She paused in the act of filling her plate from the sideboard, her hair piled high atop her crown, more stunning than he had ever seen her. “Good morning.”
Her soft smile and the sudden color in her cheekbones told him she was thinking of all that had passed between them the evening before. So was he. In fact, there was not room for anything else in his mind. Not even words.
And so he bowed to her with something that resembled a grunt rather than a return of her morning salutation. Doing his best to hide his unfortunate condition from the servants overseeing the early morning meal, he strode toward the sideboard.
He was about to snatch up a plate and help himself to his customary bacon, ham, eggs, and fruit when it occurred to him he was a husband now. Eating breakfast was no longer a solitary affair. Perhaps it would now involve manners and communication beyond burying himself in the newspapers.
He was not sure he liked that just yet.
Decker cleared his throat and turned to his still-blushing bride. “May I fill your plate for you?”
Some of the color fled her cheeks at last. “I shall do for myself, thank you. Unless you prefer it?”
It was clear she did not want to displease him. And further that she was as out of her depths as he was. Some part of him—that old, stalwart bachelor—was having difficulty believing this was his new life. That he had a wife.
Nothing has to change, he reminded himself. My life can be just as it was.
“Whatever you wish is what I would prefer, my dear,” he said.
There. He could be an accommodating husband.
Husband, yes, there was that. He was married. The parson’s mousetrap had snapped upon him. The impending horror that ought to have accompanied these thoughts was strangely absent for now. And they did nothing to abate the irritatingly rigid state of his cock.
“Thank you,” she returned softly, giving him a smile that also did nothing to quell his rampant erection, for it called attention to the plush invitation of her lips.
He caught a whiff of orange blossom and jasmine as she resumed arranging her selections on her plate with dainty precision. Two things occurred to him then, in rapid succession. One, he was gawking at his wife. Mooning over her as if he had never seen a woman. Vomitus. Two, his servants were bearing witness. One of them—a footman named Dawkins—had been smirking until he caught Decker’s stare upon him and hastily banished all expression from his countenance.
Wise decision, you smug prick.
Decker turned his attention back to the impressive selection his chef had provided, presumably in an effort to please his new mistress. Without a care for what he was choosing or the quantities, he began to heap foodstuffs upon his plate. His mind was whirling, and his cock was aching, and neither of these two states were conducive to his having a productive day.
Before he knew it, his plate was towering with bacon and sausage and nothing else. There was no space for eggs or the luscious-looking hothouse pineapple and strawberries.
Damnation. He was going to have a gut full of meat.
But there was no help for it. Inwardly stewing at his ridiculous reaction to this morning, he stalked to his customary place. Jo was already there, awaiting him. Nothing has to change, he repeated to himself as he settled into his chair. His coffee was prepared just as he liked it, awaiting him. His newspaper was ironed and ready.
He flipped to the State of Trade section, as usual. The price of coal was down. The cotton market was lackluster. His eyes wandered over railroad shares. He felt Jo’s stare on him like a touch. He flicked his gaze to her, finding her watching him expectantly.
Well, bloody hell. Did she want to converse?
“I spend my mornings reviewing The Times,” he explained. “It is imperative, as a businessman, that I keep apprised of all the comings and goings of the world.”
Her lush lips compressed. “Of course, Mr. Decker.”
Ah, she was nettled. She did want to converse.
He lowered the paper to the table. “No mister, my dear. Decker will continue to do.”
“Hmm,” she said, before beginning to methodically cut the wedges of pineapple on her plate into smaller, bite-sized portions.
Each delicate clink of the cutlery on her plate nettled him.
Her silence said more than her words could, and he did not like it. However, he had his morning routine for