He was already in bed, smiling at her as she closed the door behind her. He had propped himself up on the pillows, bare arms folded behind his head. The covers pooled in his lap, exposing his equally bare chest. She suspected he was naked beneath them. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to turn and run.
Foolishness. She had seen a naked man before. She had seen this man naked. She’d been bathing him for weeks. There were no surprises here.
He unfolded his arms and held one out to her in welcome, patting the mattress at his side with the other. ‘Come,’ he said.
Without thinking, she went to him, as obedient as a trained dog. Her own lack of resistance disgusted her. Had Montague schooled the last of the spirit from her? She buried the thought deep, so that it did not show on her face. It would not do to go frowning to her husband’s bed.
As she drew near, he threw back the blankets so that she might climb in beside him. She glanced down at the bare flank it revealed and then back up into his face, then sat down on the mattress, swung her legs up beside his and let him settle the covers over them.
His arm wrapped around her, holding her easily to his side. ‘Is this as strange to you as it is to me?’
Stranger than he could possibly imagine. She sought a comfortable place to rest her own arms, settling them gently against his chest. ‘It has been some time,’ she said, trying to sound sympathetic.
‘You, at least, remember who I am,’ he pointed out.
‘Will it really matter so much, once the lights are out?’ she asked.
She had said something wrong. He leaned away from her, clearly shocked. Of course it should matter. If the man one loved could not remember, it should hurt. If he had cared enough to marry her, he should at least pretend that she was not just another warm body in his bed.
He cleared his throat. ‘If it were simply a matter of desire, perhaps it would not matter. We share something more, do we not?’ This last came with a leading, hopeful tone, as though he was still longing to remember what it was that had brought them to marry.
She had no answer, other than ‘yes.’ Then she snuggled closer to him and eased a leg over his, hoping that the discussion might be over for the night.
He did not move away. But neither did he tumble her on to her back so that they could begin. Instead, his other hand reached out to her. It hovered over her breasts for a moment. Then he ran a finger along the neckline of her rather chaste nightrail. ‘Did you make this for yourself?’
‘Of course.’
‘And the lace here. What is it called?’
She shrugged, for it was no great achievement. ‘A simple picot edging.’
‘Do you make it with the pins and the cushion?’
She shook her head, surprised that he would be asking about her work now, of all times. ‘I use a shuttle. It is called tatting. Very easy. I can make enough for the whole gown in an evening.’
He looked down at her body again, seemingly more interested in the simple dress than the body beneath it. ‘Is this indicative of your other nightwear?’
‘I have several identical to this,’ she admitted.
‘It is very practical,’ he said, politely.
She had a sudden memory of lying with Montague, wearing the sheer lawn he preferred. And then there were the nights he expected her to come to him wearing nothing at all. She could not help the sudden shudder of revulsion.
He lifted the blanket and bunched it around her shoulders. ‘As I told you before, old houses are cold. But you may trust that I will keep you warm when we are together like this.’ With two fingers, he plucked the nightcap from her head and dropped it on the floor beside the bed. Then he blew a warm breath against her ear.
This made her shiver as well. But it was accompanied by a sigh of delight that surprised her and drew a satisfied nod from him. Then he spoke again. ‘I am curious. You take the time to make masterpieces for your friends. They could talk of nothing else but the cleverness of your work. When I did not see lace trimming on your gown during the day, or at dinner, I assumed I would see some tonight.’ He glanced down at the cap on the floor and shook his head in disappointment. ‘Why do you not wear the finer stuff yourself?’
She had a sudden memory of the chest her mother had kept. It was as big as a wardrobe, the outside inlaid with intricate tracings of sulphur, the inside smelling of beeswax and cloves. You will have it some day, she had said. For your trousseau.
How long had it been since she’d thought of it? After Montague had come to her, she’d realised that marriage was a lost dream. That had been the day that she’d set the items she’d already made aside, so that Margot might have them.
Her husband was waiting for an answer.
‘It is nice to see others happy,’ she said.
‘I would like to see you happy as well,’ he replied. ‘You would be most attractive in a gown trimmed with the lace you were making tonight.’ He drew a finger across her bodice, as if to indicate where it might go.
She shivered. ‘It would not be very modest. You would see...’ She stopped. She could imagine her nipples, poking through the lace.
‘I know,’ he said, with a smile, his hand pausing dangerously near to one of them.
‘If you wish, I will remove the gown,’ she said, squirming under the covers to draw up the hem.
He covered her hand with his to stop her. ‘You misunderstand me.’
Perhaps she did not. ‘You do not wish to see my body?’
He gave a nervous laugh. ‘I wish to. Very much. I am sure I enjoyed the sight of it before and I look forward to seeing it again. But there is no reason to rush.’
‘Of course not,’ she said, stretching beside him again and pressing a hand to the middle of his chest.
In response, he stroked her hair. ‘It is quite embarrassing to admit this, but I do not know if I have the strength to perform. The day has been tiring and I am still weak as a kitten. I am likely to shame myself, should I attempt to be intimate with you.’
When she glanced down, his body said otherwise. She could see the beginnings of arousal growing beneath the bedsheet. ‘We will do whatever you wish,’ she said, surprised to feel disappointment.
He closed his eyes and sighed, as though it were a relief. Then he said, ‘Then we will go where the mood takes us. And I do enjoy your being here, with me. The sound of your voice is soothing. I was told you read to me, while I was unconscious.’
‘I did,’ she said. ‘Only novels. Nothing of substance.’ She smiled. ‘It seems we share an interest in them.’ It had been a chance to indulge a guilty pleasure of her own, while pretending to help him.
‘I do not remember the words,’ he said. ‘But I think I remember the sound of you. You must speak more often for I love to hear it. Your voice is like music.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He closed his eyes, and leaned back into the pillows. ‘You have listened to me all night. Now you must speak. Tell me of yourself.’
Her hands froze on his chest and she hoped he did not feel her go rigid with panic. What could she say that might not trigger the very memories she did not want to awaken? ‘What do you wish to know?’
‘How did you become so clever with your hands? Did your mother teach you?’
She relaxed a little, for that topic was harmless enough. ‘It was a skill of hers. But much of the work I taught