"I’ll look in, once I’ve changed." She still wore her wedding finery.
Most couples left on a honeymoon after their nuptials, but she and Hamish had used her father’s health to explain their continued presence in London. Hamish had asked if she wanted to go anywhere, but it would be difficult enough to get used to his presence in familiar surroundings. The thought of going somewhere romantic where they were alone and endlessly awkward with each other made her queasy. He’d cooperated, as he had so often during their betrothal.
He was handling her with kid gloves. That shouldn’t irk, but it did. His behavior smacked a little too much of humoring her.
She waited in the hall for Roberts to remove the paisley silk shawl from her shoulders, then she prowled through to the library. She and Hamish hadn’t been together in this room since the day he proposed. She stood in the center of the floor, while her husband – she still couldn’t quite believe that was now true – strode across to stare into the blazing fire with a brooding expression.
Within minutes, Roberts carried in a tray of tea and sandwiches and cakes. "I took the liberty of arranging refreshments. I remember when I married Mrs. Roberts, neither of us took a morsel of food at the wedding breakfast. I thought you might have been in a similar case, my lady."
He was right. Emily had nibbled on a lobster patty, but her throat had closed against swallowing. Hamish hadn’t managed to eat much more. She knew. Ever since the wedding service, they’d stood side by side, presenting a united façade.
"Thank you, Roberts," she said, although she didn’t feel much more like eating now than she had in Fitzroy Square.
"Please set up the brandy on the sideboard," Hamish said, looking up from the fire.
"I have a bottle of champagne on ice, sir, if you’d prefer that."
"Emily?" Hamish asked.
She shook her head. Right now, she’d choose hemlock over champagne. The grim line of Hamish’s lips told her he guessed her wish to end this ruse of celebration.
"Just the brandy," he said to Roberts. "We’ll have dinner at eight."
Emily bit back a protest. She was ready to scream for a little privacy, although she supposed if she ate alone on her wedding night, it would cause comment below stairs.
Again Hamish seemed to read her thoughts. "Or perhaps, after this long day, Emily, you might prefer a tray in your room. After all, we have a lifetime of dinners ahead."
Oh, dear, didn’t that make her want to run away to Timbuctoo and stay there?
"Yes, I am a little tired," she murmured. "Perhaps that would be best."
That was a vast understatement. Since agreeing to marry Hamish, she’d hardly slept a wink, and her face ached from a day of forcing a smile. She felt about ready to drop.
"Very well, my lady," Roberts said, as Hamish returned to contemplating the fire.
After he left, a heavy silence descended. When Roberts returned to set up the decanters on the sideboard, Emily and Hamish were standing exactly where they’d been when he left. The tray of food remained untouched. Repeating his good wishes for their happiness, the butler left them alone.
"Can I help with your veil?" Hamish raised his gaze from the flames. "You look like you have a headache."
She knew enough from talking to her married friends that having a headache was often code to tell a husband that sexual congress wouldn’t take place. In Emily’s cold marriage, no such code was necessary.
The powerful, handsome man she’d married stood before her in the home where she’d lived all her life. As she surveyed him, she wondered what most women felt at this moment. Not this dreadful grim numbness, she was sure.
"My head is jangling like untuned bells," she admitted, raising one unsteady hand to a throbbing temple.
When he walked toward her, his smile was gentle as it rarely was. She turned her back to give him access to her veil.
His touch was gentle, too, as he began to dismantle the arrangement of pins that had kept her elaborate hairstyle in place through the long day. Stupidly she trembled, as if the unveiling was the prelude to further incursions. When she knew better. He was a man of honor, and she trusted his word that he’d forgo his conjugal rights.
Hamish was only touching her hair, but that big, heavily muscled body felt too close. She picked up the drift of his scent. Citrus soap and clean skin, and something warm and spicy that belonged to him. With an unpleasant shock, she realized somewhere during the last four weeks, that scent had become part of the fabric of her life.
"We’ll need to get you a lady’s maid," he murmured, his deep voice making the hairs stand up on her skin. Or perhaps that was the sensation of his fingers moving in her hair. This was the most intimate they’d ever been physically. When he’d kissed her in the church, he’d given her a brief peck on the cheek, the sort of kiss he’d give an aunt. It didn’t compare with the sensuality humming between them now.
"I don’t need one. I never have before." Even if her father had been able to afford it.
"You will now." With a care she could feel, Hamish lifted her veil away. "We’ll have social obligations, and you’ll want to look your best."
"You mean you want me to look my best," she responded with an edge.