George flipped back the bedclothes. “I’m not finished looking at you,” she informed him. She stroked his chest, fingering the tiny flat male nipples and wondering if they were as sensitive as her nipples had proved to be. She experimented and when he shivered and arched slightly under her hand, she smiled. Sauce for the goose . . .

She slipped her hand lower, caressing his flat, hard stomach in slow, tantalizing circles.

“Ah, so you begin to honor your wedding vows.”

“What?” She frowned at him, puzzled. “My wedding vows?”

“Tsk-tsk, forgotten them already? You promised to rub, cherish and olé me.” He lay back, like a big lazy cat. “Where do you propose to rub next?”

Chapter Nineteen

If I could but know his heart, everything would become easy.

—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

George woke at dawn. She hadn’t had much sleep—they’d spent half the night exploring each other’s bodies—but she was in the habit of waking early.

She lay in bed, reflecting on the last few days. She was married. It still didn’t feel real, even though her body told her she was well and truly married. She was a little bit sore, but her body also felt looser and very satisfied.

She lay watching the dawn appear behind the curtains, and listened to the duke’s rhythmic breathing. His hand lay loosely splayed on her belly, warm and oddly heavy. Was this how she’d awaken in future, in a big richly furnished bed with her naked husband beside her?

No, of course not. She recalled the agreements they’d made. There would be a honeymoon and then she would live in her own house and he would make conjugal visits to ensure she gave him an heir.

The thought was strangely depressing, even though it had been exactly what she’d wanted before. She hadn’t known him then.

She still didn’t really know him, but she didn’t feel the same about him as she had. It wasn’t just the marriage consummation, either, though that had engendered a certain intimacy, a feeling of closeness between them.

It wasn’t just a physical connection she felt, though.

Even before the wedding night, the way he’d behaved toward her since the betrothal became real, his reaction to his discovery of his mother’s deception, the unspoken but public support he’d given her, his reaction in church to her scarlet dress, the rubies—there was more to him than she’d ever imagined.

Her bladder urged her out of bed. She found what she needed through his dressing room exit, and on the way back, feeling self-conscious to be walking around stark naked, she borrowed a richly masculine embroidered silk robe that was hanging on a hook. On her return she found him awake. “Morning.” She felt herself blushing.

“Good morning,” he murmured. “You look very fetching in that robe. How do you feel?”