They reached Everingham House just as evening was falling. Hart considered carrying her over the threshold, but then decided she’d probably hate it. Besides, there was nobody to open the door; he’d given the servants the night off.

She’d been very quiet on the way, hadn’t said a word.

The house was in darkness, except for a soft glow coming from inside the front entrance hall. He pulled out his key and opened the door. His butler, Fleming, had left a candle lamp burning on the hall table.

Not for the first time Hart wished he’d overruled his mother on the subject of gas lighting. It was brighter in the street outside than it was in his house.

“When you redecorate, we’ll get gas lighting installed,” he told his bride as he lit another candle lamp.

“When I redecorate?” She grimaced. “Rose or Lily are the ones for that kind of thing. I have no interest in wallpaper and suchlike. I grew up in a run-down old farmhouse and never saw anything wrong with it.”

“Never mind; there are people we can hire.” He picked up a lamp and passed the other to her. “I was really thinking about the light. My mother preferred candlelight to gaslight.”

She nodded. “More flattering to aging skin, I expect. I don’t mind candles though.” She glanced around. “Where are we going?”

“Upstairs.” Where else? They’d eaten and drunk their fill at the wedding breakfast and she’d delayed leaving far beyond the usual time for a bridal couple to depart. She’d even wanted to change into her everyday clothes and take her dog for a walk, until her uncle had volunteered to take care of the dog himself, leaving her with no more excuses.

She was nervous—he’d watched it coming on all through the afternoon. She hadn’t been at all anxious when they’d been here earlier; she’d been eager for him then. But now bridal nerves had set in.

She gave a jerky nod, gathered the skirt of her glorious dress up in one hand, and started up the stairs, the lamp held high. The candlelight shimmered in the folds of the rich fabric and danced in the rubies at her ears.

She paused on the landing. “Where do I sleep?”

He gestured to the open door. “We sleep in my room, of course. In my bed.” Oh, yes, she was nervous, all right.

She hung back, loitering on the landing. “You married me for my horse,” she said, striving for lightness, “so maybe you should sleep with Sultan.” Her skin was almost colorless in the soft light.

He laughed softly, caught her by the hand and drew her slowly against him. “I don’t think so.”

She stiffened, and then pulled away. What the devil was the matter? She’d been afire for him before the wedding breakfast. What had changed?