"Yes. Practice," Simon said. "We shall practice a great deal, you and I." Cautiously, exerting every ounce of willpower he could still summon, he began to move within her. He eased himself almost all the way out of her tight passage and then he forged slowly back into her.

Simon felt Emily wriggle hesitantly beneath him, trying to accommodate herself to the strangeness of having a man inside her. The small, delicious movement was too much. It sent him over the edge.

"Emily, no, love. Hold still…"

It was too late. With a harsh, muffled shout, he was pumping himself into her, crushing her into the carpet, holding her as though he would never let her go. The heat from the dancing flames on the hearth seemed to combine with the warmth of Emily herself. Simon surrendered to the overpowering climax, lost in a woman's body as he had never been lost before.

For an endless moment he hovered in midair and then, with a low groan, he collapsed on top of Emily. For a long time he lay there, his body slick with perspiration, every muscle relaxed. He was vaguely aware he had never felt so utterly replete and satisfied in his life. Slowly he caught his breath and opened his eyes.

Emily was smiling tentatively up at him, her gaze full of curiosity and questioning wonder. "Well?" she demanded when she saw his lashes lift.

Simon stared down at her, feeling extremely dull-witted. "Well, what?"

"Did it work, do you think?"

Simon realized he had lost the thread of the conversation. He tried to concentrate. "Did what work?"

"Our experiment in enhancing metaphysical communication. Do you feel any closer to me now on the transcendental plane, Simon?"

"Good God." He blinked and slowly rolled to the side, wrapping her against his bare chest. For a few seconds he stared at the high ceiling, trying to clear his mind.

"Simon?" She shyly touched the hair on his chest.

"Hell and damnation, yes," he growled, thinking that metaphysical communication was the last thing he wanted to contemplate at the moment.

"I am glad," she said simply, putting her head down on his shoulder.

Simon looked at her red curls glowing in the reflected heat of the fire. Like polished copper, he thought. Then reality hit him full force. "This is our wedding night."

"Yes."

"Our wedding night and I just bedded you on the floor of the library. The library, for God's sake."

"I prefer to think that you just made love to me on the floor of the library," Emily said, yawning hugely.

"I must have taken leave of my senses." Simon sat up abruptly, running his fingers through his hair. "We should be upstairs in your bed. Or my bed."

"Do not fret, Simon. It does not particularly matter to me where we spent our wedding night." Emily smiled sleepily. "I can leave the details out of my journal, if you like."

"Good God. By all means leave the details out of your damn journal." He got to his feet and hastily donned his dressing gown. Then he reached down, tugged Emily to her feet, and dropped the muslin nightdress over her head. He saw that it was stained with the results of their lovemaking and the evidence of her virginity and he realized she must have been lying on the garment when he had taken her. He quickly tucked her into her chintz wrapper. A vague flicker of guilt washed over him.

"Emily, are you all right?"

She wrinkled her nose. "I feel sticky. And a bit sore. But otherwise I am fine. What about you? Are you feeling all right, Simon?"

"Yes, I am quite all right," he told her gruffly. He swung her up into his arms and started toward the door.

But he was not all right. He was feeling very strange and he did not like the sensation. He had completely lost his self-control with this woman.

That had never happened to him before. He should have been in command of the situation from start to finish. He ought to have handled the whole business with far more finesse. Instead he had been swept up into the vortex of a passion that had swamped his control.

Simon acknowledged grimly that his redheaded elf of a wife had been the one in command tonight, whether she knew it or not. She had led him a pretty dance from the moment he had found the note on her pillow. Simon wondered if she had any inkling of just how much power she had wielded this evening. Women were never slow to comprehend their own power and a Faringdon female would be quicker than most to take advantage.

But she was no longer a Faringdon, Simon reminded himself. She was his now.

"Simon"—Emily peered uncertainly up at him as he carried her toward the staircase—"are you angry?"

"No, Emily," he told her as he started up the red-carpeted steps. "I am not angry."

"You have a rather odd expression on your face." She smiled serenely. "I expect it is the aftereffects of our efforts to communicate on both the physical and the metaphysical plane simultaneously. Very fatiguing, is it not?"

"Bloody damn fatiguing," Simon said.

Chapter 8

Emily hurried expectantly downstairs to breakfast the next morning only to realize immediately that her lovely new morning dress of blossom pink had been wasted. Simon was not waiting to compliment her on the pleated neck frill or the embroidery on the skirt which the village seamstress had worked on so industriously. She was informed he had gone out riding quite early.

Deflated, Emily sat down and morosely watched a footman pour her coffee. Last night when Simon had carried her upstairs to bed and then gone to his own room she had been deeply disappointed. But she had told herself that was the way things were done in the fashionable world. Everyone knew couples rarely slept together for the entire night. Marriages of convenience led to relationships in which people demanded a great deal of privacy.

But even though she knew she was guilty of coercing Simon into a marriage of convenience, at least on his part, Emily had been certain that her relationship with him would be vastly different. Especially after what had happened last night.

Emily felt a small, transcendent thrill course through her again as the memories returned. She blushed now just thinking about how she had felt lying naked in Simon's arms in front of the fire. Her nerves tingled as she remembered the strange, mesmerizing glitter in her husband's golden eyes as he had crushed her into the carpet. It had been shocking yet oddly exciting to realize he had actually entered her, had become a part of her.

The experience was totally unlike anything she had ever imagined. Her senses had literally reeled beneath the onslaught. True, she had not experienced the thrilling sense of release that Simon had given her the first time he had caressed her intimately, but what had happened last night was far more profound. They had been joined into a single being for a time.

Simon had been quite right, Emily reflected as she sipped her coffee. Such a physical union was bound to enhance their union on the transcendental plane. It was inconceivable that anything so stunning, so powerful and overwhelming, could fail to affect events in the metaphysical world. There had to be a connection between the two realms.

Trust Simon to understand that and to nobly insist upon carrying out his husbandly duties in the name of metaphysical experimentation. He was obviously determined to make this marriage work. And Emily just knew that sooner or later he would come to love her as deeply as she loved him.

It was inevitable, especially now that their communication was being enhanced on the physical as well as the metaphysical level.

Still, accustomed as she was to eating breakfast alone, today the silence in the morning room seemed unexpectedly gloomy. She had no desire to linger. She was thinking wistfully that it would have been nice if Simon had invited her to ride with him when Duckett entered the room. His dour face was set in grave, disapproving lines.

"Your pardon, madam," Duckett said austerely, "but your father has sent a lad around to the kitchens with a message. It seems your presence is requested in the south garden."

Emily looked up, astonished. "My father? But he left for London with Devlin and Charles directly after the wedding."

Duckett looked more bleak than ever, if such a thing was possible. "Apparently not, madam. I fear he is presently in the south garden."

"How odd. Why does he not come to the house?"

Duckett cleared his throat and said with a hint of satisfaction, "I believe his lordship, the earl, has forbidden your father to enter the house without his lordship's express permission, madam. I understand the arrangement was made yesterday after the services."

Emily's eyes widened in astonishment. She knew there was no love lost between her father and her husband. But a bargain had been struck that day when she had eavesdropped on the two men as they negotiated her future in the library. Simon had implied that if her father met his demands, Broderick Faringdon could continue to communicate with Emily. She was certain that was what had been agreed upon.

"There has been some misunderstanding," Emily told the butler.

Duckett chose to ignore that indisputable fact. "As to that, I could not say, madam. Shall I send someone to tell Mr. Faringdon that you are not available?"

"Good heavens, no, Duckett." Emily jumped to her feet. "I am quite available, as you can plainly see. Actually, I am glad to hear my father is still in the vicinity. I did not have an opportunity to bid him or my brothers a proper farewell yesterday. I was so very busy. I did not even realize my family had left for London until Blade mentioned it. And by then it was too late."