Julien pulled up short at the sight of her, standing still as a tombstone where the maid had left her, covered from her chin to her feet in the fine white-lawn gown. Her hair fell like soft clouds of rich auburn down her back and over her shoulders. The nightgown was a bit large for her, and it made her appear more like a frightened child than a bride.
He strode over to her, cupped her chin in his hand, and forced her to look up at him.
“You’re beautiful, more delectable than I’d ever imagined, and believe me, I’ve imagined you every which way. But you’re tired, my dear, are you not? And I’m not a pig.”
She nodded mutely, her eyes huge and dark against her white face.
“Come, then, I’m the gallant tonight. You may call me Lancelot, or was it Galahad? Either one will do, I daresay. I won’t get into that bed with you, but know that it tests me, Kate, tests me more than I’ve been tested in my life. But alas, I’m not a monster, nor am I a randy boy. I want you utterly sober and well rested when I come to you. I want you to want me.”
She didn’t move.
“Come, sweetheart,” he said again, and pulled her arm through his.
She was trembling, although the room was quite warm. She tried to still her shaking body, but to no avail. She thought inconsequentially that his brocade dressing gown was very soft to the touch. Her fingers twitched nervously on his sleeve.
He wondered what thoughts were going through that drunken mind of hers. Her face was pale, far too pale, and he felt her fingers clutching at his arm. He gently disengaged her hand and lifted her onto the bed. Lord knew he didn’t intend it, but just lifting her, just feeling her through the batiste of her nightgown made him want her so much he thought he would die from it. She turned her head away from him on the pillow, and without intending to, he sat down beside her, his hand reaching out to touch her hair, to feel it. Perhaps he even wanted to crush a handful of her beautiful hair against his cheek. He reached out an unsteady hand and stroked the rich auburn hair. It felt like silk, smooth and soft in his hand. She didn’t move. He saw the outline of her full breasts, made more prominent by their rapid rise and fall.
He didn’t think, just acted. She wasn’t too drunk or too tired, no, she couldn’t be, she hadn’t moved, had she, when he’d touched and stroked her hair? Perhaps she was just shy, just waiting for him to take charge. He laid a hand on her breast and began to caress her.
She rolled suddenly away from him, a low cry of panic escaping from her throat. She jerked about and stared at him, her hand out to ward him off, him or the devil, he thought, freezing, his hand still outstretched. He took a deep breath and with a strong effort drew back his hand. “I’ve wanted you too much and for too long. I’m sorry to frighten you. Go to sleep now. Everything will be different in the morning.”
He forced himself to rise. Mechanically he pulled the covers over her. He couldn’t think of a thing to say to reassure her. All he had on his mind was stripping off that bloody nightgown, caressing her breasts with his hands and with his mouth, and feeling her, all of her, those long white legs of hers spreading for him. He shook himself. He said only, “Sleep now. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He had meant his words to be calm, but even to his own ears there was a tremor of lust. He drew a deep breath, turned from her bed, and walked slowly to his own room, disbelieving that he’d left her, actually left his bride on their wedding night, that he hadn’t taken her, made her his wife.
Long after she heard him close the door behind him, she drew her knees as close to her chest as she could and burrowed into the covers for warmth. Her hand stole to her breast, the breast he’d touched. For the first time in her life she became aware of her own womanliness, of the softness of her body, of her differentness, of what she was to him, a man. She could still feel his hand upon her, caressing, wanting her, his fingers stroking through her hair.
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