He’d wanted to cup his hands on her bottom and squeeze and lift until she had no choice but to wrap her legs around him.

And then he’d wanted to push her back against a tree and own her.

Good Lord. He wanted his wife. And he couldn’t have her.

Not yet.

Richard swore again as he wrenched off his coat and flung himself onto his bed. Damn! He did not need such a complication. He was going to have to tell her to lock her bloody door when they took up residence at Maycliffe.

He swore yet again. He didn’t even know if there was a lock on the connecting door between the master’s and mistress’s bedrooms.

He’d have to install one.

No, that would cause talk. Who the hell added a lock to a connecting bedroom door?

Not to mention Iris’s feelings. He had seen in her eyes that she’d been surprised that he did not plan to visit her on their wedding night. He was quite certain she was at least somewhat relieved—he did not flatter himself that she had fallen desperately in love with him in so short a time. Even if she had, she was hardly the sort to approach the marriage bed without trepidation.

But she was also hurt. He had seen that, too, despite her attempts to hide it. And why shouldn’t she be? For all she could tell, her husband did not find her appealing enough to take to bed on their wedding night.

He let out a grim laugh. Nothing could have been further from the truth. God only knew how long it was going to take for his traitorous body to settle down enough to escort her to supper.

Oh yes, that would be genteel. Here, take my arm, but do ignore my raging erection.

Someone really needed to invent a better pair of breeches.

He lay on his back, thinking unamorous thoughts. Anything to direct his mind to something other than the delicate flare of his wife’s hip. Or the soft pink of her lips. It was a color that would have been ordinary on anyone else, but against Iris’s pale skin . . .

He swore. Again. This was not the way this was supposed to go. Bad thoughts, unappealing thoughts . . . Let’s see, there was that time he’d got food poisoning at Eton. Very bad fish, that was. Salmon? No, pike. He’d vomited for days. Oh, and the pond at Maycliffe. It would be cold this time of year. Very cold. Balls-numbingly cold.

Bird-watching, Latin conjugation, his great-aunt Gladys (God rest her soul). Spiders, soured milk, plague.

Bubonic plague.

Bubonic plague on his cold, numb . . .

That did the trick.

He checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes had passed. Possibly eleven. Certainly enough time to warrant hauling his pathetic self off the bed and making himself presentable.