“I must write my new chapter,” Matilda murmured, drawing his attention back to her. “I shall name it… what is the point of a kiss?”
Albion raised an eyebrow and softly said, “I should like to read that when you are done.”
She frowned in her sleep and slowly released her hold on his sleeve. Ever a man of his word, he took that as a dismissal, but before he left, he leaned down and pressed one last kiss upon her warm brow.
“Perhaps,” he whispered, “there is no point to a kiss. Perhaps, it is done simply because it feels… right.”
And though he had been trying to deny it, trying to forget it to abide by her wishes, kissing herhadfelt right.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
“Mercy, that is bright,” Matilda hissed, venturing downstairs with her arms full. She had her leatherbound manuscript, her ink, her quills, and a few of the romantic stories she had found in the library of Whitecliff Manor. For research only, of course.
It had been three days since the ball and one since Matilda and Albion had returned to the coast, the former enduring the most uncomfortable carriage ride of her life. She had slept most of the way, but they had been forced to pause every couple of hours, so she could suck in gulps of fresh air and try not to be sick.
Since getting back to the manor, she had been in bed, viciously cursing the roasted meats she had insisted on devouring and the copious quantities of wine she had supped in a vain attempt to keep pace with Albion. She was not certain which was the cause of her sickness, but finally, she was feeling well enough to emerge from her plague pit.
There is a chapter here, somewhere: How To Ruin a Honeymoon in Five Easy Steps.They were almost three weeks into their honeymoon, and thus far, it had proven to be a very strange experience.
Groaning at the fierce light shining in through the windows, Matilda did not notice the figure coming out of a doorway up ahead until she had practically stumbled into him.
“Easy there!” Albion’s hands grabbed her arms, steadying her.
She squinted up at him. “Why is it so bright?”
“That would be the sun.” He smiled. “It does that.”
She felt his hands relax though they did not release her immediately. “You must forgive a resurrected ghoul for taking some time to readjust to the land of the living.”
“It’s a wonder you haven’t been accused of witchcraft, considering the way you speak,” he said with a dry laugh.
She shrugged. “It is not my fault that there are very few people who appreciate my sense of humor.”
He looked at her strangely for a short while, his keen blue eyes half pinched like he was trying to find something upon her face. She looked back at him warily, uncertain of what he was doing.
“Do I have some breakfast on my face?” She hurriedly swiped a hand all over, hoping to brush away whatever her poor slovenliness had left behind after forcing down eggs and toast that morning.
He shook his head. “I was just curious.”
“About?” she prompted when he did not elaborate.
“If you remember anything from the night of the ball,” he replied, his voice unnervingly cool.
Her heart began to pound in panic. “Should I?”
“No, not at all.”
“You cannot say that! Evidently, I did something.” She swallowed thickly. “What did I do? Did I embarrass myself? Did I offend someone who did not deserve it? Did I say something toyou?”
She wracked her brain desperately, but there was a thick fog across the events of the ball that refused to lift. Glimpses filtered through here and there, but they were nothing embarrassing in her opinion. Rather, they were the opposite; the memories she had of that night were golden and glorious, brimming with laughter and merriment, but shehadbeen worried that she might have remembered it wrong, seeing it through a warped lens of wine and giddiness.
Albion gave her arms a tender squeeze. “You talk in your sleep; did you know that?”
“How doyouknow that?” She felt sick all over again.
He smiled and explained what had occurred after the carriage had returned them to the townhouse—how he had carried her to bed and tucked her in. “I didn’t stay long,” he insisted, “but you were talking about your writing, I think.”
“What did I say?” she demanded to know, sweating profusely.
