she thought he was going to embrace and kiss her, but he turned toward the bar where champagne was chilling in a silver bucket.
Disappointment filled her. Quentin was always a perfect gentleman and never pressed her sexually. She considered his restraint one of his best qualities. Predators wanted either sex or money from a woman, and Quentin was no predator. Still, she’d hoped marriage would make him more affectionate.
She wandered slowly, fearing to blink lest this beautiful room disappear. Her shoes sank luxuriously into the velvety carpet. She eyed a low table with a pickled finish that gave the wood a rosy glow. The entire room seemed to glow. She edged closer to the bed.
Bed seemed far too mundane a noun to describe the plush wonder of the king-size mattress covered with a confection of pink satin and ecru lace, piled high with pillows. It seemed to invite her to jump into its plumpness.
“Would you like me to start a fire, darling?” Quentin asked.
“It would be pretty, but much too warm. I think not.” She enjoyed his handsome smile. Despite a tendency to fat, he presented a solid, masculine figure. She loved his thick, black hair and couldn’t wait to run her fingers through it. He held out a flute of champagne and a silver tray piled high with chocolate truffles.
At his urging, she selected a truffle. “No more champagne, thank you. I’ve already imbibed enough.”
His eyebrows raised and the corners of his mouth turned down. “A private toast.”
“You’re the true romantic, not me.” She accepted the champagne. Behind her the bed seemed to whisper her name and she tingled with anticipation. “To what shall we drink?”
“To you. You’ve made me a very happy man today. You have given me riches beyond compare.”
“I do love you,” she whispered, gazing into his warm brown eyes. Desire tickled her deep inside. With it came guilt. Her one affair had happened a long time ago when she was in college, but the shame from then mingled with her recent infatuation with Ross Duke. A horrible urge filled her to confess everything.
“Dawn? What’s the matter?”
She had to look away. She had never meant to deceive him, but now she was trapped in her lies. “There are things about me you don’t know.” She pressed the rim of the flute against her lower lip. The fuzzy sweetsourness tickled her nose. “I should have told you before. I—I—I have done something I’m rather ashamed of.”
“I know everything about you I need to know.” He touched her chin with a fingertip and gently urged her to look at him. “Darling Dawn. You are precious to me. If what you mean to say is you have acted a bit indiscreetly in the past, rest assured it makes no difference to me. What matters is now.”
She searched his eyes, fearing she’d find anger or insincerity or jealousy. She found warmth, compassion and shining love. The urge to confess withered.
He touched her champagne flute with his. Crystal against crystal rang like a bell. “A toast to the happiness you have given me by becoming my bride.”
He drank deeply; she followed suit, draining her champagne. An aftertaste tightened her cheeks. The wine had soured, leaving an acrid taste in her mouth. She smiled quickly so as not to spoil the moment.
Seconds later her head began to spin and nausea roiled in her belly. She regretted every drop of champagne she’d swallowed this evening.
“Darling?”
Quentin’s voice seemed to come from a hundred miles away. Rosy lights swirled and danced, offering no opportunity to focus on anything. She swayed and was vaguely aware of dropping the truffle. She knew she had dropped it, but could not make her hand grab for it. Before she realized it, she was sitting on the bed while Quentin loomed over her. Her vision doubled and his image swam before her eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked, smiling as he held her shoulders.
“The champagne.” Her voice sounded froggy and slow. Her head felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed to hold it upright.
“An excellent vintage, wouldn’t you agree? Only the best for you, darling, only the very best.”
DAWN OPENED her eyes slowly, painfully. Gradually her vision adjusted enough to give her a shadowy view of curtained windows. As her head cleared, she remembered she was in the honeymoon cabin with her new husband.
Chilled, she rubbed her bare arms. Stiff fabric against her forearms roused her curiosity. She felt her bosom and belly, tracing the patterns of leaves and roses. She recognized her sash and the embroidered-rose fasteners.
She was still wearing her wedding dress!
She gingerly felt about her and figured out she lay atop the covers on the bed. Which meant the large shape under the covers next to her was Quentin.
She covered her eyes with both hands. Only she—clumsy, inept, ridiculous she—could get drunk on her wedding night and pass out on her groom. She swore she’d never drink another drop of champagne as long as she lived.
“Quentin?” she said softly. “Dear?” She sat up and looked over his body. The cold blue light of the clock showed it was not yet five in the morning.
She eased off the bed. With both hands outstretched, she groped her way to the bathroom. Only after she had shut the door did she turn on the light.
The light seemed as bright as a phosphorous flare, piercing her eyeballs with needles. Eyes squeezed shut, she sagged against the door and groaned. So this was what a hangover felt like. Lovely.
The pain faded quickly and by degrees she opened her eyes, testing her tolerance. Except for a mild throbbing in her sinuses she felt fine.
She glowered at her reflection. Her beautiful dress was rumpled and dingy-looking. Half her hair had come loose and now hung in scruffy hanks around her face. What remained of the twist had tangled into a lopsided knot. Mascara was smeared under her eyes and her face was blotchy. The string of pearls had left a red imprint along her neck, giving her the appearance of a strangulation victim.
Groaning, she turned away from the mirror, and faced another. The bathroom was lined with mirrors and inset lighting. The afteraffects of her overindulgence were thrown back at her in triplicate and quadruplicate.
Her gaze rested on the bathtub, an oval gold- and-pinkmarble delight big enough for two. If she hadn’t been such a lush, she and Quentin could have spent an hour or two frolicking in the tub. “But, no,” she muttered. “You have to drink too much and spoil everything.”
She stripped out of her clothing, praying a good dry cleaner could repair the damage she’d done to her dress. She stepped into the shower stall and turned on the water full force in hopes that the hot, pulsating spray would make the remainder of her headache vanish.
When she was done, she peeked out of the bathroom. The room had lightened enough for her to discern Quentin’s bulk under the covers. Not enough, though, for her to figure out where the employees who’d transferred her belongings from the lodge to this cabin had put her negligée.
She mustered courage. They were married, which meant no
