Wishes in Winter by Scarlett Scott

Author:Scarlett Scott
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2020-03-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

One month later

NOTHING COULD HAVE prepared Alistair for the moment when he crossed over the threshold separating his chamber from the duchess’s quarters and saw Freckles for the first time.

His wife.

Breathtaking perfection.

She wore a demure white robe de chambre adorned in lace, belted loosely at her narrow waist. Her lovely auburn curls—coiled in an elaborate affair for their wedding ceremony earlier that day in St. George’s—was unbound and hung down to her waist in striking contrast against the light fabric. Her feet were bare, her nicely turned ankles barely visible beneath the hem. Her face was pale, arresting. He could not stop staring at that full, pink mouth. Those gray-blue-flecked eyes, her elegant cheekbones, the delicate arches of her brows.

His mouth went dry.

He stopped where he was, drinking in the sight of her, and a realization hit him with the force of a rampaging stallion, straight in the chest. The odd sensation that rushed through him whenever he was in her presence, the anticipation from the moment he left her side until he could be back again. The pounding of his pulse, the restless need to be with her, to have her in his bed, to make her his once and for all…the reason no other lady would do as the Duchess of Warwick…everything made sense. It was as if someone had lit a lamp in a dark cellar and he could now see with perfect vision.

He loved her. He loved Freckles.

Damn and blast. He could not move. Could not think. She was his at last, standing nervously before him in her wedding night finery, his to touch, his to kiss.

His to take to bed.

Nothing had ever seemed so right, and yet he remained trapped. Rooted to the Aubusson in wizened old oak tree fashion, brain wildly fumbling to make sense of what he felt and what he knew. Could it be true? Did he truly love her? He, who had not ever imagined he possessed the capability for such an emotion? He, who had always rather imagined love to be the sort of rot more suited for plays and operas than real life?

That strange sensation whenever he thought of Freckles? The way he could not get enough of her scent, or how the sound of her voice thrilled him to his bloody toes? Or how he longed to kiss her every time he saw her, the utter torture he had suffered these last two months in waiting for this very moment, this precise night, when he could at last make her his. As she ought to be. In every way.

Why, then, could he not move?

“Husband,” she greeted hesitantly into the awkward silence he had created by lingering at the threshold like a lumbering oaf.

One word from her, and his cock went rigid.

Ridiculous though it was, she seemed more composed than he, a seasoned rake who had charmed more than his fair share of females in his day. “Freckles,” he returned, his throat thick with unspoken emotion and pent-up need.

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