The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) by Ava Archer Payne Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ava Archer Payne
significance of the Blue Room was immediately clear. The master suite. Derek had preemptively announced to Bellowes, without any fanfare whatsoever, that Calla was the future Lady Keating. No wonder Bellowes had looked so…appalled, particularly given her tired, travel-weary appearance.
She looked up to find Derek watching her. His expression unfathomable, he inclined his dark head, indicating for her to enter. "As we are not yet married, I believe we can dispense with the customary carrying of the bride over the threshold."
The implication that she had been waiting for him to do exactly that was clear. Biting back a stab of annoyance, she matched his cool tone. "I would be exceedingly grateful."
"In that case, shall we?"
Calla lifted her damp skirts and wordlessly preceded him into the room. Exhausted as she was, her attention was immediately drawn to the intricately carved, mahogany bed which dominated the center of the room. Appointed with thick silk coverlets, soft blankets, and down pillows, it should have looked snug and inviting. Instead, just the opposite was true.
She didn’t want this magnificent bed at all. She wanted the crowded, lumpy mattress she shared with her sisters back in Calcutta. She wanted thin cotton sheets and mosquito netting, personalized pillow shams with their individual name and the flower they were named after neatly embroidered on the soft linen. She wanted nightly squabbles over who would do the dishes and who would sweep the floor, and whose turn it was to read aloud from whatever romantic, fanciful novel they’d selected to share.
A stark realization hit her: by doing anything she could to save her sisters, she’d lost them completely. It would be months, perhaps years , before she saw them again. A lump filled her throat and her eyes suddenly stung. A shudder of abject misery ran down her spine.
“Are you cold?”
She looked up to find Derek’s stormy gray eyes once again leveled on her, watching her intently. “Yes,” she lied, mortified to be caught indulging in an emotion as maudlin as homesickness.
He nodded . He slipped off his overcoat and jacket and draped them over a chair, then rolled up his crisp white shirtsleeves. Before she could guess what he was about, he hunkered down before the hearth, where logs and kindling had been dutifully stacked by some unknown servant. He lit the tinder, then steadily blew on it to coax a flame.
The gesture took her by surprise. Lord Keating had not struck her as the sort of man who would willingly perform such a menial task. Pushing aside her misery, she discreetly studied her future husband. She watched him shift the logs, her attention caught by the snug pull of his black serge trousers against his rock-solid thighs. Then she shifted her gaze, her attention focused on the thickly corded muscles of his back, watching as they rippled and flexed beneath the sheer linen of his shirt.
An odd little flutter filled her belly, a combination of nerves and something else. She was suddenly overcome by a desire to lay her hand on his back, to feel those muscles tense beneath her touch. She pushed the astonishing thought away and drew in a low, steady breath. She was overly fatigued, that was all. That explained why her emotions were swaying back and forth like a ship in rough water.
H e finished the task with brisk efficiency and rose. He stood before her in just his shirtsleeves, his impossibly tall and broad-shouldered form silhouetted by the warm glow of the firelight. Dear God, she’d seen granite carvings that looked softer and more yielding than this man.
“That should warm the room soon enough.”
“Yes.” She swallowed and gave a quick nod. “Thank you.”
Unable to come up with anything else to say, she turned away, running her hand along the top of a sleek maple chest of drawers. She lifted a delicate porcelain carving of a mother bird protecting its nest, studying it unseeingly before setting it back down.
“Your home
She looked up to find Derek watching her. His expression unfathomable, he inclined his dark head, indicating for her to enter. "As we are not yet married, I believe we can dispense with the customary carrying of the bride over the threshold."
The implication that she had been waiting for him to do exactly that was clear. Biting back a stab of annoyance, she matched his cool tone. "I would be exceedingly grateful."
"In that case, shall we?"
Calla lifted her damp skirts and wordlessly preceded him into the room. Exhausted as she was, her attention was immediately drawn to the intricately carved, mahogany bed which dominated the center of the room. Appointed with thick silk coverlets, soft blankets, and down pillows, it should have looked snug and inviting. Instead, just the opposite was true.
She didn’t want this magnificent bed at all. She wanted the crowded, lumpy mattress she shared with her sisters back in Calcutta. She wanted thin cotton sheets and mosquito netting, personalized pillow shams with their individual name and the flower they were named after neatly embroidered on the soft linen. She wanted nightly squabbles over who would do the dishes and who would sweep the floor, and whose turn it was to read aloud from whatever romantic, fanciful novel they’d selected to share.
A stark realization hit her: by doing anything she could to save her sisters, she’d lost them completely. It would be months, perhaps years , before she saw them again. A lump filled her throat and her eyes suddenly stung. A shudder of abject misery ran down her spine.
“Are you cold?”
She looked up to find Derek’s stormy gray eyes once again leveled on her, watching her intently. “Yes,” she lied, mortified to be caught indulging in an emotion as maudlin as homesickness.
He nodded . He slipped off his overcoat and jacket and draped them over a chair, then rolled up his crisp white shirtsleeves. Before she could guess what he was about, he hunkered down before the hearth, where logs and kindling had been dutifully stacked by some unknown servant. He lit the tinder, then steadily blew on it to coax a flame.
The gesture took her by surprise. Lord Keating had not struck her as the sort of man who would willingly perform such a menial task. Pushing aside her misery, she discreetly studied her future husband. She watched him shift the logs, her attention caught by the snug pull of his black serge trousers against his rock-solid thighs. Then she shifted her gaze, her attention focused on the thickly corded muscles of his back, watching as they rippled and flexed beneath the sheer linen of his shirt.
An odd little flutter filled her belly, a combination of nerves and something else. She was suddenly overcome by a desire to lay her hand on his back, to feel those muscles tense beneath her touch. She pushed the astonishing thought away and drew in a low, steady breath. She was overly fatigued, that was all. That explained why her emotions were swaying back and forth like a ship in rough water.
H e finished the task with brisk efficiency and rose. He stood before her in just his shirtsleeves, his impossibly tall and broad-shouldered form silhouetted by the warm glow of the firelight. Dear God, she’d seen granite carvings that looked softer and more yielding than this man.
“That should warm the room soon enough.”
“Yes.” She swallowed and gave a quick nod. “Thank you.”
Unable to come up with anything else to say, she turned away, running her hand along the top of a sleek maple chest of drawers. She lifted a delicate porcelain carving of a mother bird protecting its nest, studying it unseeingly before setting it back down.
“Your home