Page 34 of Lord Garson's Bride
He retraced his path up her throat. With so little skin revealed, touching what he could see felt like the height of depravity. He really had to get her some new clothes. Gowns to display that spectacular figure. Gowns that fastened up the front, for a husband’s convenience. The urge to touch her breasts was a physical ache.
“No, I’m looking forward to more of it.” His lips quirked. “Although if you want to be quick about your surrender, I’ll like that even better.”
“I’m sure,” she retorted.
The temptation was too much. When he kissed the side of her neck, she gave a voluptuous shudder. He lowered the arm he’d braced against the marble and slipped it around her waist.
“Oh, that’s wicked,” she gasped, as he scraped his teeth across a nerve. “Can I touch you?”
Lord above, what he’d give to have her touch him properly. But she was still shy, and last night proved the danger of racing ahead too fast. “By heaven, yes.”
When tentative hands hooked over his shoulders, his heart battered his ribs. God help him, he’d brought her in here for a bit of light flirtation, another foray in their sensual battle of wills. Now, so swiftly, he was lost in a fog of desire.
“That’s good.” He set his lips to the luscious curve where her neck met her shoulder.
She tilted her head to give him better access. This close, the floral scent was richer, earthier. He felt drunk on Jane.
Garson was likely to embarrass himself. A rag of common sense insisted that he couldn’t tup his wife in a church. As if to confirm that thought, the organ started to play softly from the loft high above them. He hauled Jane around the tomb and into the gloomiest corner of the chapel.
“Hugh?” she asked uncertainly.
With a massive exercise of will, he pulled away. “We should go.”
She looked troubled. “You sound…angry.”
He struggled to find a reassuring smile, but her expression told him it didn’t work. “No.”
For a heart-pounding interval, he crushed her into him. Even through layers of winter clothing, he was sharply conscious of the lithe, graceful body in his arms. Then he released her, took her hand, and headed outside into air hardly less icy than the air inside the cathedral.
He drew a bracing breath and fought to return to reality. The short day faded into night. The first stars winked in a clear sky. Smoke from a thousand fireplaces tinged the air. Bells pealedfrom the spire, summoning worshippers for evensong. Muffled figures hurried across the cathedral close to attend the service.
The wild rush of Garson’s heart gradually slowed. “I’m sorry, Jane,” he said, as they approached the ornate gates leading back to town. “I shouldn’t have started that. Not there.”
“The archbishop wouldn’t have approved.”
Her mocking tone took him by surprise. He dropped her hand and stopped to stare at her. More surprise when he saw how rosy and winsome she looked. “You didn’t mind?”
“I’ve led a very secluded life.” She made an apologetic gesture. “Letting a handsome devil manhandle me in a cathedral is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done.”
Damn it, it was probably the most exciting thing he’d ever done as well—and he hadn’t led a secluded life. This time, his smile felt completely natural. Although he feared it might be too wolfish to count as reassuring.
“I thought you’d want my gizzards for garters.”
Amusement flirted with her lips. “Not today.”
He stared after her as she wandered ahead, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his nefarious plan already seemed to be working. God bless cold chapels and warm women.
Chapter Thirteen
In their rooms at the inn, Garson and his wife sat up late, revisiting childhood memories over an excellent meal. He congratulated himself on his choice of bride. Jane was interesting, funny, intelligent. He could hardly believe that he only now recognized her manifold physical attractions. In short, she promised to be the perfect wife.
If only she’d take him to her bed.
After those incendiary moments in the cathedral, he hadn’t tried to coax her any further down the path of surrender. But he’d touched her lightly, fleetingly, often. A meeting of fingers when he passed her a dish. A caress across the warm curve of her nape when he wandered over to stoke the fire.
Now Garson rose from the dinner table and extended his hand. “Shall I escort you to your chamber, my lady?”
She regarded him doubtfully. “It’s all of three steps.”
