The Case Of The Vainshed Groom. Sheryl Lynn
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against the door and groaned. So this was what a hangover felt like. Lovely.
The pain faded quickly and by degrees she opened her eyes, testing her tolerance. Except for a mild throbbing in her sinuses she felt fine.
She glowered at her reflection. Her beautiful dress was rumpled and dingy-looking. Half her hair had come loose and now hung in scruffy hanks around her face. What remained of the twist had tangled into a lopsided knot. Mascara was smeared under her eyes and her face was blotchy. The string of pearls had left a red imprint along her neck, giving her the appearance of a strangulation victim.
Groaning, she turned away from the mirror, and faced another. The bathroom was lined with mirrors and inset lighting. The afteraffects of her overindulgence were thrown back at her in triplicate and quadruplicate.
Her gaze rested on the bathtub, an oval gold- and-pinkmarble delight big enough for two. If she hadn’t been such a lush, she and Quentin could have spent an hour or two frolicking in the tub. “But, no,” she muttered. “You have to drink too much and spoil everything.”
She stripped out of her clothing, praying a good dry cleaner could repair the damage she’d done to her dress. She stepped into the shower stall and turned on the water full force in hopes that the hot, pulsating spray would make the remainder of her headache vanish.
When she was done, she peeked out of the bathroom. The room had lightened enough for her to discern Quentin’s bulk under the covers. Not enough, though, for her to figure out where the employees who’d transferred her belongings from the lodge to this cabin had put her negligée.
She mustered courage. They were married, which meant no secrets—or shyness—between them. She looked down at her nude body. A strict regimen of exercise and proper diet kept her trim, but her breasts were too small and her hips were angular.
For better or worse, she thought. Quentin knew he hadn’t married a beauty queen. Giving herself no time for cowardice, she stepped out of the bathroom. She left the door ajar and followed the narrow strip of light to the bed.
Quentin lay on his side with his back to her. The morning was cool, but not cold, yet the covers were bundled to his ear. She eased pillows out of the way, and slid under the sheets.
The heat radiating off him took her aback. She laid a hand against his bare shoulder, finding him damp with sweat. She marveled he could bear the weight of the sheets, blanket and comforter. A smile tugged her lips. Perhaps he had overindulged in the champagne, too. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who had been in no shape last night to take advantage of the bridal bed.
Perhaps he might forgive her.
She folded back the covers, baring him to the waist. Between the pale glow of the clock, the silvering light of dawn seeping through the curtains and the light from the bathroom, she had a view of a shadow man. He smelled hot and distinctly masculine. She caressed his shoulder and was amazed by how hard his muscles felt in repose. She explored his ribs and waist, finding him lean and muscular without a trace of softness. For a man who showed not the slightest interest in exercise or sports, he was in surprisingly good shape.
Heat flooded her midsection, centering deep within her belly. She pushed the covers all the way off, kicking the comforter off the bed. Wide-eyed, she sat up and admired his long, sleek body, now outlined in gold and silver.
“Quentin?” She poked his shoulder with a finger. “Quentin, it’s morning, dear. Time to wake up.”
He remained exactly as he had been.
Irked by his lack of response, she considered her options. Leaving him alone seemed the most considerate thing to do. Unlike her, Quentin was not a morning person. She could order coffee and breakfast. Surely the smell of coffee would rouse him in a gentle, friendly manner. Or, she could take a morning jog through the forest and he’d be awake by the time she returned.
She poked him again. This time he grunted and shifted his arm. “I love you, dear,” she said. “I’m sorry I drank too much last night. I have no head for alcohol.”
She ran her tongue over a hard ridge of muscle along his triceps. His skin had a faintly salty taste, with a woodsy undertone. He shifted again and pawed at his face. She kissed the side of his neck and his hair tickled her nose. He made a soft mmm sound, and she decided it meant approval.
Amused, but frustrated, she wondered if there were boundaries of taste in marital relations. This one-sided exploration was beginning to make her feel as if she were molesting him.
She grasped his shoulder with both hands and pulled him over onto his back. He lolled, his right hand flopping onto the mattress.
“Are you playing a joke on me?” She peered closely at his face, longing to see his features. “Wake up, dear.”
She delicately touched the center of his chest, resting her fingertips over his heart. His chest rose and fell, and crisp hairs parted before her caress. His skin had cooled. She followed the cleft between his pectorals, up to the bony ridge of his clavicle, detoured in the intriguing musculature at the base of his throat and then to his chin. Beard stubble rasped her fingers. She found his lips supple and soft.
She pressed a kiss to his mouth.
She drew back a few inches. He smacked his lips.
“I knew you were awake,” she whispered. She kissed him again, savoring the erotic sensitivity of her lips and the warmth of his.
He touched a hand to her shoulder. Triumphant, grown giddy with excitement, she pressed the kiss and he responded by parting his lips. She touched the tip of her tongue to his and fire burst within her, filling her with liquid heat. He clutched her shoulder, his fingers touchingly awkward, but very strong.
Unable to bear either the silence or darkness, she reached over his chest and groped for the nightstand. He slid his hand over her back and pressed her closer to him. His mouth turned hot against her neck, kissing her with wet lustiness. She shivered.
“Let me find the light, dear.” Her body was twisted into an awkward position, so she struggled for balance. He resisted her efforts, holding her against him with one arm. Her breasts burned against his chest. She almost gave up on finding the lamp when his hold relaxed and she lunged over his body.
He mumbled unintelligibly and stroked his hand flat along her spine, ending up resting it boldly on her bare bottom. She gasped and found the lamp. She turned on the light.
Turning about, resting across his body, she smiled down at her groom.
She realized instantly the situation was not right, but it was so not right her brain locked up, unable to process what she saw. Instead of falling in heavy, jet-black, straight hanks, his hair was brown and soft with a curl. His face, instead of being rather full with heavy jowls, was lean and chiseled with high cheekbones and a squarish jaw. The eyes were all wrong, too. Instead of warm brown, they were bleary, bloodshot and pewter-gray.
He squinted as if the light pained him.
Dawn remembered a time she’d absentmindedly walked into a men’s room instead of the ladies’ room. It had taken several seconds for the sight of urinals and the absence of a vanity to sink in so she could realize her mistake. Once she had, she’d been horrified.
But not half as horrified as she was now.
Ross Duke grimaced. “Dawn? What are you doing in my room?”
A reasonable explanation existed. One always did, even if it didn’t appear exactly reasonable at first glance. Or so Dawn told herself as she stared at Ross’s confused face.
But explanations, reasonable or otherwise, eluded her completely. Ending up naked in a bed with her husband’s best man defied explanation. Scarcely daring to breathe, her heart drumming in her ears, she inched backward,