His laugh held a note of relief. “I’m so glad.”
Yesterday she would have thanked him with words and a smile, knowing her response was inadequate to the lavish gift. But tonight, she’d put away her inhibitions. She dropped the necklace and launched herself forward, kissing him with unabashed enthusiasm. “Thank you so much. It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received.”
Laughing with no hint of constraint, he tumbled her over and returned her kisses. By the time he raised his head, she stared dreamily up at him.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love them.” I love you.
Warm even through the flannel, his hand curved over her breast. “My pleasure.”
Felicity fiddled with a curling lock of hair over his ear. “Will you help me put them on?”
Amusement flashed in his eyes. “My darling, you’re not dressed for the occasion. Surely you know it’s a faux pas, to wear rubies with flannel?”
His darling? “It is?”
“Better to wear rubies naked, than with a nightgown.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks heated, but she didn’t look away from the brazen invitation in his expression. “In that case, you’d better show me how it’s done, my lord.”
His smile took on a distinctly wolfish tinge. “It’s the least I can do, my lady.”
Chapter 7
Late Christmas morning—very late, Felicity blushed to admit—she returned to Edmund’s bedroom to unpack the valise he’d brought home yesterday. Her husband was downstairs in his library. Because it was Christmas Day, he had no plans to work, but she knew he wanted to start settling back into civilian life after all his years in the army.
She was ridiculously dreamy, and her body felt like it had been through a war of its own. She wouldn’t have it any other way. Because beneath the weariness and muscles complaining of strenuous use, she glowed with female satisfaction. Twice more in this bed, Edmund had turned to her. Once, after draping her naked body in a maharajah’s ransom in rubies, to launch a leisurely seduction that had stretched into fiery hours of pleasure. Then, when the day was well started, they’d come together with a joy that made her feel like she basked in sunlight, despite the snow falling outside. Never again would she question whether her husband wanted her, or that she was incapable of matching him in sensual pleasure.
She hummed “The Sussex Carol” as she placed the bag on the bed and set to sorting out his clothing, putting aside what needed laundering. There was something wonderfully intimate about performing this housewifely task for the man she loved.
The man she hoped might come to love her.
At times last night, she’d wondered if she’d already won that battle. He’d kissed her with such overmastering need and touched her with such poignant tenderness, surely he must already care.
And he’d remained faithful when his need for some human warmth must have been agonizing. Knowing that he’d stayed true made her heart swell with love. This morning, although no vows had been spoken, she felt cherished. For their first full day together in so many years, that was enough.
While she thought about her handsome husband and the marvelous things he made her feel, her busy hands kept sorting and folding. Until under the clothing, she discovered bundles of papers packed at the base of the bag.
Frowning, she drew out a ragged packet, tied with tatty string. She didn’t recognize the letters straightaway as hers, because they were torn and charred and black with soot. It looked like someone had deliberately set out to destroy them.
With shaking hands, she pulled out the rest and scattered them over the bed. Most were burned. A quick check proved that some of the letters came from years ago, perhaps from their first months apart.
What on earth could this mean? Had her husband kept the letters because he treasured them? Had they been damaged in some act of war? Surely Edmund had never been angry enough with her to burn her letters. That wasn’t the man she knew.
Once, she might have hidden her rising confusion. But she’d trusted her husband with so much since he’d arrived home. She’d learned things about their life that she’d never known before. Whatever the result, good or bad, she had to find out the truth behind this mystery.
She grabbed a bundle in shaking hands, leaving the rest behind, and ran out of the room and downstairs. When she reached the landing above the great hall, Edmund was crossing the floor below, Digby at his heels. Today her husband’s limp was almost unnoticeable.
“Edmund,” she called, her voice uncharacteristically high.
“Yes?” He stopped under the extravagant kissing bough and glanced up. His swift smile faltered, and his eyes narrowed on her face. “What is it?”
“I found these.” On shaking legs, she descended the last flight of stairs and held out the tattered packet with an unsteady hand. “I was unpacking your bag.”
“Bugger it. I meant to put them away.” To her shock, he turned as red as a sunset when he took the letters. Embarrassment? Or guilt? “My fault, really. A soldier knows to have everything stowed when he makes camp.”
She curled her hand around the carved griffin on the newel post. “You’re not a soldier anymore.”
“Yes, I am. I’ll always be a soldier.” He subjected her to a searching regard. “Now I suppose you’ve guessed my deep, dark secret.”