The Bridegroom by Linda Lael Miller

are.”
    Lydia’s heart sprouted wings and flew up into her throat, fairly choking her, but she allowed Gideon to lead her up the stairs, in that ancient, thrice-worn wedding dress.
    Putting a finger to his lips as they passed the rooms where his nieces and nephews were sleeping, he led her into a chamber at the end of the hall, under the slant of the roof. A beautiful china lamp glowed softly on the nightstand, and the window was open to the night breeze.
    Lydia forced her gaze to the bed, drew in her breath when she saw how narrow it was, and again when Gideon immediately began shedding his clothes. The coat went first, then the tie, then the shirt.
    “You’re not sleeping in that gown, are you?” he asked, down to his trousers and boots by then. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, and Lydia knew he was watching her, but the angle of the lamp left his face in shadow, so she couldn’t make out his expression.
    She did see the scar on his shoulder, though. She wondered what had happened to him, but couldn’t bring herself to ask.
    Almost saucy before they ascended the staircase, Lydia was once again her normal shy and reticent self. “Lark lent me a nightdress,” she heard herself say, “but it’s in Helga’s room, where I was supposed to sleep tonight.”
    Gideon didn’t speak. His face was still unreadable, but she saw his throat move as he swallowed.
    “I’ll go and fetch it,” Lydia said.
    Gideon stood, crossed to her, turned her around and started undoing the many buttons at the back of her dress. “No need,” he said, his voice strange and hoarse. “You can wear one of my shirts.”
    Lydia supposed that was better than sleeping in her drawers and camisole and corset, all of which were uncomfortable, but in a way it seemed even more daring than lying down next to Gideon with nothing at all on. She yearned for one of her own nightgowns, with their long, full sleeves, high necklines, and ruffled hems brushing the floor, but they had all been left behind in Phoenix.
    If she went downstairs to claim the one Lark had offered, she would have to face Helga and, anyway, she didn’t think she had enough starch left in her knees to make it that far.
    “All right,” she said.
    Gideon went to the large mahogany wardrobe on the far wall, took out a shirt. Brought it to her.
    “You keep clothing here?” she asked, knowing the question was inane but unable to bear the silence. Accepting the garment, she averted her eyes.
    “I’ve been known to visit occasionally,” Gideon answered, oddly affable after the way he’d acted downstairs, before, during and after their wedding ceremony. “Lark and Rowdy set this room aside for me when they built the place.”
    With that, he turned his back, allowing Lydia time to stepout of the gown she’d been clutching to her, shed her corset and underthings, and scramble into the shirt. The tails reached past her knees, and the cotton fabric smelled pleasantly of Gideon—soap, aftershave and, oddly, since she hadn’t seen him on or near a horse, saddle leather.
    “W-what will you sleep in?” she asked. She still hadn’t moved from the center of the room, and Aunt Nell’s cherished gown lay in a pool at her feet. Hastily, Lydia stepped out of the billow of yellowing lace and silk and gathered it up, clutched it to her.
    Gideon laughed, low and quiet, surely mindful, as Lydia was, of the children slumbering in nearby rooms. “Normally, Mrs. Yarbro,” he replied, still keeping his back to her, his arms folded, “I don’t sleep in anything at all. Can I turn around now?”
    Lydia bit her lower lip, nodded, realized that he couldn’t possibly have seen that gesture, and said, “If you must.”
    He approached the bed, threw back the lovely faded quilt and top sheet beneath. “Which side do you want?” he asked, before yawning expansively.
    Lydia managed to move far enough to lay the folded wedding dress down carefully on top of an old steamer trunk in one corner of