A Princely Dilemma. Elizabeth Rolls

had sniffed disdainfully.

      ‘In la belle France it would not be so. Such a bourgeois connection, it would be incroyable. Unthinkable! But while there may be none in this nation fit to ride in a carriage with the French king, there will of a certainty be many suitors for such a fortune.’

      As opposed to suitors for plain, bourgeois Linnet Farley.

      Instead of pointing out that the last French king and his queen had lost their heads two years before and their young son remained imprisoned in the Temple, she had submitted to Grandmère’s decrees, preferring brutal candour to lying sweetness. If all she could expect was to be married for her money, then she would do it with her eyes open and choose for herself.

      And she had. She had chosen Severn, almost from the minute of meeting him. Severn, whose smiling blue eyes had offered friendship…or so she had thought.

      She blinked away the hotness behind her own eyes, grabbed the washcloth and soaped it. It would all be perfectly fine, if only she had not permitted herself to believe that Severn felt something for her. That beyond his pressing need for her money to pay off his father’s debts and save his family, there had been a genuine liking for her. There had been something in his smile, something affectionate, almost a caressing, that had always left her warm, tingly and slightly breathless. She still felt that way, only now there was that cool reserve in his voice, a certain distance when he spoke to her.

      Ignoring the lump in her throat, she washed herself. She had hoped it was just discretion after that dreadful time Grandmère had caught them together and she had been in his arms, about, she had thought, to be kissed. And very willingly too. After that he had been all that was polite and proper, keeping a decent distance at all times.

      Even on their wedding night. Oh, he had bedded her. Gentle, careful and considerate, he had made her his wife. With the lights out. Just as Uncle Bartholomew had suggested to Joseph. And left her room as soon as he had assured himself that he had not hurt her too much in taking her virginity. It was the same each time he came to her, and each time she found it harder and harder to just lie still and silent beneath him, her heart pounding, her body shivering with the need to move against him, with him. It was even harder not to ask him to stay afterwards, to hold her for just a little while. She dared not. Apparently Grandmère had been right; it was folly for a lady to wear her heart on her sleeve. It was better off kept safely away from sight, if not intact.

      She could no longer hear her maid, which suggested that it was probably time for her to be out of the bath, ready for the hated curling iron. Sitting up, she braced to stand; the outer door opened, and she froze.

      ‘Your mistress is here?’ That deep, quiet voice that brushed every nerve.

      ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

      ‘Out.’

      The door closed, and he spoke again. ‘Madam?’

      Madam wondered that the bath didn’t evaporate in steam, she was blushing so hotly. ‘I’m…I’m here, sir. In the bath.’

      Chapter Four

      Walking in on his wife in her bath had not been part of his plan. No wonder the damned maid had scuttled out past him, cheeks scarlet and eyes brimming with suppressed speculation. Why couldn’t Bolt have said something? If his mother had been in her bath, the wretched woman would have seen him off breathing fire!

      ‘Was there something you particularly wished to tell me, sir?’

      He shut his eyes, wishing to God he could shut off his imagination as easily.

      ‘Er, yes. Yes, there is.’ He’d think of it in a moment, when his brain stopped dwelling on how she might look in her bath—silky brown tresses pinned up on top of her head, just waiting to be tumbled around her shoulders…all soft, and rosy, and…moist.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Ah…’ He floundered. What had he wanted to say? He grabbed at the first thing that floated past. ‘You’ve remembered that we have guests tonight?’ That hadn’t been it, surely?

      ‘Yes. Your family. Grandmère.’

      Who knew that a faint French accent could be so damned erotic?

      ‘I would not forget such a thing,’ she said.

      ‘Er, no. Of course not. Um, oh, yes.’ He dragged in a breath. How the hell was a man meant to offer his wife an apology for something he hadn’t really said, when all he could think about was how damp and rosy that wife would be in her bath, and how soft and warm she’d been in his arms last night.

      Soft, warm—and still frightened of his lovemaking, he thought. She lay so still, it was as though she was afraid to move. It was nearly killing him to keep it slow and careful for her, let alone leave her bed afterwards, but the thought of distressing her any more was untenable. Patience. That was the key. Bed her gently, keep himself under control.

      He let the breath out, banishing all thoughts of either dragging his wife from the tub or joining her. ‘I wished to assure you that my…remarks in the library earlier did not refer to our…situation.’ He frowned, thought about that. ‘Our marriage,’ he corrected. He wasn’t going to have a situation. He was going to have a marriage. He hoped. Right now it was probably a situation.

      ‘Oh.’

      Oh? What the hell did that mean? ‘No,’ he affirmed. ‘I was speaking of—’ He broke off. Dammit! Under no circumstances could he discuss the prince’s private affairs, not even with his wife. ‘Well, I was not speaking of you…that is, us.’ Lord! If he had a horse that lame, he’d have to shoot it.

      ‘Oh. I see.’ Apparently his wife would shoot the poor, gimpy-legged creature too. ‘Well, thank you, sir. Um, if that was all, perhaps you might send my maid back in? I should be getting out to dress. And…and I need the towel.’

      The towel hung in plain view over a dainty lyre-backed chair. If it was anything like the towels he used, and it had damn well better be, then it was silky soft, but he’d wager it wasn’t as soft as his wife’s skin.

      He was moving before he’d so much as drawn breath. ‘Permit me.’

      ‘What? No!’

      The towel was already in his hand as he rounded the end of the screen. There was a frantic splashing as his furiously blushing wife drew her knees up to wrap her arms about them and hide her breasts, but he had one brief glimpse of heaven—wet, creamy, rose-tipped breasts and the delicate curve of her waist. It was enough; she was utterly delectable.

      He shut his eyes and held out the towel. ‘There you are.’ There she was indeed. Soft and damp and naked. And he had his damned eyes shut.

      ‘Th-thank you.’ The tinkle of water told him she’d stood. He shut his eyes even tighter, reminding himself of all the reasons he shouldn’t open them. She was a new bride. Still shy, maidenly. She shrank from the idea of making love with a lamp lit; last night he’d tried leaving a candle alight, but she’d reminded him, in a wooden little voice that had torn him apart, so he’d blown it out, drawn the bed hangings to banish even the firelight.

      The towel was taken from his grasp by a hand that seemed to tremble, and he fought the ignoble urge to open his eyes and see his wife, this woman whom he knew only by touch, and taste, a little.

      Against all physical possibility, he hardened even more. Hell. If she saw that— With a strangled curse, he turned away, walking stiffly back around the screen.