pushed against his chest. "You promised!"

"What?" He honestly appeared confused.

"That!" She pointed at the bulge in his trousers.

He rolled his eyes. "I can't help what my body does. It has a mind of its own." He laughed at the last, muttering something about head and mind. However, he held out his hands. "But as you wish. "

"I'm going to sleep. Stay on your side of the blanket."

"You stay on yours." He started unbuttoning his trousers.

She raced to the other side, shielding herself from his nakedness, and climbed into the bed, lying as close to the edge as possible.

Rustle of clothes sounded from the other side, then the bed sagged a little as Simon climbed in, releasing an exaggerated sigh.

Charlotte stared up at the canopy and prayed the blanket would hold during the night. Before long, snoring drifted across from the other side. Grumbling to herself, she scooted a little closer to the middle, careful not to disturb the barrier, and tried to sleep.