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Authors: Jill Marie Landis
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“I did find your condition offensive.”
“But not enough to beg off.” When she failed to comment he tried shock. “Did we fuck?”
She blinked. Twice. “We did not. You passed out shortly after the ceremony.”
“But it did take place?”
“It did.”
“And are we married, Miss O’Hurley?”
“We are married. But I’m not Miss O’Hurley.”
“That’s right. You are Mrs. Cordero Moreau now.”
She looped a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I’m not Jemma … O’Hurley or Moreau.”
“Then who are you?”
He fought back the ridiculous need to reach out and touch her again to be certain she was real. She was staring back at him with her incredible eyes. Her gaze touched his hair, his eyes, his mouth, the open front of his shirt.
There was a quick knock at the door. Without taking his eyes off her, Cord called, “Come in. And for Christ’s sake, don’t slam the door.”
He recognized the timid knock as Edward’s. No doubt he had come to summon them to the accursed wedding breakfast.
The girl bolted up and stood awkwardly beside the bed. He almost found himself wishing he were Edward when he saw her acknowledge his servant with a shy smile.
It cost him dearly to roll over and sit up. The throbbing pain at his temples forced him forward. He grasped his head in his hands until the world stopped spinning.
“Good morning, miss. Morning, sir,” Edward said.
Cord could not respond. He had known and loved Edward all of his life, but at the moment he found the man’s chipper tone grating.
“Good morning, Edward,” the girl said.
Her bright greeting rattled the pain in Cord’s head.
“Do you have to shout?” he groaned.
Edward chattered with the girl as if Cord had not spoken.
“Did you sleep well, ma’am?”
“All things considered, I did, thank you, Edward.”
“Foster ’as your trunk waitin’ in the room next door. One of the women is there to ’elp you. Breakfast’ll be served at ’alf past the ’our in the dinin’ room.”
“When do we sail?”
Cord’s head snapped up. He regretted the move, but couldn’t help but stare at her. “Are you planning to sail with us?”
“Of course.”
“You actually
want
to go?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
That brought him to his feet. “Why?”
“Why not?” She glanced once more at Edward and then back at him, appearing a bit nervous. “You are my husband now. I go where you go.”
Edward made a choking sound and busied himself near Cord’s open trunk.
“The room next door, did you say, Edward?” she asked.
“To the right, miss.”
Cord watched her walk around the end of the bed, pause beside a chair and pick up a pair of water-stained shoes. He saw her bare toes beneath the coral silk. She paused in front of him, hesitant, her confidence diminished.
“What is it?” he asked, realizing as he spoke that his words sounded unnecessarily harsh.
“You look as if you need some time to pull yourself together. If I were you, I’d start now.”
Cord waited until she was out of the room before he looked at Edward. The servant was wringing his hands.
Cord sighed. “I’m still cursed.”
“What do you mean, sir?” Edward wore his worried expression, the one that made him appear as if he had just bitten into a lemon.
“It seems I’ve married a nag.”
Five
T he black silk pumps were too wide but they provided ample room for Celine to vent her nervousness, so she furiously wriggled her toes. It was not until she had taken her place at the delicacy-laden table that she recalled she had hardly eaten a morsel the previous day.
The house slaves in attendance moved around the dining table in the mute steps of a familiar routine as they served mouthwatering items with long-practiced unobtrusiveness. The air was tainted with the tempting scent of strong coffee laced with warm milk and steaming hot chocolate that hinted of cinnamon.
The
calas
—golden brown, deep-fried balls of rice, flour, nutmeg and
“But not enough to beg off.” When she failed to comment he tried shock. “Did we fuck?”
She blinked. Twice. “We did not. You passed out shortly after the ceremony.”
“But it did take place?”
“It did.”
“And are we married, Miss O’Hurley?”
“We are married. But I’m not Miss O’Hurley.”
“That’s right. You are Mrs. Cordero Moreau now.”
She looped a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I’m not Jemma … O’Hurley or Moreau.”
“Then who are you?”
He fought back the ridiculous need to reach out and touch her again to be certain she was real. She was staring back at him with her incredible eyes. Her gaze touched his hair, his eyes, his mouth, the open front of his shirt.
There was a quick knock at the door. Without taking his eyes off her, Cord called, “Come in. And for Christ’s sake, don’t slam the door.”
He recognized the timid knock as Edward’s. No doubt he had come to summon them to the accursed wedding breakfast.
The girl bolted up and stood awkwardly beside the bed. He almost found himself wishing he were Edward when he saw her acknowledge his servant with a shy smile.
It cost him dearly to roll over and sit up. The throbbing pain at his temples forced him forward. He grasped his head in his hands until the world stopped spinning.
“Good morning, miss. Morning, sir,” Edward said.
Cord could not respond. He had known and loved Edward all of his life, but at the moment he found the man’s chipper tone grating.
“Good morning, Edward,” the girl said.
Her bright greeting rattled the pain in Cord’s head.
“Do you have to shout?” he groaned.
Edward chattered with the girl as if Cord had not spoken.
“Did you sleep well, ma’am?”
“All things considered, I did, thank you, Edward.”
“Foster ’as your trunk waitin’ in the room next door. One of the women is there to ’elp you. Breakfast’ll be served at ’alf past the ’our in the dinin’ room.”
“When do we sail?”
Cord’s head snapped up. He regretted the move, but couldn’t help but stare at her. “Are you planning to sail with us?”
“Of course.”
“You actually
want
to go?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
That brought him to his feet. “Why?”
“Why not?” She glanced once more at Edward and then back at him, appearing a bit nervous. “You are my husband now. I go where you go.”
Edward made a choking sound and busied himself near Cord’s open trunk.
“The room next door, did you say, Edward?” she asked.
“To the right, miss.”
Cord watched her walk around the end of the bed, pause beside a chair and pick up a pair of water-stained shoes. He saw her bare toes beneath the coral silk. She paused in front of him, hesitant, her confidence diminished.
“What is it?” he asked, realizing as he spoke that his words sounded unnecessarily harsh.
“You look as if you need some time to pull yourself together. If I were you, I’d start now.”
Cord waited until she was out of the room before he looked at Edward. The servant was wringing his hands.
Cord sighed. “I’m still cursed.”
“What do you mean, sir?” Edward wore his worried expression, the one that made him appear as if he had just bitten into a lemon.
“It seems I’ve married a nag.”
Five
T he black silk pumps were too wide but they provided ample room for Celine to vent her nervousness, so she furiously wriggled her toes. It was not until she had taken her place at the delicacy-laden table that she recalled she had hardly eaten a morsel the previous day.
The house slaves in attendance moved around the dining table in the mute steps of a familiar routine as they served mouthwatering items with long-practiced unobtrusiveness. The air was tainted with the tempting scent of strong coffee laced with warm milk and steaming hot chocolate that hinted of cinnamon.
The
calas
—golden brown, deep-fried balls of rice, flour, nutmeg and
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