“That…” she panted. “That, I like. But I… I would like to learn more.”
“Any question you ask, I will answer.” He grinned. “I’llshowyou an answer.”
“Excellent.” Her voice breathy. “Um, perhaps you will show me… you.”
Hell.
“I’m still rather unsure about the male anatomy.”
His hand flew to his fall.
And some other hand knocked on their door.
He groaned. “Ignore it.”
Another knock. “My lord, I have the food you ordered. And the tea? Is this the wrong room?”
Emma chuckled. “I am rather famished.” Her hands played in his cravat.
“Just a moment,” he called, rolling off Emma and willing his cock to quiet down.Imagine Aunt Millicent sleeping in the corner, drool trickling from her mouth. All his sisters walking in at the same time. Emma’s sisters, too. A horse shitting right on top of his boot. Or actually having to marry the blackmailer’s daughter last Season. That did it. Mostly.
“Shall I open the door?” Emma asked.
Samuel swung his feet to the floor. “Yes. Wait.” He rounded the bed and smoothed her hair back, straightened her bodice. Nothing to do about the passion red of her cheeks, the irritated spread of red across her chest where his scruff had scraped across her skin.
“Thank you… Husband,” she said.
He kissed her forehead, and she opened the door, allowing two maids to shuffle inside with large trays laden with everything to break their fast.
“How pretty,” Emma said as the maids laid their burden on the table near the window. “The teapot and the vase, the flowers. Mr. Trent runs a thoughtful hotel.”
The maids bobbed and backed out of the room, and Samuel pulled out a chair for Emma to sit. He sat across from her as she sipped from her cup. Then she bit into a hunk of bread, cheeks pink and healthy, her gaze touching on him, then skating away, again and again. No shyness inhim, no hesitance. He’d look his full as long as he had her, and he’d do enough for her to think him worth the risk.
He picked up his cup and sipped, then gently set it down again. “Do you take your tea any special way?”
“A bit of lemon.”
“I prefer coffee.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You may have all of it. Do you like the rain?”
He glanced out the window. “Today I do. Today, rainy is my favorite weather. And muddy are my favorite roads.” He grabbed a bit of bread and wolfed it down, following it up with the entire cup of tea. Such a tiny conversation about inconsequential things. “I want to know everything about you—tea and lemon and weather.”
She blushed. “It seems you will have the opportunity to learn it all. We may be here an awfully long time.”
They ate, and he learned she liked winter best of all the seasons, hated the color brown, and had never played lawn bowls. He’d promised to always keep ice about so she might always have a bit of winter chill, avoid brown in her company, and teach her how to play.
When half the plates were newly empty, she sighed. “The rain insists, does it not? We might need a diversion.”
“I have a diversion in mind,” he mumbled.
“Really? So do I.” She stood and wandered over to her satchel.
Whatever she was searching for was likelynotwhat he had in mind. “And what is it?”
“Cards. I always keep a deck in my traveling satchel, and… Why are you laughing?”
He was laughing, much too loudly.
