Free His Spanish Bride by Teresa Grant Page B

think I’ll retire.”
    “Of course.” He got to his feet. His voice was even, but he looked rather paler than he had a few moments before. A wedding night was awkward in any event, and in their case awkwardness was layered upon awkwardness.
    What was a gently bred bride supposed to say to her husband before she retired? I’ll see you shortly? I’ll call when I’m ready? “Thank you.” She meant to put a faint tremor in her voice, but it trembled more than she intended. “For the music. For everything.”
     
     
    He only had one bedchamber in his lodgings. Somehow he hadn’t properly considered the implications until now, home—odd word, “home”—from the embassy, Suzanne’s bandboxes carried into his cramped lodgings. Suzanne behind the bedchamber door. By the time he could remember, his parents had slept at opposite ends of whichever of their houses they were occupying. Assuming they were even in the same house. Much of the time they contrived not to be. Couples on more intimate terms still had their own bedchambers and dressing rooms. Even if they ultimately spent the night together, they had somewhere separate to retire to to prepare for bed.
    Which presumably was what happened on most wedding nights among his circle. The bride retired to her bedchamber to disrobe while the groom went to his bedchamber to do the same before discreetly tapping at her door. Instead, Suzanne was in the one bedchamber with Blanca, preparing for bed, while he cooled his heels in the sitting room. And no matter what happened between him and Suzanne tonight, they only had one bed.
    He shouldn’t have played the piano. Music created a false sense of intimacy. And at the same time it could reveal far too much. He never felt so stripped of his defenses as when he sat at the keyboard.
    His cravat bit into his neck. The whisky decanter on the table by the windows called to him, but he subdued the impulse. He needed all his wits about him. This was no time to let himself be ruled by impulse. Or desire. What mattered was Suzanne—his wife, good God—and what was best for her.
    Which was probably to be left alone.
     
     
    Suzanne stared into the dressing table looking glass. “Odd that bride is one role I’ve never played.”
    Blanca ran a brush through Suzanne’s hair. “There’s a nice bedchamber down the passage for me. Mr. Addison saw to that. He’s thoughtful, that one.”
    “Yes, he’s very kind. And more than a bit fond of you, I think.”
    “But he’s the sort who thinks it would be dishonorable to do anything about it. I’ll have to see if I can change his mind. I’m not used to having so much time to get to know someone.” Blanca pulled loose hairs from the brush.
    Suzanne leaned closer to the looking glass to rub at the blacking below her eyes. “There. I should do.”
    “He’ll expect you to take your time. He’ll expect you to be nervous.”
    “Not entirely an act.” Suzanne tugged at the muslin frill at the neck of her nightdress.
    Blanca set down the brush. “I heard him play the piano.”
    “He’s very talented, isn’t he?”
    “You can’t tell me he isn’t in love with you.”
    Suzanne’s fingers closed on the muslin. “He’s a skilled pianist. Putting emotion into music is like acting. It doesn’t mean one really loves the other person onstage.”
    Blanca shook her head. “I’m not a musician, but I have ears. That piece was as directed straight at you as a love sonnet.”
    “Malcolm isn’t the sort for sonnets.”
    “Which is why he played the piano.”
    Suzanne turned round on the dressing table bench to look up at Blanca. “I know you disapprove of this.”
    “It’s not a question of disapproving. I think you need to know what you’re risking, for yourself as well as him.”
    “When have I ever been blind to risks?”
    “These risks are different. You know you aren’t invulnerable to a bullet. You think you’re invulnerable to this.”
    “This?”
    Blanca set the brush