The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“Yes, it would be a fierce competition. I would hope they’d poison each other, for they’re both French and unbearably conceited. François tried once to kill the kitchen cat at St. Clair when poor Tom stole one of his lamb chops.”

“So, you know about my temperamental chef?”

“Yes, but only through the colorful pictures painted by Mannering and Mrs. Cradshaw. Mannering was most upset about Tom. Didn’t you notice that he’s missing a good inch of his tail?” She lowered her head quickly again to her plate. Surely it was a betrayal of herself even to speak to him, to feel even the slightest enjoyment in the kind of banter she’d enjoyed with him so long ago, when he’d pretended to be her friend.

“When we return to London, François can prepare the same dish and you can judge the winner. I didn’t see Tom on my last visit to St. Clair. He always was an ugly bugger, though. Perhaps missing some of that swishing arrogant tail of his improved his appearance.”

She made no answer.

He began to think of how he would approach lovemaking with her. He could not but dismiss the thought after only a moment of weighing her evident exhaustion against his ardent desire for her. Ardent, he thought. What a milquetoast word. What he felt was consuming lust. He wanted her more than he himself could begin to imagine. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to wrap her so tightly against him that they would be as one. Ah, but she was a virgin, an unwilling bride, truth be told, and he imagined that she would likely try to slit his throat if he tried to make love to her.

As if she read his thoughts, she raised her face, and he saw such apprehension in her eyes that any faltering in his determination was effectively stilled.

Once the covers were removed and a bottle of chilled champagne was set in front of Julien, he dismissed the footman.

Kate looked up as the door closed and warily met her husband’s eyes. She simply couldn’t believe she was now married to this man. It seemed as though the footman had locked the door to her prison cell. She had little knowledge of lust and desire, her experience having been confined primarily to the stilted declarations of love proffered by Squire Bleddoes. But she was certain that she read both of these on Julien’s face. Unconsciously her hand stole to her neck.

“Here is your champagne.” Julien handed her a flute. As he could think of no toast that would not in all likelihood upset her, he simply clicked his glass to hers.

She took a long, deep drink of the champagne and barely managed to restrain a sneeze from the spuming bubbles. Julien refilled her glass. She was beginning to think that champagne was not at all the nasty sort of drink she had once believed, and confirmed her new opinion by quickly downing the second glass. The third glass gave her a certain sense of warmth and light-headedness that dissolved the gnawing fear and the shaky feeling in her stomach. She grew quite warm, both inside and out. Her once-taut nerves began to loosen, and the room, indeed even Julien’s face, took on a pleasant blur.

Julien had never before seen her take more than a few sips of any drink, including the mild orgeat at Almack’s, and as he watched her finish her fourth glass, he grew concerned that she would make herself ill. He gently leaned forward and removed the glass from her fingers.

“Surely you’ve had enough. It’s time for you to retire. It’s been a long day, at least for me and my nerves.”

His nerves. She very much disliked being disturbed in her foggy haze, and he’d had the gall to say something about his bloody nerves. Then he was at her side, his hand firmly gripping her arm. He pulled her to her feet. She weaved uncertainly from the effects of the champagne and, to her horror, leaned heavily against his chest.

“I can see that you are in need of some assistance. I hope I’ve not married a wife who’s a tippler.” He ignored the slight flutter of protest and swung her up into his arms.