“I call that a history lesson.”
“You didn’t specify what I was to speak about.”
“I’d like to talk about the war. My father wrote and said that the men admired you and they were willing to keep going, to keep fighting because of you.”
Dex gripped his wine glass, willing her to stop talking.
“Did I say something wrong? I meant it as a compliment.”
“They followed me. And they died.”Full sentences. “I don’t givea damn about my own wounds, the scars on my body. What kills me is that I can’t bring them back. Your father, the other men from my company, their names are a litany that keeps me up at night. I led them into death.”
“For your country. For peace.”
“War can’t be easily justified, I’ve come to understand. When you’re inside a war, there is no philosophy, no stirring patriotic music, no making sense of any of it. Flesh ripped apart by mortar and bullets. Blood flowing like water. Suffering. Pain. Lives ended, snuffed out like candles. Young lads. I’ve come to believe that this bloodlust, this desire for power, for dominion over man, over cities and countries, is wrong. The men who want to own, to subjugate, to benefit from the pain of others—those men are demons, they are not to be deified or looked up to. The shiny gold medals and the crisp uniform don’t tell the whole story. They only tell the acceptable part of the story that people find palatable. Gloss it over, give it a good shine. Sometimes I wish I had died in your father’s place.”
“Don’t say that,” she said in an anguished tone that sliced through the fog that had descended in his mind.
“I apologize. I shouldn’t speak of such dark things. It’s your wedding night. There should be...” Tenderness. Love. Laughter. He had none of those things to give her. “Wine.”
He motioned for a footman to fill her wine glass. He resumed eating, washing the excellent meal down with a good French wine from the cellars. He was happy to see that she ate heartily as well, though she hadn’t touched the wine yet.
“You don’t care for wine?”
“I only like brandy.”
“At least try a few sips.”
She sipped delicately, her expression changing. “This is actually quite delicious.”
“Isn’t it? A good wine paired with the right meal is a pleasure not to be missed.”
Other pleasures not to be missed: watching Ana smile as she tasted his excellent wine for the first time. The candlelight wavering over her oval face, teasing the green from her eyes. The way her tongue darted out to capture an errant drop of wine.
He wanted to kiss those plump lips of hers. Taste her like wine.
He wanted to learn the shape of her with his tongue. Was her navel a swirling indentation or a concave pearl? He’d rip the pale green silk of her gown instead of unbuttoning it. Then he’d slide it down, slipping over her upper arms, the fabric caught now, held up only by her nipples.
He’d take the silk in his fingers, brush it over her nipples, watch a flush rise in her cheeks, her breathing rapid, watch the languor in her eyes as she watched him watching her.
Then he would tongue her through the silk, shape her nipples with his lips, wet the silk, wanting to prolong the pleasure of seeing her for the first time, seeing her wearing nothing but a smile. For he would make her smile. He would make her laugh. He would make her sigh and moan with pleasure. He imagined these gentle, breathless, teasing explorations.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked. “You promised to let me know your thoughts.”
“I’m thinking about what I’m going to do to you tonight,” he said roughly, unable to keep the raw, pulsing need out of his voice.
Pink rose in her cheeks and her eyes went wide. “Oh.” She took a big gulp of wine.
“Shall I elaborate?”
“No,” she squeaked, adorably flustered.
“You don’t want to know my thoughts?”
“I...” She glanced at the footmen standing stiffly along the wall. “It’s not appropriate dinner conversation.”
“Then let’s finish this meal quickly and I’ll show you what I was thinking instead of telling you. Dessert,” he called.
The footmen jumped to attention, racing for the kitchens.