Bridal nerves, he decided. “I’ll light some more candles.” He set hers on a side table, then entered his bedroom and used his candle to light a dozen or so of the candles that his staff had set around the room. Lanterns would throw a better light, but he had a vague notion that a nervous bride might be more comfortable in candlelight.

He’d turned, having expected her to follow him inside. Instead she had remained on the landing. He went to her, and was surprised when she took a step back.

“Before . . . before I go in there, I need to warn you.” She bit her lip, looking troubled.

He stiffened. “Warn me? About what?”

She took a deep breath and said in a rush, “I might not be a virgin.”

“What?”

“I said, I might not be a virgin.” She hesitated, then added, “I remember you saying once to Rose, Virginity is a requirement for any bride of mine.”

He stared at her dumbfounded. Why had she waited until after the wedding to share this interesting fact with him? It was a little late now to be confessing the sins of her past. Not that it would have made any difference to him. “What do you mean you ‘might not be’? Either you are or you aren’t.”

She scowled. “It’s ridiculous anyway, requiring brides to be virgins. You’re not a virgin, so why should I be?”

He said through gritted teeth, “Are you or are you not?”

“It’s only so that men can make sure any children of a marriage are theirs, but there’s no way to ensure that, except the woman’s own personal honor.”

“A woman’s honor?”

“Yes, a bride can be a virgin on her wedding night but betray her husband with a groom or a footman or another gentleman shortly afterward—and who can be sure of the father? Not even the woman, sometimes. Unless she’s a person of honor.”

“Are you?”

Her eyes flashed with indignation. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that. If I weren’t a woman of honor, I never would have married you.”

“I know that. I meant, are you a virgin?”

“Oh.” There was a short silence. “I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

She flushed. “People say—well, Martha used to say, and she wasn’t the only one—that if a girl rode a horse bareback—and astride—she would, um, not be a virgin. That it would um, rupture the, um, maidenhead.” She looked away, her cheeks flaming, lips pressed together. She swallowed convulsively, then turned to face him. “I used to ride bareback and astride all the time. So . . .”

Relief rushed through him. So she wasn’t about to confess some sordid past. Candlelight flickered and danced across her profile. She looked young and uncertain and vulnerable. And sweet and brave and true.

He took her hand in his. “It doesn’t matter.”