Were those the same pair of gloves he’d worn the night before?
He stood when she moved from the shadow of the narrow hallway and passed the two long, lavish chaise longues that served as the alternate seating, accompanied by a small dining table with delicate Louis XVI chairs. He tossed his drink back and set the glass on the sideboard. A long silent moment passed as he began a thorough inspection from her sedately knotted hair all the way down to her one good pair of slippers, a questioning anxiety lurking behind the ever-present frost.
Long legs ate up the distance between them in two strides and he stopped just far enough away to be out of her reach. “Are you—I—”
Certain that catching the Blackheart of Ben More stuttering and speechless was a rare and marked occasion, Farah quirked her lip and eyebrow at him. “Yes?” she encouraged.
He blinked the moment away and brackets appeared around his hard mouth as it turned downward into a troubled frown. “We’re visiting a seamstress the moment we get to London.”
“Oh? Why the moment we arrive? Don’t we have rather more pressing concerns?”
His lip curled in the fashion that announced he was about to say something cruel. “I dislike that dress immensely, and I noticed you have none better in your wardrobe.”
“What’s wrong with my dress?” She looked down at herself, smoothing a hand over the foamy green fabric that had cost a month’s savings. “I thought the color rather suited me.”
“Yes, and so did Carlton Morley.”
Farah’s smile returned. For someone so notoriously indifferent, her husband certainly had a jealous nature. The revelation shouldn’t please her as much as it did. “Well, if my wardrobe insults you so, I suppose I’ll have to resign myself to a new and expensive trousseau.” She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Such is my burden.”
Farah could tell she’d flummoxed him by his alert stare. “That … displeases you?”
Did it matter to him? “While a woman never likes to have her taste in fashion questioned, one can never go wrong by offering her a chance to buy a new dress.” She flashed him a cheeky smile. “Or several, in your case.”
Dorian studied her smile as his frown deepened and two furrows appeared between his ebony brows. It seemed that her good humor darkened his mood, almost as though he’d expected her to be cross or angry. “You should sit,” he ordered, gesturing to the plush chair he’d just vacated.
“Is that not your place?”
“Take it,” he insisted, his intent scrutiny oddly restless. One moment he was staring at her wrists, protected by silk gloves. Then he squinted at her left breast as though he could see through her layers to the plaid protecting her heart. He inspected other parts, her lips, her waist, and her skirts.
“I think I’d prefer the chaise,” she said, wondering at his strange behavior.
He glanced at the wine velvet chaise with something akin to alarm. “Are you … unable to sit?” A muscle twitched beneath his eye, and then in his jaw.
“Why would I be?” Clarity cut through Farah’s confusion and she had to clench her fists in her skirts to squelch the almost overwhelming urge to reach for him. Her husband was concerned about her well-being after their wedding night. Touched, she took a step toward him, glad to see he didn’t retreat. “My corset makes sitting for an extended period of time quite uncomfortable,” she explained gently. “I find that reclining is much more pleasant.”
His suspicious regard bespoke disbelief, but the first jarring launch of the train stopped him from replying.
The movement caused Farah’s already unsteady legs to give, and she stumbled backward, her arms flailing as she realized she wasn’t going to steady herself in time.
She was in his arms before she registered his movement, and her hands gripped at his shoulders to regain her balance.
They both froze.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, releasing his shoulders immediately, but not before she registered that his arms were even more solid than she’d originally thought.
To her surprise, he didn’t let her go, but drew her closer, closing his arms and locking her elbows to her sides before lowering his head and claiming her lips.
His kiss had all the possession of the previous night, all the constrained passion, but something else lurked behind it. A frustrated restraint. A probing inquisition.
Moaning, Farah relaxed into the kiss, opening beneath his lips and leaning against the unyielding strength of his chest. Perhaps if he didn’t like her dress, he could rid her of it, and they could pass the long train ride from Glasgow to London as newlyweds ought to.
An insistent length pressed against her through her skirts, the evidence that his body supported her plans for the afternoon. She purred into his mouth and rubbed against his swelling erection, signaling that she was not just receptive, but aroused.
She found herself thrust onto the chaise, and her panting husband standing across the railcar from her, pouring himself another drink. A rather large one.
“Dorian,” she began.
He pointed a shaking finger at her as he tossed back enough whisky that it took two gulping swallows for him to finish it. “Don’t. Move.”
“Or what, you’ll throw yourself from a speeding train?” Oh, dear, perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to plant that suggestion. The train wasn’t speeding as of yet.
His eye narrowed into a dangerous slit. “Take care with what you say to me, wife.”