His Spanish Bride by Teresa Grant Page A

were all too trapped in their roles for any of them to enjoy it.
     
     
    Malcolm drew a breath and rapped at the bedchamber door.
    “Yes.” His wife’s— his wife’s —voice came from behind the polished panels. “That is, come in.”
    He turned the handle. Never had he felt such trepidation at stepping into his own bedchamber.
    Suzanne sat on the dressing table bench, wrapped in a dressing gown of seafoam silk. Her dark hair spilled loose over her shoulders, the cropped bits still curled round her face. Her bare feet peeped out from beneath the silk and muslin of her dressing gown and nightdress. He had seen her in dresses that exposed more skin, but something about the déshabille was at once more seductive and more vulnerable than any glimpse he’d had of her before. His throat closed. His mind clamped down on every impulse of his body.
    “Do you have everything you need?” His voice sounded thin to his own ears.
    “Yes.” Her own voice was like frayed silk. “Addison arranged things perfectly. Though I’m afraid I’ve quite taken over your dressing table.”
    Enamel boxes and glass jars clustered on the dressing table top. He wasn’t sure what had become of his shaving kit until he saw it on the chest of drawers. He saw something else beside the chest of drawers. A silver cooler with a bottle of champagne.
    “Addison left that for us,” Suzanne said. “A touch of romance I wouldn’t have expected.” She bit her lip as though she wasn’t sure about the word “romance.”
    Two crystal glasses stood on the escritoire, sparkling in the light from the brace of candles. Malcolm wasn’t sure whether to thank his valet or groan. He picked up the champagne bottle and opened it, which at least gave him something to do with his hands. He splashed champagne on the dressing table but managed to hand Suzanne a glass without breaking it or spattering champagne on her. He picked up his own glass and touched it to hers. To say “to us” seemed presumptuous when there scarcely was an “us.” Instead he said, “To the future.”
    She smiled and took a sip of champagne. He did as well, a rather deeper sip than he intended. “Suzanne—” He retreated to lean against the chest of drawers. “We needn’t—There needn’t be anything between us until after the baby’s born. Or even after that. Not until—not unless you’re ready.”
    He more than half-expected her to look away. Instead she met his gaze. Her eyes looked very open. He realized it was because she’d removed the blacking she used to line them and darken her lashes. “You already made that very obliging offer. But we’re married, and I think we should begin as we mean to go on, as it were.”
    He took another sip of champagne. His mouth was dry. “What I’m trying to say is you can define how we mean to go on.”
    “And what I’m trying to say is that I’d welcome new memories to make the old go away.”
    Dear God in heaven. Be careful what you wish for. “Suzanne—”
    She stood up in a swirl of seafoam silk, then gave a rough laugh that echoed his own uncertainty. “Oh dear, talking about it is dreadfully awkward, isn’t it?” She took another sip. “Perhaps we should drink some more champagne.”
    “Excellent suggestion.” He picked up the bottle and refilled her glass. The champagne fizzed. She took a quick sip, but it spilled over her fingers. She looked up at him, laughter trembling on her lips. Their gazes caught and held. He felt her quickened breathing against his skin. He lifted one hand and ran it over her hair. She drew an involuntary breath. As he pulled his hand back, she lifted her own and pressed it against his, palm to palm.
    “ ‘Palmers’ kiss,’ ” she murmured.
    Shakespeare was usually safe. Now his favorite writer’s words seemed beset with traps. And wonders. “ ‘O trespass sweetly urged.’ ” The words came unbidden. Without conscious thought he laced his fingers through her own.
    She tilted her