Lord Garson’s Bride (Dashing Widows 7)

Then he’d start to be careful of her, because he’d hate to hurt her. She’d know it and want to die of mortification. One of the things she enjoyed about their desire was how natural it felt. She had a queasy feeling that their warm, laughing intimacy would prove the first casualty of tonight’s unwelcome revelations.

Still, Jane wasn’t going to give up without a fight. Perhaps if she pretended nothing was wrong, she’d convince Hugh that she was happy. Perhaps if she pretended nothing was wrong, soon nothing would be wrong.

So she made herself smile at her husband as he brushed her hair. In the mirror, she watched the strain fade from his expression as he took his time, until her hair formed a shining cloak around her shoulders. He seemed content not to speak, which suited her. The less she said, the less likely she was to betray her fragile new feelings.

His hand brushed her cream velvet robe from one shoulder, and he bent to kiss the skin he revealed. The heat of his mouth made her shiver with need, more poignant tonight than it had ever been.

“Come to bed?” he murmured.

“Of course.”

He kissed her neck, until she was shaking. Raising her hand to stroke his rumpled, dark brown hair, she watched her face change in the mirror. She looked completely in Hugh’s thrall.

She looked like she was in love.

That would never do. This marriage was too new to bear the heavy burden of her unrequited love. She tipped her head to give him better access to the sensitive skin beneath her ear. He slid his hands under the velvet to cup her breasts through her sheer silk nightdress.

When his thumbs brushed her nipples, she gasped and arched against him, feeling his impatient need against her back. She untied the belt of her robe and pushed it away. Against the white nightdress, the beaded peaks of her nipples were clearly visible. He groaned and pushed her breasts together. “I want you so much, Jane.”

Jane caught his hands and pressed them closer to her breasts. “Don’t tarry, Hugh.”

And wondered if he heard the stilted note in her plea.

*

Chapter Thirty

*

Late the next morning, Garson woke alone in Jane’s big bed. Memories of their passionate union after the Oldhams’ ball rushed through him, exciting but not altogether reassuring.

Devil if he could put his finger on what troubled his wife. He’d hoped Jane would forget her strange mood when he took her in his arms. But while he’d thoroughly enjoyed what they’d done, he’d sensed an absence, even during the incandescent moments when she shuddered into climax and cried out his name with the husky abandon that always made him feel like a king.

He doubted he’d notice the distance with any other woman. But over the last days, he’d basked in a physical and, yes, emotional intimacy with his wife that was unique in his experience. Clearly marriage changed things in the bedroom.

So even with Jane stretched out beneath him and moaning with rapture, he’d known that she wasn’t the same as she’d been the previous morning.

His nebulous disquiet heightened when he entered the sitting room and found Jane sitting at the table, heavy-eyed and pale-faced. She stared down into a cup of tea that smelled of ginger. The downward curve of her lips struck him like a blow.

He crossed the room to kiss her. Her lips moved beneath his with no reluctance, but no eagerness either. Worried, he pulled back and took his chair, noting the half-finished roll on her plate.

“Jane, are you well?” he asked, with more urgency than the conventional question usually warranted.

“Hugh, I’ve got something to tell you,” she said in a flat voice.

Hell, perhaps she really was ill. Fear slammed through him like a speeding carriage and stole his breath. Last night, she’d dazzled the fashionable throng. It was impossible to find any trace of that brilliant creature in this subdued woman.

Shaking, he grabbed the hand that lay on the table near her plate. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Then staggering under another blow, he added up what he saw. The tired girl, the herbal tea, the lack of interest in breakfast. Elation made him sit up in his chair, and his grip on her hand tightened. “My darling, are you with child?”

It was all Garson hoped for. His wife by his side. A family. A future to look forward to, after years of wandering in a world where all happiness had died.

Just as quickly as his hopes rose, she dashed them to earth again. As she pulled her hand free, she was already shaking her head.

“No,” she said unsteadily. “The opposite, in fact. I…I’m definitely not pregnant. I found out this morning.”

That would explain her dejected air. Garson should have paid more attention when he came in, before he leaped to conclusions. “I’m sorry, Jane.”