Her Christmas Earl

“Maybe not, but I’d like to know where we’re going after Salisbury. London or your estates in Scotland?”

“Whatever you prefer.” He shrugged as he set his glass on the nightstand. “Scotland at Christmas can be bleak, but beautiful. There’s London, but perhaps you’ve had your fill of Town. We could stay here. Or perhaps you’d like to travel. I cheated you out of a courtship. The least I can do is offer you a honeymoon. I am a man of some fortune. The world, my dear, is your oyster.”

He saw the precise moment when she realized that her old, circumscribed life was over. Excitement sparked in her eyes and for the first time tonight, she smiled properly. “Perhaps I’ll like being a countess after all.”

“I hope so.” He risked touching the hand resting open at her side. When he’d come in, she’d gripped the covers like a shield. Now her fingers lay loose and relaxed.

He waited in an agony of suspense for her to withdraw. How his raffish friends would guffaw to see the famous libertine in such a lather about touching a lady’s hand.

His heart gave a mighty thud of thankfulness when she curled her fingers around his. She took another sip of wine. Whether it was the warm room or the claret or his presence—he dearly hoped it was his presence—she looked considerably more spirited than she had earlier.

“When you were so kind to your sister yesterday, you impressed the hell out of me. She tried to do you a very bad turn.” And him, he thought with a shudder. Thank heaven Philippa had invaded his room on Christmas Eve and not Amelia. The idea of a lifetime with Amelia Sande

rs brought him out in a cold sweat.

“She’s not as bad as you might think. Amelia has always been discontented and unhappy. My mother has encouraged her to think that because she’s pretty, she doesn’t need to be anything else.”

Erskine could imagine. Although understanding didn’t make Amelia’s spiteful little games any more forgivable.

He lifted his wife’s hand and kissed the spot below her wedding ring, glinting bright gold in the light. “You’re too good for her.” And for me.

But she was his, however undeserving he was. He had a piece of paper to prove it. And it was time he introduced her to some of the benefits of married life.

He unlaced her fingers from her wineglass and placed it on the nightstand. She’d nearly emptied the glass, thank goodness. He leaned in and placed his lips softly on hers. She released a little huff of surprise, but didn’t draw away.

Because her mother had told her to submit? Or because she wanted him to kiss her? He prayed it was the latter.

Exquisitely aware of her innocence, he kissed her chastely, rediscovering the satiny texture of her lips and her tart, intriguing taste. To support his weight, he splayed his hands on the counterpane. With encouragement from the claret, she’d stopped acting as if he was about to devour her, but he knew he hadn’t banished her fears.

After an interval both delightful and frustrating, she pressed forward with a breathy sigh. Reluctantly he withdrew. He lifted one hand to brush his thumb across her plump, glistening lips, pulling the lower one down to reveal a glimpse of straight white teeth. Her eyes were as dark as a starless night. He could dive into her gaze and never come up for air.

Puzzlement creased her forehead. “You kissed me.”

She didn’t sound entirely pleased. A tender smile curved his lips. “I promised I would, remember?”

“After I married you.”

He said what he must, although every word cut like a razor. “I’m prepared to wait.”

The faint line remained between her dark brows. “You don’t have to.”

He bit back a sigh and cupped her cheek. “We’re strangers, Philippa. I want you, but I’m not a barbarian. If you’re not ready, I can give you more time.”

For a prickling interval, she studied his face in silence. He struggled to convey patience and understanding, although she must also see his barely contained hunger.

He steeled himself to retreat to the room next door. Or perhaps she’d relent and let him sleep beside her. Holding her in his arms without possessing her would be torture, but still it seemed preferable to the lonely hell of a night without her.

Reluctantly Erskine withdrew his hand and straightened. He told himself that this was for the best. No man of honor could expect his wife to welcome him tonight, whatever rights this morning’s ceremony had conferred.

Which wasn’t much consolation when he faced a cold bed.

“Sleep well, Philippa.”

In the light of candles and fire, her eyes turned even darker. He shifted away slowly like a man going to his execution. He knew he did the right thing, but the knowledge offered no satisfaction.

His wife remained very still, watching him, although her hands curled slowly into the sheets at her waist. He’d been trying very hard not to notice the way the nightgown molded over her breasts. Now his gaze dropped helplessly to where her nipples pressed, beaded like raspberries, against the white material. That image would torment him through a restless night, damn it.

He expected Philippa to look relieved or, best of all, grateful. He’d like her to be grateful. A grateful wife was likely to invite him to consummate their union sooner rather than later. Hopefully before he went completely mad wanting her.