Page 94 of A Portrait of Love

Simon.

An uncharacteristic wave of giddiness rolled over her. Of course, it was Simon. They were married. Truly married, now, for better or for worse.

Well, this seemed good—very good—and she should seize it with both hands.

What did it matter if he were not the boy he’d once been? She was not that girl, either. She no longer expected fairy tale endings.

Besides, while he was no longer sweet and innocent—and although he was often distant and unknowable and cold—he had been gentle and kind with her.

It was not by his design that they were in this marriage, but he had accepted his part in the scandal and hadn’t behaved as if he were throwing himself on his sword to marry her.

He stirred behind her and she tensed.

“I know you’re awake.” His voice was rough with sleep, and then he pulled her tighter and kissed the back of her neck, his scratchy night beard making her shiver. “Mmm.” He held her closer. “I can almost hear your mind churning away,” he whispered, his lips soft and warm against the sensitive skin.

That part of him was pressed tightly between them and seemed a good twenty degrees hotter than the rest of him.

He turned her onto her back. “What are you thinking about, Lady Saybrook?”

The name made her smile.

“Ah,” he said, his finger tracing the curve of her mouth.

She blinked up at him, barely able to see an outline in the gloom. “You must have eyes like an owl.”

“I do have very good night vision, although you are barely a shadow right now.” He stroked her lower lip. “But you were going to tell me what you were thinking.”

“I was?”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Back and forth he swept.

“You never tell me what you are thinking.”

“Men are easy to read.” His finger moved again, stopping in the middle of her lower lip. “Our needs are basic, our thoughts disappointingly simple.” He pressed lightly and her lips parted. “Food, shelter, rest, a good horse—” His finger pushed and she opened, her tongue acting without instruction from her brain and stroking the rough pad. He pulled out and then pushed back in, the motion just like—

Honey gasped and grabbed his hand, stilling it. “You are wicked.”

He laughed and took her chin, tilting her toward him for a kiss that was disappointingly brief. “I don’t know what you mean, my lady.”

She was too embarrassed to speak. Did he really want to do that? To put himself inside her—

“Now that you know what I am thinking—when I’m thinking at all—it is your turn. What were you thinking about, lying awake in the dark?”

“I was thinking about your niece’s portrait.”

“Liar,” he whispered in her ear.

“Fine. What do you think I was thinking about?”

“Me. Us. This.”

“Are you always so arrogant, my lord?”

“Most of the time.”

She laughed.

“There, that’s better.” He propped himself up on his elbow. “What do you want to do tomorrow? More shopping?” He caressed her throat in the darkness, his big, powerful hand making her feel delicate … vulnerable … aroused.