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yesterday, in front of everyone? I very much disliked being a spectacle.
    He bit his grin to control it, the twinkle in his eyes suggesting he’d divined the reason for my alarm. His hands lightly clasped my head, his thumbs steadying my jaw. His beautiful mouth descended to cover mine . . .
    To my relief, the kiss he laid upon my lips was gentle and perfectly proper. It lingered only for a moment before traveling to my ear.
    “Later,” he whispered, “I’m going to lick and kiss your pussy until you scream with pleasure.”
    I jerked back to the limit of his hold, my cheeks violently ablaze. I believed I knew what a pussy was. At any rate, I could guess. Did people truly scream with pleasure? If some did, surely I wouldn’t be among them!
    I felt less certain when I realized how powerfully the part he’d called my pussy was throbbing.

Chapter Six
    I WOULD have been glad for guests at our après-wedding supper, if only to distract from the awkwardness of making conversation with my new husband. Damien and I sat alone at the end of the lengthy table in the imposing dining room. Since it was just he and I, a single footman served.
    Rather extraordinarily, he did so without gloves. I noticed because his hands were unusually callused. I marveled he didn’t scratch the crystal decanter as he refilled our wine.
    Though I didn’t mean to call attention, Damien saw what had drawn my gaze.
    “Sawyer,” he said in a tone of censure. “Why are you serving us like that?”
    “Forgive me, sir,” said the man, his accent strongly American. “Those cotton things kept getting dirty. I thought it made more sense just to wash my hands.”
    My eyes widened. This household was growing stranger by the second.
    Damien knuckled a spot between his brows. I suspected he was smiling. “Sawyer,” he said. “While I’m sure your strategy has merit, that isn’t how footmen do things in good households.”
    “Sorry, sir,” the man apologized. “It won’t happen again.”
    He retreated to the sideboard, where he stood at attention. He was very tan for a house servant, his lean face pleasant but sun-lined. His bearing at least was flawless—military, I would have said.
    Realizing I shouldn’t stare, I returned my eyes to my supper plate.
    “Sawyer is new to service,” Damien explained. “He used to be a . . . pugilist.”
    “A pugilist!”
    “I thought he’d be handy to have around. You know, for extra security.”
    “Are we in danger?” I asked, alarmed.
    “Probably not,” Damien said blithely.
    Unable to respond to that, I focused on slicing my cold venison into bitable pieces. Though I had little appetite, Regina had been correct. The food here was excellent. I searched for a topic to fill the growing pause.
    “Your stable master was kind to stand you in place of a friend today.”
    I saw at once that I had misstepped. Damien set his fork down with a sharp clink. “Mr. Reed is my friend, the truest I could wish.”
    “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to give offense.”
    Despite my apology, Damien’s manner remained severe. “Do you think because he is not rich or titled I cannot regard him as my equal?”
    “Of course not. I only meant—”
    “In truth, he is better than my equal. Certainly he is braver. He fought at Ardennes!”
    I was not familiar with this battle, or what war it might have been part of. Sawyer muffled a choking noise. Perhaps he too found the name fishy—not that he should have revealed this.
    “That must have been terrible,” I said.
    “Jake was scarred by it. The things he saw . . . I could not have held my powder as well as he.”
    My husband’s stubborn expression declared that he believed every word he said. He didn’t strike me as a coward. Then again, I didn’t know him well enough to judge.
    “I am sorry,” I repeated. “You must think you’ve married an awful snob.”
    He saw I was repentant, for his face cleared. He looked at me, his hands relaxing on the spotless table