She could imagine that. Easily. A small army of maids and footmen, praising her for making their lives a little more miserable.
So no, she wasn’t going to go into George’s bedchamber and break something. All she had left was her dignity. Or at least, that was what she had control of. She might be headstrong. She might even be capricious. But she refused to be a monster.
But now everything was different. She was not sure what had prompted George to reconsider his decision to live separately, but she had decided not to question it. There was nothing to be gained in the poking of wounds. Not when they had the chance to start fresh.
And she liked him.
She liked him so much.
So here she was, at the threshold of his bedchamber. It was the same size as hers, but every decoration, every piece of furniture, proclaimed the presence of a king. The paintings of kings and princes past. The sumptuous, plush carpets. The headboard of his bed, regally red, crowned with gold.
She was nervous, but she was also excited. And she was ready.
Tonight, she would become a wife.
A queen.
He was standing by the fireplace in his black dressing gown, a glass of something in his hand. He set it down when he heard her enter.
“Charlotte.”
She smiled shyly. “George.”
He walked toward her. She didn’t move. She wasn’t scared, precisely, but the butterflies in her stomach were dancing a Schuhplattler. These things she was meant to do with him—they were new to her. She’d never liked being anything less than competent. She hated feeling stupid or unlearned.
He stopped just before her, then reached out and took her hand. “You are breathtaking.”
Charlotte motioned to her nightgown. “It is pretty, but it has a thousand tiny buttons. I am suddenly concerned that my maids made the wrong choice.”
George’s smile was full of wicked promise. “I am very good with buttons.”
His fingers made good on his words, nimbly slipping each button free of its satin loop. The entire time he stood close, his forehead nearly touching hers, the warmth of his breath wafting across her lips.
She was aching for him.
“I have dreamed of this,” he whispered.
“I think . . . maybe . . . I have, too.”
His eyes flared, and one of his large hands settled on her hip. “You have no idea how much that pleases me.”
“I liked it when you kissed me,” she said shyly.
He grinned, a boyish half-smile that made her insides flip. “I’m glad.”
And then the space between them was gone, and he was kissing her again. His mouth was hot and hungry, and when she moaned against him, his tongue slid inside, sweeping against hers.
It was glorious, and she wanted more, but he drew back. “Charlotte,” he asked, “do you know what happens on a wedding night?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, relieved to be talking about something she knew about. “I know everything. I have seen drawings and had a detailed explanation of what is to occur.”
“Well.” He seemed surprised. Rather. “That is good to know.”
“I—” She bit her lip. Was it appropriate to make requests? Was she allowed to?
“What is it?” he asked.
She decided she had nothing to lose by making her wishes known. “I do not like the part where my head hits the wall over and over again. Is there a way to avoid that?”
His eyes went wide. “Who instructed you?”
“It does not matter,” Charlotte said. Agatha had shared her experiences in confidence, and it seemed disloyal to reveal her identity. “It’s only that—”
“Yes,” George interrupted. “There is a way to avoid that.”
“Are you certain? Because if it must be done that way . . .”
“It doesn’t.” He bit his lip. “I promise.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying not to laugh?”
“No!” he said, with a bit more energy than she thought was necessary.
“You are.”
“I am not.”
“You are lying.”
“Only a little bit,” he admitted.
“I knew it.” She punched him lightly on his shoulder. “Why is this so funny?”
“I . . .” He seemed not to know how to answer.
“Tell me,” she insisted.
“I just do not know how I might . . . Well—” He frowned, but only with one side of his mouth. It was somewhat adorable. “I suppose I could figure out how to make your head hit the wall over and over again,” he went on, “but I cannot imagine why I would want to.”
“That is a great relief.”
“Charlotte,” he said, taking her hand, “I do not know what you have been told, but this—our wedding night—it does not have to be painful. At least, not after the very beginning. It might be awkward, and in fact it probably will be awkward, but I hope it will bring you pleasure.”
Charlotte blinked. This contradicted everything Agatha had told her.
George brought her hand to his lips. “Will you allow me to try?”
“To try . . .”
His fingers returned to the thousand tiny buttons. “To bring you pleasure.”
His words let loose a torrent of shivers across her skin. “I think I would like that.”
He undid a few more buttons, then brushed his lips against the patch of skin he’d just revealed. “Come,” he murmured, and he took her hand and led her to his bed.
The covers had already been pushed back, and Charlotte lay against the silken sheets. George allowed his dressing gown to fall from his shoulders. She looked away. She hadn’t meant to, but she hadn’t been expecting him to disrobe just then.
“Do not be afraid,” he said, climbing in beside her.
“I’m not.”
He propped himself up on his side. “Good,” he said, brushing a spiral of her hair from her face. For a moment, he just stared at her.
“What?” she asked, embarrassed by his scrutiny.
“You’re just so beautiful,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”
She felt herself flush with pleasure. She was not unused to compliments, but from him, it felt different. It was not mere flattery. It was something so much more.
Eventually looking was not enough. George reached out and pulled her closer. One of his hands slipped underneath her nightgown, trailing along the length of her leg. Higher and higher, until it curved gently around her hip.
Her breath caught. When he touched her, she felt it on the inside. It made no sense, but she was slowly moving beyond sense. Gently, he removed the gown entirely and she was naked beside him.
“There is one thing I forgot to tell you,” he said.
She looked up, her question in her eyes. His hand reached around her and then he rolled them both until he was poised above her, his dark eyes meeting hers.
“It goes both ways,” he said. “I am yours.”
He kissed her with unchecked passion, with a hunger that made her feel like the most priceless treasure.
This was not as Agatha had said. This was glorious.
He settled between her legs, and she felt him against her opening. “I hope this will not hurt,” he said, “but if it does, it should not be for very long.”
She nodded. “I trust you.”
He pushed forward. Slowly. Then pulled back a bit before moving again. “Is this all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “It’s very strange, but . . . yes.”
He moved again, and it was the oddest thing, but he looked as if he might be in pain.
“Are you all right?” she asked with some concern.
“Quite,” he said, but he was gritting his teeth.