Free Lady Windermere's Lover by Miranda Neville

shocked gasp, was the robe, sliding off and revealing his back and buttocks. Never having seen such a sight in the flesh, she was fascinated and unwillingly impressed. He turned, and before she could see any more, she closed her eyes. Never once during their marriage had he revealed his body to her in the light. Neither would she expect it. The very notion of sleeping—or doing anything else—naked was contrary to the precepts of her upbringing. By the time she dared look he had climbed onto the mattress and settled himself under the covers, half reclining against the pillows, displaying surprisingly broad shoulders and a muscular chest sprinkled with light brown hair. A surge of indignation drove out appreciative curiosity.
    What right did the man have to invade her room without so much as a by-your-leave and occupy her bed? He had the right of a husband, of course, to her body. But something about the cool way he’d taken possession of her private apartment, like a storming army, roused her fury. His action wasn’t motivated by desire—he wasn’t even looking at her. It was pure arrogance.
    “What are you doing?” She marched over, almost tripping on her billowing robe, and glared down at him with her arms folded.
    “Lying in my wife’s bed,” he said, quirking his brows as though the question were a foolish one.
    “I am not accustomed to sharing this bed.”
    “I would hope not, since your husband has been absent.”
    “It’s not big enough for two.” It was in fact the widest bed she’d ever occupied, even bigger than that at Beaulieu.
    “I think we can manage without being crushed.” He generously shifted about an inch nearer to the edge and smiled blandly. He looked ridiculously handsome without his shirt, but she was not in the mood to admire.
    She cleared her throat. “My lord.”
    “Yes?”
    “We have lived apart for more than a year.”
    “True.”
    “And before that we weren’t married for long.”
    “Also true.”
    “We don’t know each other very well.”
    “That dearth can be remedied by spending more time together.” He settled deeper into the bedclothes. “Starting now.”
    She stilled her nervous fingers that were plucking at the lace edging on her favorite wrapper. “What I mean to say is that . . . about marital relations . . . I don’t wish.” She almost swallowed her tongue in her feeble efforts to articulate this awkward request. “I would ask that until we know each other better that we should . . . not.”
    “Not?” She wasn’t sure if he understood her confused mumbling. Raising his arms behind his neck, which flexed the muscles of his shoulders and chest, he regarded her in a silence that increased her disquiet. Her tongue swept convulsively over her lips and her mouth felt dry. He didn’t seem eager to fall on her and demand his rights, but neither did he make any move to depart.
    To encourage him to go away and stop disturbing her peace, she offered him the robe that he’d draped neatly over a chair. “No, thank you. I prefer to sleep naked.” His lips stretched into that humorless smile she’d got to know so well at Beaulieu.
    “And I would prefer you to sleep elsewhere,” she said, betraying her frayed nerves.
    “I regret, my lady, that I cannot accommodate you. The mattress in my bedchamber is not to my taste. The feathers are too tightly packed and full of lumps.”
    This seemed highly unlikely in her well-run household, though she hadn’t inspected the thing herself. She wavered, torn between arguing and sleeping in the other bed herself, lumpy or not.
    “Come,” he said, patting the bed beside him. “No need for either of us to suffer. There’s plenty of room for both and I promise not to lay a finger on you. There is nothing unusual about a husband and wife sharing a bed, is there?”
    “Nothing at all, in the normal course of things,” she said cautiously. “We, however, have not been in the habit of excessive intimacy in our