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 am uncertain what to do,” she at last managed to confess.
Gabriel swallowed a curse. Trust Silas Dobson to send his daughter off to her wedding bed without giving her a hint what to expect. Bastard.
“Leave matters to me,” he growled against her silken skin, his hand skimming down her back to clutch the curve of her hip. “I am exactly certain what to do.”
Her lips parted, but Gabriel was beyond coherent conversation.
Besides, he had no words to assuage her virginal unease. The only means to allay her fears was to demonstrate the marriage bed could offer more than sacrifice.
Dismissing the taunting voice that assured him his impatience had nothing to do with comforting his bride, and everything to do with the desire that had escalated to an unrelenting need, Gabriel claimed her mouth in a kiss that demanded utter surrender.
She briefly stiffened, floundering beneath his raw hunger. Hardly surprising, he instantly chastised himself. Hadn’t he just told himself that Talia was a timid virgin in need of coaxing? Christ, in another moment he would be tumbling her like a two-bit whore.
The damned female might have trapped him into marriage, but, by God, he intended to have her begging for release before the night was over.
With grim determination he gentled his touch, his hand brushing down her naked thigh while his mouth teased at her lips until they slowly parted. Murmuring soft encouragement, he dipped his tongue into the moist heat of her mouth.
She again stiffened, and he swallowed a hiss of frustration. Surely she could not be frightened of a kiss?
Then, just when he was trying to convince himself to pull back, she gave a tiny sigh of pleasure, and her arms lifted to wrap around his neck.
Pure male satisfaction surged through him at her unspoken surrender.
He hadn’t been deceiving himself. She wanted him.
Continuing to stroke his fingers in a lazy pattern along her thigh, Gabriel nipped at her full lower lip before blazing a path of kisses down her throat and over the curve of her breasts. She tasted of heat and sunshine that reminded him of lazy summer days at his childhood home in Devonshire.
Days before the heavy duties of his title had stolen his untroubled existence.
Her
