She grinned down into his handsome face, thrilled by the compliment. ‘Not any more, you don’t, if what Judge Master said about my trust fund is correct,’ she teased.
Justin looked up at her, all trace of amusement deserting his hard features, and abruptly he lowered her to the ground. ‘Yes, of course. Apparently I’ve married a woman of means,’ he drawled, stepping back and rolling down the sleeves of his shirt. ‘The tax man will certainly see it that way,’ he added with dry sarcasm, hooking his jacket with one hand as he headed for the door, and flinging over his shoulder, ‘Let’s eat.’
She stared at his retreating back for a moment, hurt by the obvious sarcasm in his tone. Was it possible that Justin was disappointed not to have received more in the will? No, he couldn’t be. He was a comfortably wealthy man in his own right.
Later, sitting opposite each other across the small table in the breakfast-room, sharing a simple, almost silent evening meal of beef goulash and rice followed by icecream, the thought haunted her, and by the time they were sipping their coffee she could contain herself no longer.
‘Justin, are you upset by the will?’ She had to ask. Absolute honesty was essential to a good marriage—or so all the books said—and she wanted their marriage to be perfect.
His black head lifted, his eyes capturing hers across the table. ‘No, certainly not. But why do you ask?’ he demanded, the hard tone of his voice jarring on her sensitive nerves.
‘Earlier, in the study, you didn’t seem too amused when…’
His mouth compressed. ‘Today is hardly a day for amusement; we have just buried your uncle,’ he prompted, in a voice he usually used to destroy some unsuspecting witness.
‘Please, Justin, you don’t have to remind me. I just thought…Well, maybe you felt left out.’ How could she tell him of the conversation she had overheard? Her own doubts…?
‘No, I assure you,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘as far as the will is concerned, it was exactly as it should be. Bertie was my guide and mentor all through my career and before, and I am greatly honoured that he left me his law books.’
Zoë believed him; she knew his sentiment was genuine and she wanted to say so, but, as often happened though she was reluctant to admit it, her brilliantly clever husband left her tongue-tied. She only had to look into his deep brown eyes, or note the curve of his mouth as he spoke, and his effect on her was immediate. After two months of marriage her pulse still raced at the sight of him. Tonight a lock of black hair had fallen over his broad brow and unconsciously she reached across the table and brushed it back with her fingers.
Justin caught her hand in his and pressed a quick kiss to her palm, his glance flashing knowingly to her face. ‘You’ve had a long, hard day, Zoë. Leave the worrying to me and go to bed, hmm? I’ll join you later.’ He squeezed her hand before letting it go to resume drinking his coffee.
But the mention of bed reminded her of another problem she had. The house! Because of Uncle Bertie’s ill health when they had married there had been no honeymoon; Justin had simply moved in with them, here at Black Gables.
It was a massive old house, totally impractical and virtually impossible to heat. It contained fifteen bedrooms and several reception-rooms, plus a ballroom and a dozen attic rooms. In the extensive grounds were two cottages and a range of outbuildings, some with commercial use but long since left derelict.
Her uncle had insisted on having the master suite decorated for them, but unfortunately for Zoë it was built on the old-fashioned lines of two bedrooms joined by a dressing-room and bathroom. She would have much preferred to share a bed with her husband. Instead, she found that after making love Justin invariably went back to his own room…
‘About the house, Justin,’ she burst out. ‘Judge Master suggested we sell it and I’m inclined to agree.’
She was a thoroughly modern girl, having spent the first fourteen years of her life living at home in California and boarding-school in Maine. She had once before broached the subject of separate rooms to Justin, but he had fobbed her off with, ‘Best to leave things as they are. There’s no point in upsetting Bertie,’ and, as a new bride and still in some awe around her dynamic husband, she had let it go. But now…
‘I mean the separa—’
‘It’s your house—you can do what you like with it, but I had thought you felt something for the old place. Obviously I was wrong.’ He rose from the table, threw down his napkin, and turned to leave.
‘I simply meant it’s far too big for us, and you have to travel to London every day.’ She jumped up, hurrying after him. She did love Black Gables but she loved her husband more, and she could not bear him to be angry with her.
“Zoë.’ He spun round, his hands falling on her shoulders, gripping them tightly. ‘Shut up and go to bed; now is not the time to discuss these things. Neither of us is thinking straight.’ He looked down into her flushed, puzzled face and sighed, his gaze moving from her sapphire eyes to the long, soft fall of her silver-blonde hair, and finally settling on her wide, soft mouth.
‘Are we having our first fight?’ She tried to joke, but could not hide the tremor in her voice. The events of the day were finally getting to her, and her self-control was perilously close to breaking.
‘No, no, of course not, little one,’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘I’m a bit tense, that’s all. It’s been a sad and difficult few weeks for both of us.’ He lowered his head.
She trembled at the first brush of his lips and all rational thought deserted her, and when Justin carefully turned her around and pointed at the stairs she meekly walked up them.
Slipping out of her clothes, she walked into the dressing-room, and, replacing the black wool dress in the wardrobe continued to their shared bathroom, where she placed her undies in the wash-basket.
She pulled on a shower-cap and stepped into the double shower stall. Turning on the water and adjusting it to a pleasant temperature, she tilted back her head and closed her eyes, welcoming the soothing spray. It had been a long, sorrow-filled day and she was tense and tired. Justin was right as usual. Picking up the soap, she lazily lathered the fragrant cream into her naked body.
Her hands stilled on her small, firm breasts. How much nicer it would be if they were Justin’s hands. The sensual thought brought a brief smile to her small face. Justin sharing the shower—dream on! She smiled wryly.
Justin was a magnificent lover, as she had discovered on Valentine’s night, but she had also discovered in the weeks before her wedding that he possessed a monumental self-control, refusing to make love to her again until they were married, however much she had tried to tempt him.
Then, on her wedding night, he had, with skill and patience and a sensitivity she could only marvel at, turned her into a molten mass of pure sensation, leading her to an ecstatic explosion of the senses and emotions that she had never imagined in her wildest fantasies. Plus, he had repeated the miracle almost every night since.
But he was conservative with a small C. They only ever made love at night—in bed! The shower was certainly not Justin’s scene.
A frown marring her smooth brow, Zoë stepped out of the shower and wrapped a large, fluffy towel around her slender form. Why, tonight, did the thought of Justin’s restraint worry her? It never had before. Surely she wasn’t letting the bitchy Sara Blacket’s comments get to her? Justin loved her; he had said so, hadn’t he?
Much later she lay naked in her bed, trying to keep her eyes open, waiting for him. It had crossed her mind to go to his bed, but, as a relative novice at lovemaking, she somehow found the thought of taking the initiative with her formidable husband oddly intimidating.
Her eyes flew open as she heard Justin entering his room, then the sound of running water in the bathroom. She pulled herself up the bed, tucking the sheet around under her arms,