Chapter 19

Charlotte stared in the looking glass for a moment. She was in the master chamber at Aimswood Hall—preparing for her wedding night as the new Marchioness of Aimsbury. She might have pinched herself had she not been under the watchful eye of her newly appointed ladies’ maid. Having never had a ladies’ maid before, she wasn’t entirely certain how to behave in front of one.

The maid finished smoothing Charlotte’s hair and placed the silver backed brush back on the tray that graced the dressing table. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”

My lady. Good heavens, but that sounded so strange to her ears. “No, Mary. That will be all for now. Thank you for your assistance.”

The maid’s eyes widened, and she stared at Charlotte with something akin to horror. And instantly, Charlotte realized her error. One did not acknowledge a servant for doing what they were hired to do. It simply wasn’t the done thing. But ultimately, Charlotte wasn’t willing to let her altered station alter her. Everyone deserved a bit of kindness and praise from time to time.

“Good night, ma’am.”

With that, the maid disappeared behind one of the hidden doors camouflaged in the paneled walls. The ancient Tudor structure of Aimswood Hall was apparently a rabbit warren of such hidden entrances and passageways. It would take her a decade to learn them all. But then she had a decade. She had her entire life stretching out before her to learn the idiosyncrasies of her new home. And her new husband.

The door that separated his dressing room from the bedchamber—the single chamber that they would share—opened and he stepped inside. He was not wearing a night shirt, and Charlotte strongly suspected that he did not wear them ever. He wasn’t the sort to don such a garment and a cap. But he was in a state of semi-undress. His coat, waistcoat and cravat had been discarded, along with his boots. He stood there in only breeches and his shirt, which was open at the neck, revealing a V of sun bronzed skin. She knew what was beneath that shirt. She’d seen it the previous night. And the memory of it had stirred her more than once during the day. She also knew what was hiding beneath his breeches, though she hadn’t quite as clear a picture of that part of him.

“I’ve dismissed the maid,” she said.

“I heard her depart,” he answered. There was a long pause, and it was clear that he wished to say more but was struggling for the words. After a long moment of silence, he sighed and said, “Charlotte, I know this is our wedding night, but I want you to know I will not press you. If you are uncertain or frightened, we will wait until you feel more secure.”

“Is that what you wish? For us to wait to consummate our marriage?”

He shook his head. “Of course, it isn’t. But I also don’t wish to appear some insensitive brute demanding his rights after everything that occurred last night… not to mention the hard day’s travel we endured to get here.”

“Demanding his rights? Ethan, you act as if you are the only one who wants to be married,” Charlotte mused.

He moved deeper into the room, perching on a settee at the end of the bed. “For women, the physical aspects of marriage are not—men can separate love and passion. Women typically cannot. And while I am certain of my feelings for you, Charlotte, you are not yet certain of yours for me.”

She rose from the dressing table and walked toward him. She wore only her chemise and a wrapper. “You cannot sustain love without passion. And you cannot sustain passion without love… Would you agree with that?”

“I would.”

She smiled. “There is no rule about which of those must come first.” With that, she freed the ties of her wrapper and let it slip from her shoulders. “Kiss me?”

It would have taken a man far stronger than he was to resist the sweetness of her lips. Kissing her, it was like breathing to him. Necessary. Instinctive. Life giving. Taking her hand, he pulled her down onto his lap until they were nose to nose and eye to eye. And then she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. That she initiated the contact assuaged most of his concern. It also effectively robbed him of any will he might have possessed to resist her.

The kiss grew more passionate, more hungry with each passing second. But when she tore her lips from his and then pressed a kiss to his throat, his breath hissed out between his teeth.

“Is that a good sound or a bad one?” she asked. “I don’t want to do anything wrong.”

“You couldn’t,” he countered. “Having you touch me, having your perfect lips on my skin—it’s what I’ve dreamed of. For seven years.”

“I’m not just a dream now. I’m very real and right here with you. I have neither the experience nor the knowledge to be a seductress… I can only be honest and tell you that I’ve thought all day about the way you touched me last night. And I’ve been waiting most eagerly to learn what comes next.”

“Then let me show you,” he said, lifting her in his arms as he rose and then bearing her back to the bed. When she lay stretched out before him on the counterpane, he took a moment to savor the sight of her. The chemise she wore was thin to the point of transparency, veiling the lush curves of her form but not concealing them. But looking was not enough. He wanted to touch and taste every part of her.

Climbing onto the bed with her, he molded her body to his. Her breasts pressed against his chest. His aching shaft nestled into the softness of her belly, and by some instinct, she parted her legs so that her silken thighs bracketed his hips.

Ethan dipped his head and closed his lips over the taut, berry pink tip of one breast. He teased that tender flesh until she was clutching his hair and holding him to her with a kind of desperation that only spurred his own need. Kissing his way down her body, over her ribs, and then the softness of her belly, he didn’t stop. When his lips pressed against the slight mound of her sex, his breath gently fanning over her, that she made a small sound of distress.

“What are you doing?”

He smiled against her skin as he pressed a kiss to the softness of her inner thigh. “Something that you will enjoy. Trust me, Charlotte?”