He rose and came up behind her, tilting her head back with a hand beneath her chin. “Two more weeks, and a proper wife you’ll be.” With little finesse, his mouth came down on hers. The faint scent of his breakfast had her squeezing her eyes shut and praying for the end to this torment. “Part your lips, Amy,” he demanded against her mouth. She didn’t. She wished he’d use one of those newfangled little silver toothbrushes Aunt Elizabeth had sent from Paris. Finally he raised his head. “Two weeks,” he repeated.
