Page 44 of Crying Wolfe
He returned, handing her the cloth before padding to the other side of the bed where a trunk was tucked against a tall window.
Rosaline peeked at the long form of him, glimpsing the shades of a broad back that tapered into a behind that might have been sculpted by the same artist as did Achilles in Hyde Park.
By the time she’d finished her ablutions, she retrieved her nightgown from where it had been tossed aside in a sodden heap and then abandoned it to the dressing table in lieu of her wrapper.
Turning, she found that he’d pulled a loose pair of cotton trousers over his lean hips and was a little disappointed she’d had an entire wedding night and never truly saw him naked.
For the first time since they’d met, he looked unsure. Discomfited. As if he’d no idea what to do next.
Rosaline had thought she’d feel more womanly after he’d “made a woman of her.” But for some reason, she felt as young as he’d initially accused her of being. In an attempt not to advertise how needy and pathetic she’d become, Rosaline belted her wrapper and gathered her things as he pulled the corner of the bedclothes down.
This had been good. It’d been wonderful, even.
So why did she want to have a good cry?
Clutching her things to her chest, she turned to him with a practiced smile, realizing she’d never asked to see her room. “Where am I to sleep?”
“I’m turning this bed down for you,” he informed her with a lazy half-smile.
“How lovely of you.” She set her things back on the dresser and went to him, lifting on her tiptoes to kiss his scratchy jaw before pouncing into the center of the bed. “Where do you sleep?”
He paused. “You mean, which side of the bed?”
“I mean, in which room?”
“This one, obviously.” He regarded her quizzically.
Her jaw dropped. “We’re sharing a bedroom?”
“We’re married, aren’t we?”
She wasn’t certain if she should tell him that was no sort of helpful answer.
“We are married, yes, but surely you know it’s common practice for spouses to have their own rooms. I’ve been told it’s standard with the Americans of our class, as well.”
He snorted derisively and lifted a hand to smooth down his hair that she’d clutched so wildly. The motion did impressive things to his biceps. “Well, I’ve never studied the bedroom habits of anyone in the upper classes of either country, but where I’m from, a husband and wife share a bed. Besides, woman, it’s damned cold and damp in this country, so consider it your duty to scootch over here and keep me warm.”
Secretly pleased, she did exactly that, settling her shoulder blades against his chest as he gathered her close and tucked the sumptuous covers around them.
It’d begun to rain sometime in the night, and Rosaline watched the wall across from the window cry little shadow tears.
“I think I like wifely duties,” she said, her sigh morphing into a jaw-cracking yawn. The cocoon of his big body provided a feeling she’d never before experienced.
Safe. Protected.
Emmett had been right. This man, rough around almost every conceivable edge, was the perfect bulwark between her and the rest of the world.
His hand traced a path down her arm. “I like you wrapped in silk,” he murmured. “But I like you better in nothing at all.”
“I’m too comfortable to take it off,” she murmured, fighting to keep her eyes open.
He nuzzled against her hair, pressing a kiss on her crown. “Sleep then, little wife,” he crooned into the dark. “Tomorrow night I’m not going so easy on you.”
CHAPTER9
Over the next three weeks, Eli learned more lessons about ladies than he had in his entire life. His woman, specifically, though she and her sisters seemed to share certain proclivities. He’d taken to carrying a notebook in his jacket pocket to jot things down as he forged his way across the mire of marriage.
Lesson #1: Ladies’ wardrobes were distressingly complicated. Additionally, their shoes were among the most important parts of said wardrobe. The fact that the shoes are rarely seen beneath their elegant skirts was, apparently, neither here nor there.
