Page 23 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

Her gaze shoots toward where Bishop sits beyond the folding divider.

“As we explained, we were in an accident,” I say. “I’ll need a new corset, if you have one.”

Her mouth tightens, and she whispers, “This is not any way to start a marriage. I am sorry, madame, if no one told you that, but there is no reason for him to be rough.”

It takes a moment for me to realize what she thinks. Not that my husband knocked me about. That’s considered a husband’s prerogative, just as he might discipline his children. I follow her gaze to marks on my arms, which look like handprints, as if someone held me down.

Er, actually, those might be from Bishop.

She thinks my new husband has been rough in the bedroom. Which … I mean … Yes? He can be. But so can I, by mutual consent and agreement, as we navigate these new waters and discover what we both like. I would have only needed to wince at the pressure on my arms and he’d have released me.

Although, if that’s her fear, I wonder how she thinks the blood came about. And the burn mark.

I could stick to the coach-accident story. But I suppose that doesn’t exactly explain the burn and the splotches of blood either.

“Whatever has happened to me,” I say, softly but firmly, “I swear on my mother’s grave that it was not my husband.” I pause before realizing I should add, “Nor are we in any sort of trouble that would land us in a jail. I am fine. Happily married … and under my husband’s protection.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Oh! Yes. I am sorry, madame. Forgive my presumption.”

I only smile. “I appreciate the concern, but I am beyond the reach of the person who harmed me.”

Which is, except for those handprints, true, and I have no wish to be beyond the reach of the person who made those.

“Your husband seems most eager to see you properly attired,” she says, her own voice softening. “That is generous of him.”

“Our leave-taking was rushed, I fear. Now I need to be sure he isn’t too generous in his attempts to make up for it.”

She smiles. “There is nothing wrong with a magnanimous husband.”

I might grin a little too naughtily at that. “There is not.”

She sputters a laugh. “Indeed. All right then. I shall mind my own business, trust that you are well, and see you outfitted as best we can manage.” Her head tilts, that smile lingering. “I do have some undergarments you might like. For your honeymoon trousseau.”

“He seems to prefer—” I stop before I go too far, but she laughs softly.

“Prefers you without them? I imagine he does. No woman would wish a husband who preferred to see her fully dressed. However, there is some … advantage to pretty underthings, if I am not being too bold, madame. It allows a man to admire while imagining…”

I grin. “Taking them off.”

“Indeed.”

“If you have something, I will happily take it. I would prefer to pay out of my own purse, but I have nothing at the moment, so it must go on our bill and I could not take anything too expensive.”

“I will get what you need, and your husband will never notice the cost.”

When I step out in the first fancier gown option, Bishop gives me a look that makes me ask the seamstress whether I can show him the second gown alone. She says to take my time—she’ll gather my new undergarments from the back.

I step away from the screen, and Bishop slowly pushes to his feet. He stands back, and I swirl. When I stop, he’s right there, having covered the distance between us. His gaze falls on my bosom, only about a third covered by the deep neckline, and he growls, low in his throat.

He’d commissioned my wardrobe at Trevelyan himself, and he’d had extra fabric added to make the necklines so high they’d been unfashionably ridiculous. That may have smacked of prudery. It was not. It was protection against the unwanted attention of wolves accustomed to openly admiring women’s bodies.

“Does that growl signify appreciation?” I say. “Or are you considering asking the poor lady to affix extra fabric to this one, too?”

“Both,” he says. “It is the worst quandary. Do I show off my bride and all her bounteous assets? Or do I keep them for myself?”

I clear my throat.

“Yes, yes,” he says. “The choice is yours, as it is your body, but you asked my opinion, and if you do not wish to hear how selfish it is, do not ask.”