Bride for a Night
“Maidenly blushes,” he whispered, his fingers stroking over her cheek. “Astonishing.”
Her dark curls spread across the blue and ivory cover like a spill of ebony silk, her eyes shimmering like emeralds in the moonlight.
“I assure you that my father is satisfied we are wed,” she said in a breathless rush, her hands fluttering to land against his chest. “He will not be demanding proof.”
Gabriel buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing deeply of her sweet scent. She smelled of soap and starch and purity.
A wondrously erotic combination.
“You expect me to take your word?” he demanded. “The word of a Dobson?”
“I am no longer a Dobson.”
He jerked back, his commonsense telling him that he should be infuriated by her words, not… Satisfied.
Crushing the disturbing sensation, Gabriel regarded his wife with a brooding intensity. His fingers outlined the trembling softness of her lips.
“It requires more than a signature on a piece of paper to become an Ashcombe.”
Her breath rasped through the room. “My lord.”
“Gabriel.”
She blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“You will call me Gabriel, not my lord,” he commanded, uncertain why he was determined to hear his name on her lips.
“Gabriel,” she murmured, her eyes wide. “I am not certain this is a sound notion.”
With a groan he lowered his head to stroke his lips over her wide brow before trailing down the line of her delicate nose.
“Neither am I, but I will admit it grows more appealing by the moment.”
She quivered. “Dear heavens.”
“Talia.” He used his thumb to part her lips, allowing himself a too-brief taste of her innocence. “An unusual name. Surely
not your father’s choice?”
Her nails dug into the bare skin of his chest but not in protest. Gabriel could feel the race of her heart and catch the scent of her arousal.
She might be inexperienced, but her body was already softening against him in silent invitation.
“I was named for my mother’s mother,” she said, the words distracted as his lips trailed over her cheek, pausing to nuzzle the corner of her mouth.
“A gypsy?”
She tensed at the question. “Does it matter?”
“Not at the moment.” He allowed his hands to explore the smooth curve of her neck before at last moving to cup the glorious weight of one berry-tipped breast. He moaned deep in his throat. Hell, he was on the point of explosion from the mere feel of her. “You are so lush and yet so delicate. Like a Dresden figurine.”
“I am…” Her words trailed away as he gently rolled the tip of her nipple between his fingers.
“Yes?” he prompted, kissing a path down her throat.
“I am uncertain what to do,” she at last managed to confess.
Gabriel swallowed a curse. Trust Silas Dobson to send his daughter off to her wedding bed without giving her a hint what to expect. Bastard.