Free In the Garden of Deceit (Book 4) by Cynthia Wicklund

last one.”
    She
stared at him, flustered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “We’re
married. I suppose I didn’t regard it as an issue.” James
took off his wet coat. “Think of it as adhering to the
contract,” he said, tossing it to the floor.
    “The
contract?”
    “You
will be warming my bed. Naturally, you don’t have to like it.”
    “Absolutely
not.”
    He
stopped in the middle of removing his shirt, his expression
disdainful. “Amanda, do not assume. Turn down my advances when I’ve given you reason.”
    “But
you’re taking off your shirt.”
    “I’m
sorry if I embarrass you, but I am drenched. I’ll be damned if
I will stay in these clothes simply because it makes you
uncomfortable. I suggest you change as well. You are going to fall in
that skirt.”
    “I-I’ll
wait until you leave.”
    He
made a sound of disgust and, despite her protests, peeled down to his
skin.
    Amanda
turned away, but her awareness of him only a few feet away was
intense. Despite her discomfort, she gave in to curiosity and peeked
over her shoulder.
    He
was as naked as the day he was born, tall and broad-shouldered,
muscles working in his back as he rummaged in his bag. His skin was
browned from years in the tropical sun. He must have spent a lot of
time outdoors undressed, because the rich golden color covered him
from head to foot. She was shocked by a sudden throbbing in her
throat, desire washing over her in a seductive wave.
    If
James was aware of her furtive inspection, he chose to ignore her,
going about the business of getting dressed, no wasted movement—or
modesty, for that matter—as he stepped into trousers and
buttoned a clean shirt. He slipped into another coat, combed his
hair, and moved to the door. Only then did he look at her as she
quickly looked away.
    “I
leave you to your privacy,” he said, the words clipped and
ironic, considering he’d had none. The door snapped shut behind
him.
    Amanda
stood in the middle of the room, feeling lost and very much alone.
She had antagonized James, which she regretted now that it was too
late. She was drawn to him in an almost compulsive way, attraction so
strong at times, she wondered if she were going mad. She was ready to
damn her pride and take what he offered, ultimately unsatisfactory
though it might be.
    She
wasn’t comfortable with the passion. What she was feeling
seemed excessive, more the territory of randy young men than ladies
of refined sensibilities. She thought of her husband sating his needs
on her while she remained aloof. Possible? Not bloody likely if her
past responses were any indication. What a fool she was to have
challenged him.
    She
removed her gown. Unable to reach the laces at the back of her
corset, Amanda fought the hooks in front, frustrated when she heard
the ripping of stitches. At least the ruined seams allowed her to
loosen the thing enough to remove it. On the verge of a temper
tantrum, she threw the damp garment next to her husband’s
clothes, wishing Betty were here to help her dress. But James had
done well on his own, and she could do no less.
    Amanda
donned a simple frock, one with buttons down the front, eschewing
another corset and the perennial hoop, which was a fashion blunder of
major proportions. She did not care, for who was here to see? She did
what she could to restore her hair and drew a shawl over her
shoulders.
    She
assumed her husband was expecting her downstairs. They had not eaten
since early morning, and she was starved, her stomach protesting
audibly. She could request a meal in her room but knew that would be
the final insult where James was concerned. Maybe they could have a
pleasant meal together and repair some of the damage. Not that she
intended to thaw in her initial attitude, but she did hate the open
warfare.
    Amanda
refused to acknowledge that she might be inspired to ease the
friction by the memory of splendid man, his naked body sun-kissed and
virile, an invitation on his lips that was hard to