Page 44 of The Lyon Whisperer
The feeling was mutual. He did not want her company on his ride tomorrow. Nor did he believe her capable of adding anything useful to his investigation. He may as well have jeered at her book choice. Next, he’d rescind his promise not to censure her reading materials.
She had grown too comfortable with him in the days since their wedding ceremony. She should have known better than to confuse her husband, a man who had much in common with her father, with someone who cared.
He snapped his own serviette onto his lap. “Bon appetite, my dear.”
“Thank you,” she said, affecting a perky attitude. She refused to reveal how dejected she felt having allowed foolish hope to blossom within her only to have it dashed.
She ought not to have come.
Beside her Chase picked up his cutlery.
She followed suit, forking up a bite of potatoes though she had no desire to eat. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter Ten
Chase eyed hisnew bride’s elegant profile as she ate. Of course her table manners were impeccable, her posture perfect. She uttered not one word of complaint.
But her mood had soured, and now, so had his.
He took in the stuttering candles, the decanter of wine, the table for two laid out before them, the glowing fire in the grate. The giant, inviting bed mere feet from where they sat. It was a damned romantic setting that invited intimacy, something he’d bet his life Amelia craved.
Despite her obvious innocence, he recognized her innately sensual nature. It was there in her body language, in her frank looks, in her openness to try things, in her eagerness to experience his kisses.
Lord knew, sitting this close to her, breathing in the nectar of her feminine scent, drinking in the sight of her creamy skin glowing in the candlelight, was wreaking havoc on his already inflamed senses. He wanted nothing more than to feast on her mouth and touch and taste every inch of her body.
When she’d entered the chamber earlier to find him waiting for her, he seen the flare of passion in her eyes. So close. She had been so close to giving herself to him.
Then they’d sat down to eat—and talked. Somewhere the conversation between them had veered off course.
But she’d thrown him with talk of that novel—and her interest in politics, of all things.
No matter. He’d manage his wife’s odd proclivities. They didn’t call him the Iron Lion for nothing.
He weighed his options. Allowing her to join him on his ride into the forest had no merit.
But what choice did he have? Leaving her on her own to say God-knew-what to the villagers in her zeal to assist him didn’t seem a viable alternative.
“Amelia?”
She placed her cutlery down on either side of her plate and turned to face him, her expression maddeningly enigmatic. “Yes, my lord?”
There. The proof he needed that instead of softening toward him, she had retreated. She was back to calling himmy lord.
“I would very much like for you to ride out with me tomorrow.”
Her large violet eyes, with their thick fringe of black lashes widened a fraction. “Ride out with you? But you said—”
“I know what I said.” One corner of his mouth crooked upward. “I was too hasty. I did invite you along so that we could spend time in each other’s company.”
Her eyes, sparkling like a pool of tiny amethysts in the flickering light, searched his. “I thought…” Her words died. A moment later she sent him a brilliant smile that seemed to light up the room. “Thank you, Chase. I shall be very pleased to join you.”
For all his wife’s skill at concealing her reactions, she did not hide her pleasure. He wondered if she would be as overt about expressing her physical pleasure. “I assure you, giving you pleasure this weekend is my greatest desire, Amelia.”
Her cheeks flushed in an instant. “I want to please you, as well, Chase.”
He nearly groaned as satisfaction, lust, and a strange warmth collided in his chest at her guileless reply. He turned back to his dinner and tamped down hard on the charged emotions running roughshod through him.
They ate in companionable silence, only broken by the sounds of cutlery clinking on porcelain and the occasional snap of a log in the hearth.
