BY THE TIME Iris retired for the evening she was nearly jumping out of her skin. Richard had been charming all through supper; she could not remember the last time she’d laughed so much. The conversation had been marvelous, the food delicious, and the way he had looked at her . . .

It was as if she were the only woman in the world.

She supposed she was, in a way. She was certainly the only woman in the house. Apart from the servants, they were the only two in residence, and she, who had always allowed herself to stand at the side and observe, could be nothing but the center of attention.

It was disconcerting and marvelous. And now it was terrifying.

She was back in her own room, and surely at any moment he would knock on the door that connected their bedchambers. He would be in his dressing gown, his legs bare, his cravat missing from his neck.

There would be skin. So much more skin than she had ever seen on a gentleman.

Iris still didn’t have a lady’s maid, so the girl who’d styled her hair had come in to help her prepare for bed. Iris had been mortified when she’d pulled out one of the nightgowns that had been purchased for her trousseau. It was ridiculously thin and alarmingly revealing, and even though Iris had gone to stand by the fire, she could not seem to get rid of the gooseflesh dancing along her arms.

He would come to her tonight. Surely, he would come to her. And she would finally feel like a wife.

ON THE OTHER side of the door, Richard squared his shoulders. He could do this. He could do this.

Or maybe he couldn’t.

Who was he kidding? If he entered her room, he would take her hand. And if he took her hand, he would bring it to his lips. He would kiss each slender finger before giving them a little tug, and she’d tumble against him, her body warm and innocent and his. He’d have to wrap his arms around her; he could not possibly resist. And then he would kiss her the way a woman was meant to be kissed, long and deep, until she whispered his name, her voice a soft plea, begging him to—

He swore viciously, trying to cut his imagination off before it led him to bed. Fat lot of good it did, though. He was burning for his wife.

Again.

Still.