When the Earl Met His Match (Wedded by Scandal 4)

His wife reclined like a pasha on several blankets and a mound of cushions that he had especially made up for her daily. In between her and the large willow tree trunk she rested against was about six large, fluffy cushions, and beside her Wolf sprawled on his side. The sun peeked through the canopy of trees, splashing a warm golden glow over her rosy cheeks.

“This is so wonderful,” she muttered, biting into an apple and ruffling Wolf’s hair with her other hand. “It is so astonishing that it was you whom I ended up marrying. It feels fated…don’t you think?”

How whimsical you are, he thought but did not respond, not wanting to dim the bright light of joy that had seemed to sparkle in her eyes. He could have pointed out that since she was in this part of Scotland at the time he’d been ill, there was some logical probability that she would have been the one to find Wolf. That probability also extended to her replying to his letter, since Caroline had advertised his need for a wife in the London papers. Probabilities were infinite, and this situation had simply been like that. Yet Hugh could not dismiss how frightfully surreal it felt that after weeks of corresponding through letters, with his fascination growing, he’d married her.

Are we, though…were we fated to meet? He was not a man given to whimsy, so his hands remained silent.

Her stomach had gotten much larger in the month since they had married, and she moved much slower as she shuffled about the castle. He’d often found himself hovering in the background, silently watching her, and to Hugh’s amusement whenever he finally turned away, he saw his father watching him with a scowl.

The doctor had called upon her a few days ago with a midwife, and Hugh had asked questions about her swollen feet. The advice had been to do a deep massage on the area and his wife would surely feel relief. He smiled to recall how she had blushed the first day he had taken her feet into his lap and rubbed them.

Today, though…this was the first morning he had removed her stockings. With a deft flick of his fingers, he loosened the garter holding the stocking up. Her breath hitched, and she gripped the blankets tightly when his fingers brushed the back of her knees and hooked into the edge of the silken stocking.

That tell-tale sign of arousal had the front of his trousers going tight. Her body shuddered slightly, the lace at her throat parted, and he saw the soft shadows above the mound of her breast. Sweet Christ.

Why was he so aware of her?

Hugh swallowed, and it wasn’t by design that he slid the stocking off her foot so slowly…so sensually, it was as if he couldn’t help it. Bloody hell! What made it more torturous was that the red day dress billowed over his hands, denying his eyes the sight of the loveliness of her skin. He kept his eyes on her face and rolled down the stocking past her ankle then tugged it off her foot. He glanced down. She wiggled her toes, and a sigh escaped her lips. The ankle was more swollen than usual, and he took his time, sinking his fingers into her tissue, massaging and rubbing.

She lifted her fingers and signed, “This feels…” When she could not form the word she wished, she grinned and said, “Divine. This feels divine.”

When she smiled, she seemed to light up something unfathomable inside him, she was so beautiful.

“Let me show you,” he released her ankle and signed.

He shifted up close to her on the blanket then clenched both hands in a fist before him, lifting up the index finger on each hand and pushing them up as if to the sky, but careful to stop at his shoulders.

She repeated the motion and said, “Divine.”

He nodded. She was a very quick study, and she was adept at learning his language at a rate which even seemed to impress Hugh’s father. Often times Hugh would see him watching them with the blackest of scowls, which had appeared to fade lately to reluctant admiration. The old earl evidently admired her ardent honesty in learning to communicate with him better. Even his siblings had taken years to learn his language, and they mostly communicated with writing. Her willingness to learn, as she told him, so they could speak more often had the strangest effect on his heart whenever he thought of it. To Hugh’s mind, it felt like his heart trembled and an odd sensation would assail his senses. He had no notion what it was, but he did not like that which he could not control, so he ignored it stalwartly.

With a small smile, he resumed his rub, coasting his palms and fingers from the sole of her foot, up to her ankle and her shin, then down the same path, over and over.

“Ahhh,” she said in one of her exaggerated sighs of bliss.

The feel of her soft skin against the tip of his fingers was an endless source of delight. How curious it all was, his growing enchantment with the girl before him. No…not a girl, his wife, a woman in her own right. Hugh gently massaged Phoebe’s foot, clenching his teeth, ruthlessly commanding his body not to respond to the moans of arousal she emitted. A lovely flush spread from her cheeks to her throat, and her lashes fluttered their relief.

Is this how you will look when I finally make love with you? How lovely…free and unrestrained she appeared. To his astonishment, her fingers released the blanket, formed a fist, which thumped the spot beside her. “How odiously frustrating!”

They both froze at that outburst, and their gazes collided. In the golden depth of her eyes, just for a minute, he saw the wild, passionate creature he knew existed inside her. Her lashes lowered briefly, and when she lifted her eyes to him once again, her expression was suitably dignified—and mortified. “Forgive me, my lord. I…my outburst was unbecoming.”

There was the creature who tried to be so very demure and proper. In their daily interactions, at odd times he would glimpse a flash of fire, of defiance or an irrepressible nature, before she would bury it under cool civility and propriety. Hugh realized he did not like the acting.

“I liked your outburst.”

Her eyes widened a fraction, and he did not like how unsure she seemed in the moment.

“I hardly believe you did,” she said dryly. And even in that expression of flat sarcasm he caught a peek at her true character, and he liked it.

He reached for a piece of paper from the small pile, grabbed the quill, and wrote. I do. Please…never believe that you must hide yourself from me. I daresay if we are to be friends, we should endeavour to be honest with each other, especially in our reactions. When we are alone, the appearance of gentility is not required. Please, Phoebe, be yourself with me.

Her head was lowered, and she took her time reading his note. A long time. Though she had yet to lift h

er regard to his, he saw the hint of smile curve her lush lips, and her fingers tightened on the paper ever so slightly.

Those large golden eyes finally lifted to him, and in her gaze, there was a sparkle that had not been there before. “I must warn you; you’ll be shocked!”

She watched carefully as he signed. “My sensibilities and nerves will survive.”