“I’ve never brought a woman here before.” The words tumbled out, unplanned. He grimaced to hear them. “Not that you’re just any woman. That is to say—you’re my wife.”

“I’m flattered.”

He turned to look at her again, feeling oddly out of his depth. “Are you tired? I can order dinner for us here. Or we can go out. Whichever you prefer.”

“I think I’d rather stay in, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all.” He half smiled. “One of the benefits of living part time in a hotel. And they launder the linens.”

“How long has it been since you’ve been back here?”

“A few months. Longer. I can’t recall.” It had been nearly a year, in fact. Indeed, he’d been sitting right here, in an armchair near the fire, reading the London paper, when he’d come across the notice of Justin’s marriage.

On the 27th September at the District Registrar’s Office in Abbot’s Holcombe, Burlington Street, Captain Justin Thornhill, of King’s Abbot, to Lady Helena Elaine Reynolds, daughter of the late Earl of Castleton, Hampshire.

Alex wondered if Justin loved his wife. Was their marriage one of mutual respect and affection? Or had Justin wed Lady Helena solely for her wealth and pedigree? Either way, a registrar’s office seemed a ramshackle place to marry. At least Alex had wed Laura in a church. They’d had a proper ceremony, with all of the trappings.

And now they were going to have a proper wedding night.

He rang for a footman. The summons was answered almost immediately by a hotel employee in impeccable livery. He took their dinner order, and departed, promising to return within a half an hour with their meal. As the door shut behind him, a knot of anxiety formed in Alex’s stomach.

Never had anything been so important. He was determined to get it right.

And—for the next two hours—it seemed as if he did.

They ate a sumptuous meal of jardinière soup and sautéed filets mignon of beef, and they drank a bottle of Bordeaux. He told her about Paris. About the sights they could see, and the things they could do. Carriage rides along the Champs-Élysées. A picnic on the banks of the Seine. A visit to the music hall or the theatre.

“What about your birthday?” he asked. “Is there anything particular you’d like to do to celebrate?”

She sat across from him at the small, linen-covered table, her face aglow in the candlelight. “It’s enough to be here with you.”

“I’m pleased you think so. But we must do something to honor the day.” He refilled her wineglass. “What did you do last year?”