Page 11 of Tamed By a Passionate Lady
She had studied him, this man, who was about to become her husband. His tall, almost burly physique. James Townshend cut an imposing figure, in his black britches and smartly tailored jacket. She liked how his ash brown hair fell over his face, and how he nervously pulled it back, out of his eyes. He was so very handsome that he took her breath away.
It wasn’t until the final moment, when the pastor had stepped forward and started to speak, that he had glanced at her. His green blue eyes had flickered over her face, but he had not smiled.
Her heart had fallen to the floor. It had shattered into a million pieces onto that cold marble, scattering around her like shards of ice.
He said his vows, in a clear, firm voice. Anyone sitting in that congregation that day would have sworn that he meant them.
He had only held her hand for the briefest of moments as they had walked back down that aisle as husband and wife.
Later that night, in the nightgown her mother had given her especially for her wedding night, she had trembled with nerves as she awaited him. A million questions had tumbled in her mind about what was about to happen.
The only thing her mother had told her was that it was her wifely duty. But she had hoped, in her heart, that it would be much more than that.
She loved him. And she knew that when he touched her, even for the briefest of moments, and in the most cursory of ways, that a fire slowly spread through her limbs, causing her to become almost faint with a most alarming desire. What would it be like, to lay beside him, and let him touch her in the most intimate of ways?
But it had never happened. She had held her breath as he had come into the room, blushing to the roots of her hair that she was standing in front of him, in her nightgown. That a man was actually seeing her, like this.
He barely glanced at her. He had smiled, in his awkward way, before climbing into the bed and turning his face to the wall.
***
She heard his footsteps approaching now. Slow, steady footsteps. The next minute, she would see the handle turn, and he would be here.
This was her last chance, to flee to the bed, and save that awkward moment. She stood up, intending to do just that, but then, something stopped her.
She took a deep breath. She was his wife. She would be his wife until she died, or he did. Could she not get him to love her, as a husband should? Could she not try again?
She bit her lip, in an agony of indecision. He would spurn her. He had done so before, the few times she had tentatively tried to touch him as he lay beside her in bed.
The hurt of it never left. She swallowed it, but it never left. It was like a sore that never quite healed; the rejection, the awful moment when she saw his lips tighten and his eyes glaze over, as if she wasn’t even there, pushing her hand away.
She took another deep breath. The door handle twisted.
She straightened her shoulders, flinging back her hair, and stood there, watching it.
Chapter 5
James walked into the room. Adaline was standing there, in her long white nightgown, her long black hair skimming her waist. She was staring straight at him, as if she had known that he was about to walk through the door and was waiting for him.
For a moment he stopped, confused. She didn’t normally do this. Usually, when he came here of an evening, having given her the appropriate amount of time to change into her night attire, she was already in the bed. She either had a book she was reading, or she was fast asleep.
He tried not to be too grateful that she made it so easy for him.
“Adaline?” he said slowly. “Is there something wrong?”
She straightened her shoulders, tossing back that mane of black hair. For a moment, he was spellbound by the motion. He had never seen hair so black, almost the colour of ebony; so thick, and so straight, as if it had been ironed.
She had a challenging look in her large brown eyes. His eyes took in her nightgown, hugging her bosom and her hips, the contrast of the white material against her olive skin. The sheer womanly beauty of her, standing there, like an Amazon queen ready for battle.
“There is nothing wrong,” she said, in a clear voice. “I was just about to retire…”
Slowly, deliberately, she walked to the bed, flinging the covers back. His eyes were pinned to her slow, sinewy movements. She had the grace of a lion, strolling over the savannah, surveying its kingdom.
Without another word he slid into the bed beside her, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. For some reason he was acutely conscious of her tonight, lying next to him, her hair fanning out over the pillow. The heat of her body was like an aura around her.
It was easier when she was already in bed when he arrived. Easier to not look at her, to turn to the wall, to not be conscious of her as a woman.
For the thousandth time, he wondered why he did not simply tell her that they should give up on this, and get separate chambers. Something always stopped him from saying those words, which would finally sever this tenuous link between them.
