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the outer door open and close. Good riddance, she thought petulantly. Then she had a moment of panic. What if he drove off and just left her to fend for herself among strangers?
    When she had determined that she was not going to bleed to death—that, in fact, there had been very little blood—Caitlyn calmed down enough to consider the situation rationally. So that was the big secret of the marriage bed. No wonder women hated it so.
    Still, she had rather enjoyed the kissing and cuddling. She blushed to think how she had responded to Trevor’s kiss and pressed her own body so close to his. She had even felt the beginning of something wonderful when he touched her—there. But then suddenly he was in her and there was the pain—and, good grief, would this be a nightly occurrence for the rest of her life?
    Perhaps not. She knew many married people had separate bedchambers. Surely they had some totally peaceful nights. In any event, what choice did she have? She knew very well that a wife was her husband’s property to do with as he wished. Discovering what gentlemen wished had been a revelation.
    Perhaps there were compensations. She would have a home of her own. Eventually there would be children—not soon, though, she hoped. By the time she had cleaned herself and removed the soiled sheet from the bed, she had talked herself into a modicum of complacency about the whole matter. Surely he would come back. Would he not?
    She had just settled herself back into bed when she heard the outer door open and close. There was some slight movement in the other room, the clink of glass, then—nothing. She waited. Still, nothing. She rose quietly and opened the door a crack. Trevor sat staring into the dying fire, a glass of brandy in his hand.
    Well, if he wished to drink himself into a stupor, that was just fine with her. She flounced back to the bed.
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    Trevor spent what was left of the night on the uncomfortable settee. He woke in the morning with a stiff neck, a rotten taste in his mouth, and in a foul mood. The very thought of food made him feel queasy, so he sipped coffee and watched, faintly resentful, as his bride devoured a hearty breakfast.
    â€œAre you sure you will not have something?” she asked yet again.
    â€œNo. No, thank you.” He took another sip of coffee and lowered the cup carefully. “Uh . . . Caitlyn?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI want to apologize for last night. I . . . I am sorry it did not go well.”
    â€œWell, I supposed it did not,” she said matter-of-factly, “but as I have no experience by which to judge . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she blushed.
    Trevor was not about to admit that his own experience was nearly as limited as hers. Instead he said lamely, “It will go better next time.”
    â€œOh?” She sounded rather doubtful. Then she shrugged and looked away. “All right.”
    And that night it did go better.
    They had traveled all day and arrived rather late to find the household understaffed and not fully prepared for them. However, the master’s bedchamber had been aired and a fire laid. A light supper was brought up, and Trevor deliberately exercised greater self-discipline on the wine this night.
    He made a concerted effort to engage his wife in entertaining conversation, much of it involving childhood adventures he and Terrence had engaged in. For the first time since Terrence’s death, he was able to recall amusing incidents without choking up.
    â€œIt must be wonderful to grow up with brothers and sisters,” Caitlyn said longingly.
    â€œUsually,” he agreed. “With Terrence and Melanie anyway. You have no brother or sister?”
    â€œNone that survived. There were four babies after me, but I remember only the last two. One of those—a baby boy—lived for only a week. The other was stillborn, and Mama died the next day. It was very sad. I was nine.”
    â€œBut