Despite his throbbing erection, his vision cleared enough to take in the details of her appearance. How he wished he damn well couldn’t see her. Tonight had provided quite enough new information about his wife to torture him, thank you very much. He knew how it felt to stroke her hair, and touch her breast, and lie on top of her, and drink in air tinged with her scent. He knew what she wore to bed.
Confound it, she wasn’t dressed to seduce. The billowing white flannel could have come out of his grandmother’s armoire.
But she hadn’t plaited her hair after she’d come upstairs. Now it tumbled about her shoulders, begging him to snatch it up in silky handfuls. The frail candlelight lent mystery to her features, made her hazel eyes smoky, turned her soft lips to kissable red.
"You’re not stupid," she said, sounding more like herself. "Although sometimes you do stupid things. I had no idea you’d noticed me that way."
Hamish sighed and ran a shaking hand through his hair. Then hurriedly lowered his hand to catch the sagging coverlet. This evening, he’d spent more than enough time with his tackle waving in the breeze. "I’m a man. Of course I noticed."
"But you don’t like me."
"You’re always saying that, and it’s not true," he growled. "Anyway, liking has nothing to do with it. It’s a natural reaction when a fellow sees a pretty girl."
She frowned. "You’ve never said I’m pretty."
"Yes, I have. I told you when I proposed."
"That was only to get your own way."
"That, too, but it doesn’t mean I was lying." He gave an exasperated hiss. "If you don’t want me to act on those natural impulses, we should change the subject."
She clutched the blankets to her breasts, although he could have told her that monstrosity of a nightdress already did an excellent job of preserving her modesty. The problem was that during that short, furious interval in the bed, his hands had learned too much about the delectable shape beneath the flannel. His powerful imagination had no trouble translating what he’d learned into picturing her naked.
Or perhaps she pulled up the blankets because it was colder than a polar bear’s toenail in here.
"Why the hell don’t you have a fire? There’s no need to stint on coal now. I’m paying the bill."
"Don’t boast about your wealth," she snapped. "It’s laid, but I told Polly to leave it until the morning. Since Papa fell ill and money’s been tight, I’ve got used to doing without a fire."
Hamish ground his teeth again. At this rate, he’d soon have no teeth left.
Gathering the voluminous bedcover around him, he stomped around the bed to grab the candle. "I won’t have my wife freezing to death because she’s trying to save a few pennies."
He stalked across to the hearth. It was a relief to turn his back on Emily and hunker down in front of the fireplace. If he kept looking at her, he was likely to move from looking to touching, and she wouldn’t like that. She’d go back to calling him a brute and a beast, and he’d have to slink out of the room like a beaten hound. He didn’t want to go through all that. He’d already been humiliated enough for one night.
After tucking the coverlet around his waist so he had two hands free, he set to lighting the fire. She remained mercifully quiet while he fiddled with the kindling and got the flames going. Getting up presented a challenge, but he managed it with only a few flashes of thigh.
"You didn’t come here to force yourself on me?" she asked, once he was standing.
He reined in a blistering response. "If you don’t trust my word, you shouldn’t have married me."
"I did trust you." After he shot her a narrow-eyed look, she spread her hands in silent apology. "I do trust you."
"Doesn’t seem like it."
Impatience flattened that delectable mouth. "What are you doing here, Hamish?"
He ran his hand through his hair again. "I think it might be a misunderstanding. I asked Edward to show me to my room. As this is our wedding night, I imagine by my room, he thought I meant your room. He brought me to the dressing room next door. You know what happened after that."
"Oh." He waited for her to call him a self-serving liar, but she seemed to give his answer due consideration.
"I only realized my mistake when…"
When he’d put his hand on her breast. Once again, her cheeks tuned pink with embarrassment. They both knew how that sentence ended.
"I put you along the corridor, so the servants will at least think—"
"That we have a real marriage? They won’t, you know. It’s impossible to keep secrets from the staff." He hitched up his makeshift covering, wishing he presented a more dignified picture. This hadn’t been a great night for his self-esteem. "So once I’m out in the hallway, I turn left?"