Sharon Page by Black Silk (Kensington Aphrodisia)

Author:Black Silk (Kensington Aphrodisia)
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-07-22T09:18:30+00:00

Maryanne blinked, startled to open her eyes to find daylight creeping between the drapes.

She’d slept through supper? And even more shocking, she’d drifted off to sleep while bound to the bed. Dash had thoughtfully untied her, but he’d also left her alone in her bed.

Covering her mouth, she gave a shocked giggle. It certainly proved she trusted him. Or that she was exhausted. Her tummy growled, and it roiled as soon as she recognized hunger.

She breathed in myriad scents—rich bitter chocolate, baked bread, spicy meat. She sat up to see an enormous silver tray on the bedside table, a gleaming silver urn, and an array of covered dishes.

A tray. He’d had a breakfast tray brought up.

And she had missed supper. Her meal would have been thrown out, and the cook must certainly be upset. There was always waste in a great house, but it was unthinkable to simply refuse to go down for dinner.

Had Dash told them she was asleep? Should she explain herself? She was mistress of the house, not the scullery maid.

With a heavy sigh, Maryanne sat up. She wished Dash had come back to her bed. But this was to be their life now—he would sleep in his own bedroom. He would go to town. He would…

She didn’t want to think of him going to his world there—his orgies and brothels and beautiful mistresses. She’d read enough erotic stories to know that men craved variety and novelty in sex, but knowing it did not make it any less painful.

Why did it hurt so much?

Maryanne swung her legs around out of bed and slid out to land on the soft carpet. Her robe hung by the bed. Her heart pounded—her belongings had been unpacked, her robe and slippers left for her use by her maid. Even Nan, brought from Marcus’s house, was embarking on a new life. And probably more comfortable with that thought than she was.

Maryanne padded to the long windows and drew open the drapes.

Drifts of pristine snow swirled in fantastic patterns, sculpted by the wind to look like ocean waves. Sunlight sparkled along the crests of the snow, contrasting with vivid blue shadows. Snow dripped from bare branches, and the lawns looked like a garden for ice fairies. The lawns sloped away from the house; from her window she spied a frozen lake and even a maze, with the clipped hedges covered by drifts. The gardens were severely geometric and terribly symmetrical, a constant pattern of round fountains and linear beds—she could tell from the covered shrubs and the mounds of snow.

A regimented garden in a symmetrical house—one of Dash’s ancestors had strongly believed in order. Dash didn’t seem like that. A live-for-the-day libertine, addicted to pleasure and vice, was the way she would describe him.

The last sort of man she expected to be married to.

Her stomach growled, and she turned. She hastened over to the tray and stuffed half a bread bun in her mouth. She gulped it down and swallowed a cup of chocolate.

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