The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) by Alina K. Field

Author:Alina K. Field [Field, Alina K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781944063047
Publisher: Havenlock Press
Published: 2017-05-04T18:30:00+00:00

So much for paradise. Bink handed his bride a brandy and went to wash. He had no dressing gown, but his shirt would render some respectability.

When he glanced back at his bride she looked away quickly.

He swallowed a grin. The lass liked his arse. His shirt might do, but nakedness had its advantages. He draped the shirt over the back of a chair, wrapped her tartan low on his hips, and joined her, in all his almost nudeness. Anything to distract her from the hot-headed miff she was brewing.

He poured a glass for himself and lifted the cover of the food tray. “Do you mind if I eat?”

“No, of course not.” Her tone was wooden, polite. “Are you not cold?”

“I did not bring a dressing gown. Is my nakedness disturbing?”

She colored.

Old wounds flared, making him bristle.

“I suppose a gentleman would dress for dinner, even on his wedding night.”

She dismissed him with an aristocratic wave and averted eyes.

He was definitely no gentleman. He was coarse and crude. A beast and a burden, and best she knew it. “I’m not either. I can dress if my lady insists.”

Deeper color washed over her. “You are not either what?”

“I’m not cold, and I’m not a gentleman.”

She jerked her belt tight, wishing it was around his neck he’d warrant. The contrast of the tiny waist and the flare of her hips went a long way to taking the edge off his own ire. He focused on the transparent silk, the flashing eyes, and the unleashed passion, and settled in for his first wifely tongue-lashing.

“The tartan you’re wadding up was a wedding gift to me from Kincaid, though God knows why he would give it to me. And you lie, Bink Gibson. You are a gentleman, as much a gentleman as Bakeley or your Lord Hackwell. It’s the other you play whenever you want to. It’s what you’ve been playing for years.” Her hand flapped out again. “But it is fine with me, if you do not choose to be the gentleman you are tonight, or ever. Because you should know, sir, I am no ‘my lady.’ What do you think I am? I am the daughter of two spies—one died on the Continent, and the other was buried alive in the country.” She bit her lip and blinked furiously. “Who am I? Shaldon, the great bloody villain, died without telling me anything. You must tell me whatever he told you.”

His hands itched to hold her, but she was not out of heat yet. He helped himself to bread and meat and cheese instead. “You are a lady, Paulette. And you are my lady.”

“No. I am your wife. I am not a lady. Ladies are sniveling, weak creatures wholly dependent on men, and I choose not to be one of those. I will take what money I can gather and go to London and meet this solicitor, Tellingford, and find my trustee and get the rest of my money.”

She paused for a breath, and looked toward the window, and the skin on his neck rippled.

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