Her Christmas Earl (10 page)

After a hesitation that jabbed at his heart, she took a sip. “Should I lie down?”

He hid a wince at the stoic little question. He’d hoped the memory of their kisses might ease her fears. That had been too optimistic. He kept smiling, wishing she’d smile back the way she’d smiled yesterday afternoon, as if he set the sun shining in the sky.

“Shall we talk for a few moments first?” The flash of relief in her eyes pricked his vanity. “Do you know what’s going to happen?”

“My…my mother told me last night.”

Bloody hell. He could imagine how that had gone. No wonder his bride looked ready to bolt. “What did she say?”

Philippa blushed and studied her claret as if it held the answers to every eternal question. “That you’d hurt me. That I must submit. That this is a wife’s lot and I’m paying for Eve’s sin.”

To blazes with the old bat. “Have some more wine.”

Her gaze darted up to meet his. “Will it help if I’m foxed?”

“It will help if you’re not expecting me to torture you,” he said shortly, yet again damning his harridan of a mother-in-law. “I swear it won’t be as bad as you think.”

He hoped to Hades he spoke the truth. He’d never taken an innocent girl to his bed before. The thought of Philippa’s ardent kisses bolstered his confidence. With understanding and patience, the roué who still lurked beneath the new husband was certain that he and this woman could scale the heights of pleasure. The prospect of those heights made him hotter than the fire in the hearth.

“I hope not.”

He almost laughed. That cautious response was very much hers. She’d never butter a man up with meaningless flattery. “You trusted me yesterday. Will you trust me now?”

Another of those heart-stopping hesitations before she nodded and drank a little more wine. “I’ll try.”

A surge of fondness and gratitude jammed his throat so his voice turned husky. “I can’t tell you what it meant when you believed me yesterday.”

It was the first chance they’d had to discuss that harrowing scene in the library. He couldn’t think of another woman who would have stood by him. He still hardly believed that she had. At that moment, his decision to marry Philippa Sanders had become his choice rather than something he did for honor’s sake. He’d always wanted and liked her, but her stalwart faith had rocketed his feelings into a new universe.

“I know Amelia.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“When I had a chance to think, I assumed that she must have tricked you.” She no longer sounded likely to faint away at his slightest move, thank God. “After all, if you wanted Amelia, you’d have proposed to her.”

He fought back another, stronger urge to sweep Philippa into his arms. “What a fortunate fellow I am, to have such a level-headed wife.”

That drew the first hint of a smile from her, a tiny twitch of her lush mouth. He’d kissed that mouth. He knew how delicious it was. With an eagerness that would have astonished him five days ago, he looked forward to kissing it again.

Soon. But not yet. Not until the wary light left her big brown eyes.

From where she leaned against the stacked pillows, she regarded him steadily. “I didn’t feel very level-headed when I walked into the library.”

“Perhaps not.” His gut knotted at the memory of the distress on her face. He’d been so sure she’d believe he was up to his bad old tricks. Given his reputation and their brief acquaintance, why would she think anything else? “Amelia sent me a note saying you needed to see me. When I got there, she must have listened for your cousin outside because she didn’t touch me until just before you appeared. Then she was like a blasted octopus, all arms, and I couldn’t control what she did with any of them. I should have been suspicious when the note wasn’t directly from you.”

“I guessed the truth might be something like that.” She paused. “I was so glad to leave Hartley Manor. Thank you for deciding not to stay there tonight.”

“I thought you’d feel more comfortable away from curious eyes.” He drank some wine. Befitting this hostelry’s exorbitant prices, its quality wouldn’t disgrace his own cellars.

“Oh, I do,” she said fervently, coaxing a laugh from him. She once more sounded like the delightful woman he’d discovered after a jammed door delivered his destiny. “There’s so much we need to talk about.”

He damn well wanted more from tonight than conversation, but he could already see that taking things slowly eased her into her new role. “Not all at once, surely,” he said mildly, not feeling mild at all.

“Maybe not, but I’d like to know where we’re going after Salisbury. London or your estates in Scotland?”

“Whatever you prefer.” He shrugged as he set his glass on the nightstand. “Scotland at Christmas can be bleak, but beautiful. There’s London, but perhaps you’ve had your fill of Town. We could stay here. Or perhaps you’d like to travel. I cheated you out of a courtship. The least I can do is offer you a honeymoon. I am a man of some fortune. The world, my dear, is your oyster.”

He saw the precise moment when she realized that her old, circumscribed life was over. Excitement sparked in her eyes and for the first time tonight, she smiled properly. “Perhaps I’ll like being a countess after all.”

“I hope so.” He risked touching the hand resting open at her side. When he’d come in, she’d gripped the covers like a shield. Now her fingers lay loose and relaxed.

He waited in an agony of suspense for her to withdraw. How his raffish friends would guffaw to see the famous libertine in such a lather about touching a lady’s
hand
.

His heart gave a mighty thud of thankfulness when she curled her fingers around his. She took another sip of wine. Whether it was the warm room or the claret or his presence—he dearly hoped it was his presence—she looked considerably more spirited than she had earlier.

“When you were so kind to your sister yesterday, you impressed the hell out of me. She tried to do you a very bad turn.” And him, he thought with a shudder. Thank heaven Philippa had invaded his room on Christmas Eve and not Amelia. The idea of a lifetime with Amelia Sanders brought him out in a cold sweat.

“She’s not as bad as you might think. Amelia has always been discontented and unhappy. My mother has encouraged her to think that because she’s pretty, she doesn’t need to be anything else.”

Erskine could imagine. Although understanding didn’t make Amelia’s spiteful little games any more forgivable.

He lifted his wife’s hand and kissed the spot below her wedding ring, glinting bright gold in the light. “You’re too good for her.”
And for me.

But she was his, however undeserving he was. He had a piece of paper to prove it. And it was time he introduced her to some of the benefits of married life.

He unlaced her fingers from her wineglass and placed it on the nightstand. She’d nearly emptied the glass, thank goodness. He leaned in and placed his lips softly on hers. She released a little huff of surprise, but didn’t draw away.

Because her mother had told her to submit? Or because she wanted him to kiss her? He prayed it was the latter.

Exquisitely aware of her innocence, he kissed her chastely, rediscovering the satiny texture of her lips and her tart, intriguing taste. To support his weight, he splayed his hands on the counterpane. With encouragement from the claret, she’d stopped acting as if he was about to devour her, but he knew he hadn’t banished her fears.

After an interval both delightful and frustrating, she pressed forward with a breathy sigh. Reluctantly he withdrew. He lifted one hand to brush his thumb across her plump, glistening lips, pulling the lower one down to reveal a glimpse of straight white teeth. Her eyes were as dark as a starless night. He could dive into her gaze and never come up for air.

Puzzlement creased her forehead. “You kissed me.”

She didn’t sound entirely pleased. A tender smile curved his lips. “I promised I would, remember?”

“After I married you.”

He said what he must, although every word cut like a razor. “I’m prepared to wait.”

The faint line remained between her dark brows. “You don’t have to.”

He bit back a sigh and cupped her cheek. “We’re strangers, Philippa. I want you, but I’m not a barbarian. If you’re not ready, I can give you more time.”

For a prickling interval, she studied his face in silence. He struggled to convey patience and understanding, although she must also see his barely contained hunger.

He steeled himself to retreat to the room next door. Or perhaps she’d relent and let him sleep beside her. Holding her in his arms without possessing her would be torture, but still it seemed preferable to the lonely hell of a night without her.

Reluctantly Erskine withdrew his hand and straightened. He told himself that this was for the best. No man of honor could expect his wife to welcome him tonight, whatever rights this morning’s ceremony had conferred.

Which wasn’t much consolation when he faced a cold bed.

“Sleep well, Philippa.”

In the light of candles and fire, her eyes turned even darker. He shifted away slowly like a man going to his execution. He knew he did the right thing, but the knowledge offered no satisfaction.

His wife remained very still, watching him, although her hands curled slowly into the sheets at her waist. He’d been trying very hard not to notice the way the nightgown molded over her breasts. Now his gaze dropped helplessly to where her nipples pressed, beaded like raspberries, against the white material. That image would torment him through a restless night, damn it.

He expected Philippa to look relieved or, best of all, grateful. He’d like her to be grateful. A grateful wife was likely to invite him to consummate their union sooner rather than later. Hopefully before he went completely mad wanting her.

He’d risen to his feet before she spoke. “I trusted you yesterday.”

Because of that, he’d lay down his life for her. “Yes, you did. Thank you.”

Without lowering her gaze, she bit her lip. He wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but he’d much rather stay than leave, even if she only wanted to
talk.

“You’ve always been kind to me.”

It was his turn to frown. “You make me sound like an aged uncle.”

A rueful smile twisted her lips. “You’re nicer to me than Uncle Theodore ever was.”

He didn’t smile back and his voice emerged with a bite that he regretted but couldn’t contain. “Philippa, let me be frank—I don’t feel remotely avuncular when I look at you.” He sucked in a breath and spoke the words likely to terrify her into running back to her unpleasant mother. “The first time I saw you hovering in the shadows like a little ghost, I wanted you. I wanted you when we were trapped in the dressing room. That’s why I kissed you. Every hour since then, I’ve wanted you more. Tonight I’m offering you a postponement, but I don’t….I can’t let you think that I’ll accept a chaste marriage.”

He waited for an appalled reaction, but she didn’t flinch away. Neither, confound it, did she leap into his arms declaring overwhelming desire.

“I…see,” she said slowly after a tense interval.

He stepped closer to the bed, even if it was a step he’d need to retrace when he left her. “Have I shocked you?”

“A little.” She paused. “You have a husband’s rights.”

“I’m not a bully.”

“No, you’re not.”

He should go. This awkward conversation just extended the torture.

Her eyes flickered away and her hands stopped twisting at the sheets. Instead, she began to pluck nervously at them. Not much of an improvement.

Why the deuce was the chit nervous? Hadn’t he just given her a reprieve? Surely that saintly act alone must cancel out a few of his sins in the heavenly register.

“It’s late,” he said regretfully, starting to feel like a fool standing in the middle of the room, gazing at Philippa like a dog slavering at a butcher shop window. He turned to leave.

“Don’t go.”

Erskine stopped, wondering if he’d heard her aright. Slowly he faced her. He couldn’t read her expression. “What did you say?”

Her deep breath made her breasts swell voluptuously against her nightgown. He closed his eyes. God give him strength. She wasn’t doing this to get him excited. Although he was undoubtedly getting excited.

She licked her lips. How he wished she wouldn’t.

Philippa swallowed and spoke in a rusty whisper. “I said…don’t go.”

He braced his shoulders and told himself he could be strong. They had years to get this right. A wedding night was just another date on the calendar. “You don’t want to sleep alone in a strange place? I can understand that.”

Her eyes flashed with annoyance, surprising him. “No, I don’t want to sleep alone. But that’s not what I mean.”

“What
do
you mean?”

Her lips tightened with displeasure. “You’re the blasted rake. You work it out.”

His heart kicking into an excited gallop, he stared at her without moving. It took him far too long to realize that while she looked uncertain, she also looked…interested.

He could work with interested, by God.

On an astonished laugh, he dived across the floor and onto the bed, dragging her into his arms. “Prepare to be ravished, lassie!”

Before Philippa could reply or, heaven forfend, change her mind, he captured her lips with his in a kiss that wasn’t chaste at all.