Chapter Seventeen
Genevieve did notknow what to do. Rory was sleeping beside her, and she wasn’t certain if she should go back to her own chamber or if she was welcome in his. After his climax, he’d kissed her and rolled onto his back. She’d risen to wash, and when she returned, he was asleep. She’d donned her nightrail again and climbed back into bed, and now she lay beside him and stared at the shapes the firelight made on the ceiling.
Every few seconds, she peeked over at Rory and felt her heart skip. He was her husband now, and she had to keep peeking at him to believe it. Even in sleep, he was so handsome he made her nervous. He might have been even more handsome when he was sleeping, she thought, rolling onto her side and propping herself onto her elbow to study him. She’d tossed the bedclothes over him so he wouldn’t be cold, but they only covered him from the waist down. He had such a lean waist, and she followed it up to that muscled chest and broad shoulders. Where had he acquired those muscles? At one point, she’d wrapped a hand around his arm and had felt how hard his bicep was.
She felt like a voyeur but couldn’t stop herself from studying his face. He had a strong jaw, rather square until it tapered into the longer, more refined lines of his nose and cheeks. From the slant of his brows to the straight line of his nose, his features reflected perfection. He usually had a very stern expression, his lips pressed tight, but in sleep his mouth was soft and hisfeatures relaxed. She lifted a hand and traced his mouth, her finger hovering just above the skin. She could have spent hours kissing those lips. No two times he had kissed her had been the same, and in every kiss, he seemed to be thinking only of her arousal and what he could do to heighten it.
She was not overly experienced. She’d only had one lover and a handful of trysts. She hadn’t been unhappy with those experiences. After the first time, the act itself had been pleasurable. She knew that wasn’t always the case. Genevieve had heard enough women bemoaning having to do their duty with their husbands to understand that many men did not care if a woman found any pleasure at all. It seemed the more handsome a man was, the less he cared and the less effort he made—at least, that was the consensus among the fairer sex of her acquaintance.
And yet, handsome as Rory was, he’d made quite a lot of effort. She’d known what he was doing when he kissed her between her legs. She’d heard of such things, but she had never imagined she would be the recipient. There wasn’t any pleasure for the man in doing that. As a husband, Rory didn’t need to concern himself with her pleasure, but he had made every effort.
Even when he’d been inside her, he’d moved slowly and skillfully, bringing her very close to a second climax. She might have orgasmed with him if she hadn’t been distracted by the way he looked at her as he found fulfillment.
She had loved the man who was her first—at least, shethoughtshe had loved him—but she had never shared anything so intimate with anyone as she had with Rory. She wished he hadn’t gone to sleep. She’d never have enough courage to ask if he had felt as she did about what they’d shared, but perhaps he would have given her some indication.
Genevieve lay back on her pillow and wondered again about what she should do. Stay or go? He hadn’t asked her to stay, buthe hadn’t told her to go. Still, if she stayed, the servants would see her in his bed in the morning. Rory had teased her about being too loud. She had loved seeing he had a lighter side, was capable of teasing her, but she thought she would be mortified enough knowing someone might have heard her in the midst of lovemaking. She didn’t relish the idea of waking up to the staff sending covert looks at her in Rory’s bed.
Decided, Genevieve crawled out of bed, found her robe and the tattered tie, and slipped through the adjoining door to her own room. The weather had begun to turn colder, especially at night, and her feet felt like blocks of ice when she finally climbed into her own bed. Unlike the bed she’d had as a governess, this one was large and possessed a very soft mattress. Rory had said he had the chamber refurbished after his first wife died. This was not Harriet’s bed, and the furnishings were not hers, and yet she must have lain in her own bed, probably against this very wall of the room, and stared at this very ceiling.
Had Rory lain in bed beside her? Genevieve had the impression that their marriage had faltered very early. Had Harriet lain in her bed alone, Rory sleeping in the next room? Surely there had been nights when he kissed Harriet, held her, made love to her. Had he done all of the things with her that he’d done with Genevieve? Why had they become estranged? Was it true that Harriet had tricked him into believing she loved him, or was it something else?
Upon first meeting Rory, she would have placed the blame on him. He could be dictatorial and stubborn. He didn’t like to be told what to do or have his shortcomings pointed out. What man or woman did? But when she pointed out his mistakes, he had acted to rectify them. He hadn’t exactly knelt at Genevieve’s feet and said, “You were right about everything,” but he’d made sure Frances had glasses and mementos from her mother.
And he’d married Genevieve.
She had to remember he hadn’t married her because he wanted a wife but because he thought Frances needed a mother. He hadn’t been wrong. Frances had obviously had a close relationship with the woman, and when her mother died, she’d been sent away by her father, who then disappeared. Of course the child had rebelled. She needed her father to make a commitment to ensuring she had a stable environment. A mother could nurture her and love her, and keep Rory grounded.
Genevieve had just never imagined she would be the person who was tasked with doing all of that.
She hoped she was up to the undertaking.
*
“Why are youin here?”
Genevieve opened her eyes and blinked at the figure in her room. Was this her room? She didn’t recognize it or the bed she was sleeping in. She pushed her hair out of her eyes—she’d forgotten to braid it again—and sat up, trying to find her bearings.
“I woke up, and you weren’t there.”
Genevieve realized the figure speaking was Rory. At the same time, she realized sunlight filtered through the closed drapes of the bedchamber. “What time is it?” she asked.
“Half past nine,” he said.
“Frances!” Genevieve stumbled out of bed and tried to remember where the clothespress in this chamber was located. She was halfway across the room when she realized she should pull the bell and summon Molly to help her dress.
“She’s fine,” Rory said. “We breakfasted together. No flapjacks this morning, though, much to her disappointment.”
Genevieve paused. “You and she… Why did no one wake me?”
“Every new bride deserves to sleep late the day after her wedding,” he said.
Genevieve hadn’t exactly forgotten she was a bride, but hearing him say it brought back all the memories of the night before. She glanced at him, her gaze falling to his mouth. She couldn’t stop herself imagining that mouth on her breast and then her belly, and then… She felt her cheeks heat.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking about,” he said, “but the look on your face right now has put me in mind of picking you up and carrying you to bed again.”
Genevieve realized she was still wearing the flimsy nightrail, and she was standing in the middle of the room in nothing else. Her nipples had gone hard, and he could probably see that very clearly. She would have liked to strip off the nightrail and tell him to go ahead and take her to bed. She’d been so worried this morning would be awkward, and she wouldn’t know whether to acknowledge what they’d shared last night or pretend nothing had happened.
“Do I snore?” he asked.
