The Rogue's Return by Jo Beverley Read Free Book Online Page A

House, preparing for an encounter with his wife.
    In many ways he was pleased with Jane, but neither of them had wanted this marriage, and she did not have the background his family and friends—his world—would expect. He could see how it shouldn’t matter, but facts don’t dissolve because we wish them to. Even in America, with its republican principles and its declaration that all men are born equal, many families wouldn’t welcome a girl from a shop.
    But Jane was his wife now. Till death did them part. Presumably at some point they must share a bed, jointheir bodies, attempt to produce children. That was the purpose of marriage, after all. It created a painful band of tension around his head.
    The kitchen only made that worse. It was hot, crowded, and full of the aroma of the baked goods piling up on every surface. The two buxom young women must be Mrs. Gunn’s granddaughters. One was very clearly with child.
    There were biscuits, tarts, and pies enough for a hungry army.
    Jane was lifting small cakes onto a wire rack. Despite the ribbon, hair straggled over her red face and she looked glazed with exhaustion, grief, or both.
    His to take care of.
    But also as earthy as baking bread . . .
    As soon as she’d dealt with the last cake, he said, “Come with me, please, Jane.”
    Because he was fighting improper thoughts, he spoke harshly. Her eyes turned wary, which struck him like ice water.
    He was careful to speak softly and gently. “You will want to tidy yourself and sit with your uncle for a while, I think.”
    He saw her almost sag with relief. “Oh, yes.”
    Had she thought he was going to drag her off to the marriage bed?
    As she unpinned her apron, he took her dark blue cloak off a hook. When she was ready, he put it around her shoulders and escorted her out. Her cheeks were still rosy, her hair still wild. Was it only his imagination that she smelled like a sweet, spiced bun? Shamefully, he wanted to lick her.
    He produced the ring. “It’s not as fine as I would like, and it may not fit . . .”
    She looked down at her left hand and dusted off flour and crumbs. “I should have washed.”
    He hesitated between giving her the wedding ring and putting it on her finger as he had his signet during theceremony. Clearly it had to be the latter. He took her left hand and slid the ring on. “A little loose, I’m afraid.”
    She touched it, sliding it up and down as if it were a puzzle. “String beneath will hold it snug. And perhaps I’ll grow plump, eating all those funeral cakes.”
    They shared a smile that seemed remarkable, for it did not deny a jot of their shared grief while affirming the universal truth that life goes on.
    â€œThis is a strange situation, Jane, but we must give the appearance that we intended this and that Isaiah merely hastened it.”
    â€œI suppose so.”
    There had to be words to ease this moment. “I’m not unhappy with our marriage. I admire much about you.” How feeble.
    She looked neither disappointed nor amused, but rather stricken. That looming marriage bed.
    â€œJane, you mustn’t imagine that I wish to rush.” This was a damnably awkward subject to discuss with an innocent young lady. “What I mean is, there will be no need for us to share a bed for a while.”
    Her brow wrinkled. “Won’t people think that strange?”
    â€œHow are they to know?”
    â€œTwo sets of sheets sent to the laundry woman. Two rooms still in use.”
    He wanted to say that was no one’s business, but he knew that such things were talked of. “Many married couples use separate bedchambers.”
    â€œDo they? And surely not rooms at either end of the house.”
    What was she saying? That she wanted to share his bed tonight? Despite his awareness of her as a woman, he couldn’t bear the thought.
    Then she added, “At least no one