“You mean there are other … positions?” It was a bold question, one she normally wouldn’t have voiced. Maybe sin was intoxicating such as they said in church. Now that she was on the path, each step was easier to take. She craved knowing more.
“Oh, yes. There are many positions for a man and woman to make love in and several other things that will keep your husband eager to join you after sunset.”
Enjoyment flickered in Marie’s eyes again. Bridget smiled without thinking. She wanted to know whatever it was that made Marie look that way. It was some secret that promised to bring pleasure when she at last discovered what it was.
“First we shall refine your entrance and disrobing. You must grasp your partner’s attention the moment you enter the room.”
Marie proved a tough taskmaster. Bridget redressed and unhooked her bodice countless more times.
“Better. Now we must proceed, for our time is limited. Once your dress is removed, take your shoes off, and always wear lace stockings. Change into them before supper.”
“They are so expensive.” Or time consuming to produce. The only two pairs Bridget owned were ones she had made under the watchful eye of the estate tailor. She had labored until her shoulders ached to knit them.
“But they draw a man’s eyes to your legs.” Marie sat down. But she didn’t use one of the chairs the solar offered. Instead she lowered her body onto a padded footstool. She parted her knees so that the point of her corset dipped down to cover her mons. With one hand on top of either thigh she slowly drew her chemise up to display her lace-stocking-clad legs.
“I see what you mean.” It was captivating. Naughty. But ever so clever. The subtle demonstration played on the submissive role that a wife was expected to embody while wielding a measure of control that Bridget had never considered she might. The last traces of her childhood felt as if they were evaporating, and she was happy to allow it. Here was the thing that she had felt the need to discover ever since accepting that she would wed Curan. Deep inside her, she had felt a surprising rush of heat, unsure what its purpose was.
“Good. Now you try it.”
Sleep eluded Bridget that night. She heard the fire crackling beyond the bed curtains, but her mind was still engrossed with her lessons. She was caught between the things she had practiced and the unknown lessons that were to come. How was it possible to spend so many years being tutored only to discover an entire subject untouched? Since she had been allowed out of the nursery, she had been groomed to be a well-educated companion and an expert accountant for her husband’s holdings. At the center of it all had always been her marriage. It was what a nobleman’s daughter did—wed well and manage her husband’s estate.
And produce heirs.
That was the part in which she found her education lacking. Her cheeks heated in spite of the night’s chill. Well, in all truth it wasn’t nearly so lacking now. Yet she was not arrogant enough to believe that learning how to disrobe with some skill was all there was to enticing a man. If that were so, no man would be paying for peacock-blue silk corsets for a courtesan.
She knew it was more. It had surrounded Marie like a mist. Some would label such a thing witchcraft. The king had accused Anne Boleyn of using unnatural skills to enchant him away from his wife. But was that the same thing she had witnessed in Marie today? That subtle motion of her body and the slanting of her eyes. Was it a ploy of the devil or merely a clever use of what God had given her?
She liked the latter idea. There was no mistake about it. Bridget felt her lips curve up with enjoyment. She had never been very fond of the lectures given in church to wives. Strict instructions drilled into her every morning on the merits of obedience and submissive traits.
Why? Did not boldness breed strength? Whoever heard of choosing a docile mare to be covered by the strongest stallion? No. Never. When her father was home, he would go out and watch the mares to see which ones had fire in them. Only the ones that displayed courage and life would be allowed to breed with his prize stallions. The same held true across the estate, from prize-hunting hounds to the falcons. Strength was sought, not meekness.
Maybe that was the difference between men and women. The solid truth was that the two genders were very contrary to one other.
Curan’s face rose to the front of Bridget’s thoughts. It wasn’t the first time he’d invaded her bed. There was something about his features she liked to dwell on. He was a hard man with a body thick with muscle. Such was to be expected since he still rode alongside the Earl of Pemshire and then with the king. That was no place for soft courtiers. Each man was expected to wield his sword with a skilled hand and a strong arm. To do any less was a sure way to end up dead … Curan did not disappoint.
She suspected it was the reason her father had contracted with him. The border lords were men who took estates along Scotland’s border. It was an uncertain place. Many of England’s nobles had failed to keep their land secure against the clans that lay on the other side of that border. Curan was earning his land and title by holding an estate for England. When he had ridden into sight for their swearing ceremony, she had shivered. Every man following him was hardened, all in firm command of their warhorses.
She had felt that strength in the light touch of his fingers against her skin, a faint brushing of his fingertips across her cheek as he cupped her face for a kiss. She had trembled and studied his face in an attempt to discover if he was moved by her. Curan never complimented her hair or her eyes. Others had. Her hair was the lightest brown that turned copper in the sunlight, but he didn’t seem interested in it. He made no comment on her smooth, freckle-free complexion, either. The only thing that drew his dark eyes to her with interest had been the way she stared straight into his eyes as he bent to kiss her. She saw clearly a flicker of admiration before his lips made contact with hers, the hand on her cheek tightening ever so slightly while his mouth pressed against hers. Time had frozen—as still as the lake did in winter. She had been suspended in that moment, with his body looming over hers and his lips impossibly hot against her own. Even now she recalled it vividly.
Maybe too much so.
For certain she felt lust for him. Hidden behind her bed curtains, Bridget refused to be dishonest with herself. Out among the staff, tending to her father’s estate, was another matter. There were appearances to maintain. Here, she felt the heat over her cheekbones and the way it spread down her throat and across her chest. Wearing only a chemise beneath the bedcovers, she was aware of her nipples drawing into hard pebbles as though she were cold. Yet she knew that was not the cause. A flush of warmth spread along her skin, not startling any longer because she had become accustomed to it. Whenever she allowed her thoughts to dwell on Curan, her body responded.
For certain, it was a pity that she was not to wed him.
Marie kept her
