Christmas Brides (Three Regency Novellas) by Cheryl Bolen Read Free Book Online

their wedding ceremony, and she most certainly hoped they could revisit such an activity.
    “Do you think,” she finally asked him, squeezing his hand that intertwined with hers, “I could call you dearest ?”
    He shrugged. “If you'd like.”
    She smiled. “Do you think perhaps we could kiss, too?”
    He started laughing again.
    She glared. How could a woman be seductive when the man she was attempting to seduce found her comical? “I see nothing funny about wanting to kiss one's husband.”
    “There is nothing funny about a husband and wife kissing. It's just that you are so very. . .” He peered down at her. “Cute, actually.”
    Since she could not aspire to great beauty, she thought she would be quite content to be considered cute . “I do hope you mean that in a good way.”
    Now he squeezed her hand. “I mean that in a good way.”
    “I have no objections if you should wish to call me by some affectionate term.”
    “Like love ?”
    That is how he had referred to her when she collapsed into tears before him. Love . It quite melted her heart. “I shall love it!”
    He chuckled again.
    “I am wondering if it is a good thing that one's husband finds her so amusing.”
    “Forgive me. It's just that I find you refreshing.”
    Not what she wanted to convey. She frowned. “Milk that comes straight from the cow is refreshing—but not what a bride wishes to be compared to.”
    “I do beg your forgiveness.”
    “It has occurred to me there are many things I don't know about you.”
    He turned to face her, and his handsomeness nearly stole away her breath. This close she could clearly see that the pupils of his eyes were so deep a brown as to appear black. They were completely free of goldish flecks that were present in lighter pupils.
    Even the dark stubble where he had shaved that morning was easy to detect this close, as was his exotic musk scent. She fought the urge to press her finger into the deep cleft in his square chin.
    He emanated such masculinity that she had the distinct feeling that were their coach stopped by highwaymen, her powerful husband could singlehandedly pummel every last one of them.
    “Such as?” he asked.
    “Children. I know you have admitted that you've given no thought to marriage. What about to children?”
    “I find children delightful.”
    “Should you want sons or daughters?”
    “It never occurred to me that I wouldn't have sons to take shooting and to teach all the things I learned from. . . your father.”
    Both of them grew solemn. Her father had not only been a wonderful father to her, he had served much as a father to de Vere as well. And their love for her father bound them to one another as surely as chains.
    How they would miss him!
    * * *
    Once they were beyond the foggy environs of London, the landscape from their window was much lovelier, even if winter had stripped away all of its color. There was a certain peacefulness in the isolated little thatched cottages with smoke curling from their chimneys.
    He still had difficulty believing he was a married man. Married to the tiny young woman who now sat beside him, her small hand resting within his, the tiny young woman he'd known most of his life. It would take time to become accustomed to marriage under any circumstances, and the haste under which this marriage—his marriage—had occurred made him feel as if he were rolling down a hill at breakneck speed.
    Now he was reeling from her question about children. His children, to be precise. Something, some novel emotion, unfurled inside him when he spoke to Belle about having sons. It seemed almost incomprehensible that he would have sons with Belle. The very notion had him picturing sons who looked as Robert Pemberton had looked at fourteen when Gainsborough had painted him with his dog and musket. Only these young Robert Pembertons he pictured were short!
    He found himself wondering of what stature Mrs. Pemberton had been, found himself wondering why he could not