—GORONWY OWEN, “AN INVITATION” Looking up from the ledger, Rhys rubbed his tired eyes. He should close the windows and call for someone to light a fire in the grate; the room was growing chill and dim as nightfall approached. Soon it would be time for dinner. And after dinner, bed. He slammed the ledger shut. For two hours he’d studied the management practices of his lovely wife, and he’d learned two disturbing things. One, despite her youth and inexperience, Juliana had run the estate as efficiently as she’d claimed. Two, he could think of nothing else but bedding her. Yet judging from their encounter earlier in the day, he wouldn’t be bedding her anytime soon. He hadn’t meant to be so obvious about what he wanted. Women didn’t like being told they were desired only for their bodies. He’d planned to be smoother, to seduce her with compliments, even use poetry as he had years ago, when he’d been a starry-eyed fool in love. But when she’d mentioned her beloved Stephen and reacted in such horror to sharing a bedchamber, he’d had to remind her that she was his wife—not Lord Devon’s betrothed.
