Page 56 of The Dangerous Love of a Rogue
Their room was the first off the landing. It faced the street and the broad four-poster, dark oak bed within it stood against the wall, its canopy and covers the colour of port.
He would take her virginity on that bed.
Her hand slipped from his.
The uneven floorboards creaked as she walked to the window and looked out.
He smiled. He was avoiding her questions; she avoided the bed.
Two winged armchairs stood before the hearth, with a small table between them, and on it, a three-arm candelabrum. Another unlit branch of candles stood on a chest beside the bed. Then against the wall there was a set of drawers, with a basin and a jug on top.
Drew’s gaze drifted back to the bed.
He turned away from it too, lifted off his hat and put it on the table.
A knock struck the door. ‘Y’ur bags, m’lud.’ A man’s voice breached the wood.
‘Come in!’ Drew shouted.
When the man had set down Drew’s and Mary’s bags, Drew tipped him with coins from his pocket and shut the door.
Drew pulled off his gloves and dropped them beside his hat.
There was another knock.
The wine.
The maid informed him it would be an hour until dinner.
When the door shut again, Drew stripped off his coat, watching Mary.
She had not moved.
Noises permeated the window, voices, vehicles, horses. This was no solitary haven and yet it felt like a private island. Mary was his sanctuary.
She untied the ribbons of her bonnet and brought it across the room to put it on the table with his items. His gaze was drawn to the delicate curve of her nape.
His heartbeat thundered as the turmoil of emotion clasped in his chest. He picked up the wine, uncorked it, poured a little into each of the glasses and drank from his as though it were water.
Patience had never been in his nature. But she was a virgin. He could not hurry this. He’d heard women bled their first time, that a man had to tear a membrane within her body and it hurt the woman. He did not want to hurt her.
He refilled his glass.
He felt her approach. It was a whisper passing through his senses, then her hands slipped over his waistcoat to his stomach as her cheek pressed against his back.
He stared at the wall, stilled. Whatever the emotion in his chest was, it fisted and clasped harder as his mouth dried. Sometimes it was as if her fingertips touched his heart.
‘Will we share the bed tonight?’ she asked quietly.
‘We will. Does the idea frighten you?’That was a stupid question, of course it must.
‘A little.’ She let him go, walked past him and collected her wine, watching him as she sipped from the rim.
How I love her.He did not heed the thought. He was still unsure it was true.
‘How will it be?’ she asked.
He took another sip of wine. A bride’s mother usually explained these things. He had avoided an interview with her father but she had lost the opportunity to ask questions of her mother.
