“You can’t possibly see—I mean, it’s too dark. I can’t see.” She was jumpy, a little embarrassed but he knew if she really didn’t want this, she’d have no hesitation in stopping him. She was modest, that’s all. The thought did not displease him.

He placed a finger under her chin, and turned her face toward him. “Then just feel.” And he lowered his mouth to hers.

*   *   *

Afterward, she fell asleep and slowly tipped over against him. Hart lifted his arm and drew her against his chest, tucking a rug around her. He gazed down at her sleeping face and stroked a lock of silky dark hair back from her face. What the hell had he got himself into?

He hadn’t meant to make love to her again, not so soon. He’d always prided himself on his control. But with George . . . He shook his head. Apparently he was insatiable.

The carriage slowed as it labored up a hill. It was getting colder. One handed, trying not to disturb her, Hart pulled out a travel rug from a side pocket and tucked it around her.

It wasn’t meant to be like this. He hadn’t planned to have . . . feelings. It was supposed to be a convenient marriage—his own convenience at that. He’d wanted a woman who attracted him and wouldn’t be a hardship to bed, a woman who wouldn’t hang off his coat sleeve all the time, who would and could live independently. And who would give him an heir.

Theoretically his wife was all those things. Except for these . . . feelings.

The warm weight of her rested against his chest.

He’d imagined his planned convenient marriage as a cheese sandwich kind of thing. Bland, and would do a satisfactory job.

Instead he’d ended up with a luscious trifle. And with every taste he only wanted more.

He glanced down at the crescent of lashes lying dark against her skin, the tumbled curls, the soft, responsive mouth.

It would be all right, he told himself. He could manage this . . . this whatever it was. Control, that was the thing. Self-discipline. He had a job to do with this missing boy. That should distract him.

After an hour, she stirred and sat up. “I’ve been asleep,” she said in surprise. “I never sleep in carriages.”

“You haven’t exactly had a lot of sleep in the last few days,” Hart said, and then because his mind—and body—went straight to the reason why she’d had so little sleep, he pulled out a portable chess set. He was fond of chess, and often whiled away a journey playing one hand against the other.

He held up the chess set. “Do you play?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll teach you.”