Bride For A Night. Rosemary Rogers
aroused. “This is our wedding night.”
“Yes, but…” She trembled as his fingers brushed her cheek. “I did not expect you.”
“Obviously.” He stopped directly before her and lowered his hand to tug at the ribbon of her hideous robe. “Or did you choose this garment in the hopes it would send me fleeing in terror?”
“There is nothing wrong with my robe.” Her husky voice brushed over his skin like a caress. “It is perfectly respectable.”
Untangling the last of the ribbons, Gabriel turned his attention to the endless row of buttons.
“It at least answers one of my questions.”
The sound of her jagged breath was the only indication that she was aware he was disrobing her, and Gabriel couldn’t halt a renegade flare of admiration as she faced him with a fragile dignity. “What question?”
His heart missed a beat as his fingers brushed the soft mound of her breast.
“Whether or not you are a virgin,” he said, his voice oddly thick. “No female of experience would wear a garment that resembles a funeral shroud rather than a gown that enhances her natural…assets.”
Her eyes flashed. “If you have come here to insult me…”
“You know why I am here.”
Her brief display of temper faltered at his stark words. He felt her quiver beneath his hands, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
“But you do not want me as your wife,” she said huskily.
He swallowed his sharp laugh. She truly was naïve if she thought this night had anything to do with wanting her as a wife.
A biting need raced through him, and with a sharp motion he grasped the fabric of her robe and yanked it apart. He heard her gasp of shock as the remaining buttons scattered in a shower of impatience.
“And yet, here you are in my home, the Countess of Ashcombe,” he rasped, his arousal heavy with desire as he parted the torn fabric to at last reveal the soft ivory curves.
Bloody hell. She was as perfect as he had imagined.
He tugged off the offensive robe, his hands lightly skimming over her narrow shoulders and down the delicate line of her collarbone. His blood sizzled as his gaze slid over the breasts that were full and tipped with nipples the color of ripe berries begging for his lips. Slowly, his attention lowered to her narrow waist that flared to feminine hips. Then, as his gaze reached the dark thatch of hair cradled between her legs, his fragile control snapped.
With a growl, he scooped her off her feet and headed across the room to the shadowed bedroom beyond.
“My lord,” she breathed, her eyes wide with a combination of fear and an excitement she could not entirely disguise. “Why are you doing this?”
Gabriel felt a flare of triumph in the knowledge he was not alone in this ruthless awareness. Lowering his head, he claimed her mouth in a possessive kiss.
“I have no choice,” he muttered against her lips.
She shivered beneath his touch, her hands grasping the lapels of his robe. “Have you been drinking?”
“Dutch courage.”
She hissed, as if he’d slapped her. “If I am so repulsive that you need to become drunk to approach me, then why are you doing this?”
Repulsive? He was damn well enchanted.
His gut twisted as he lowered her on the bed. He was arrested by the sight of Talia stretched across the satin cover. In the silvery moonlight she appeared a creature of mist and magic. An elusive wood sprite that had strayed into London and might disappear in a puff of smoke.
He growled low in his throat, his savage hunger nearly overwhelming.
Not that he was about to admit as much to the woman. The thought of her holding power over him was enough to make his teeth clench.
“Because I will not be accused of not having consummated this absurd union,” he growled. “No doubt Silas Dobson intends to arrive on my doorstep in the morning demanding to be shown proof of your deflowering.”
She frowned in wary confusion. “Proof? I…” A sudden heat flooded her cheeks as she realized he was speaking of the ancient tradition of checking the marriage sheets for the spilled blood of her virginity. “Oh.”
The bewildered innocence was all that was needed to complete her sensual spell, and with a muttered curse, Gabriel shrugged out of his robe and joined Talia on the bed, wrapping an arm around her shivering body before she could escape.
“Maidenly blushes,” he whispered, his fingers stroking over her cheek. “Astonishing.”
Her dark curls spread across the blue and ivory cover like a spill of ebony silk, her eyes shimmering like emeralds in the moonlight.
“I assure you that my father is satisfied we are wed,” she said in a breathless rush, her hands fluttering to land against his chest. “He will not be demanding proof.”
Gabriel buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing deeply of her sweet scent. She smelled of soap and starch and purity.
A wondrously erotic combination.
“You expect me to take your word?” he demanded. “The word of a Dobson?”
“I am no longer a Dobson.”
He jerked back, his commonsense telling him that he should be infuriated by her words, not… Satisfied.
Crushing the disturbing sensation, Gabriel regarded his wife with a brooding intensity. His fingers outlined the trembling softness of her lips.
“It requires more than a signature on a piece of paper to become an Ashcombe.”
Her breath rasped through the room. “My lord.”
“Gabriel.”
She blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“You will call me Gabriel, not my lord,” he commanded, uncertain why he was determined to hear his name on her lips.
“Gabriel,” she murmured, her eyes wide. “I am not certain this is a sound notion.”
With a groan he lowered his head to stroke his lips over her wide brow before trailing down the line of her delicate nose.
“Neither am I, but I will admit it grows more appealing by the moment.”
She quivered. “Dear heavens.”
“Talia.” He used his thumb to part her lips, allowing himself a too-brief taste of her innocence. “An unusual name. Surely not your father’s choice?”
Her nails dug into the bare skin of his chest but not in protest. Gabriel could feel the race of her heart and catch the scent of her arousal.
She might be inexperienced, but her body was already softening against him in silent invitation.
“I was named for my mother’s mother,” she said, the words distracted as his lips trailed over her cheek, pausing to nuzzle the corner of her mouth.
“A gypsy?”
She tensed at the question. “Does it matter?”
“Not at the moment.” He allowed his hands to explore the smooth curve of her neck before at last moving to cup the glorious weight of one berry-tipped breast. He moaned deep in his throat. Hell, he was on the point of explosion from the mere feel of her. “You are so lush and yet so delicate. Like a Dresden figurine.”
“I am…” Her words trailed away as he gently rolled the tip of her nipple between his fingers.
“Yes?” he prompted, kissing a path down her throat.
“I