The entire evening had been torture. He could not remember anything he’d said at supper, and he could only hope that he’d managed at least a semblance of intelligent conversation. His mind kept wandering to extremely inappropriate places, and every time Iris licked a bit of food from her lips, or smiled at him, or bloody hell, every time she just breathed, his body tightened until he was so hard for her he thought he might explode.

If Iris had wondered why they remained at the table for so long after the meal had concluded, she had not said anything. Thank God. Richard didn’t really think there was a polite way to say that he needed half an hour just to get his erection to settle down to half-mast.

Good Lord. He deserved this. He deserved every moment of torment for what he was going to do to her, and yet the knowledge wasn’t really helping right now. Richard was no sybarite, but nor was he one to deny himself pleasure. And every nerve in his body was begging for it. It was absolutely insane how badly he wanted his wife.

The one woman who, by all rights, he ought to be able to take to bed without an ounce of remorse.

It had all seemed so easy when he’d plotted it out that afternoon. He’d charm her all evening, then kiss her passionately good night. He’d make up some romantic nonsense about wanting her to know him better before they made love. One more kiss, and he’d leave her breathless.

Then he’d touch her chin, whisper, “Until tomorrow,” and be gone.

As plans went, it was perfect.

As reality went, it was bollocks.

He let out a long, exhausted breath and raked his hand through his already mussed hair. The connecting door between their rooms was not nearly as soundproof as he’d thought. He could hear Iris moving about, taking a seat at her vanity table, perhaps brushing her hair. She expected him to visit her, and why wouldn’t she? They were married.

He had to go in. If he did not, she would be confused. She might even feel insulted. He did not wish to hurt her. Not any more than he was going to, at least.

He took a breath and knocked.

The movements coming from inside her room stilled, and after a long, suspended second, he heard her bid him enter.

“Iris,” he said, keeping his voice easy and smooth. And then he looked up.

He stopped breathing.

He was fairly certain his heart stopped beating.

She was wearing a thin silken gown, the palest of blue. Her arms were bare, and so were her shoulders, save for the narrow straps that held the silk in place.