and blowing out the candles. There was still plenty of light from the fire and the window to illumine his way to the bed.
And enough light for Elizabeth to see when he removed his dressing robe that he wore nothing beneath it. At first she was shocked, but she did not look away. She had never thought of any man as beautiful. Handsome, yes, but not beautiful. Edwin was beautiful-all well-muscled, perfectly proportioned male beauty.
He lay down beside her and turned to her. He raised himself on one elbow, leaned over her, and kissed her again, his hand cupping her cheek, his fingers pushing into her hair. This time when he parted his lips and touched hers with his tongue, she did not flinch-though she did feel a raw and unfamiliar sensation in her mouth, in her breasts, in her womb, down between her thighs. She parted her lips and opened her mouth, and he pressed his tongue deep inside.
For a few moments she hardly noticed that his hand had moved down to fondle her breasts. She did notice, though, when the hand moved to the ribbons that held her nightgown closed to the waist and pulled them loose one by one. His hand slid along bare flesh to cup her breast. He ran his thumb lightly over her nipple.
She thought she would surely die of pleasure. She heard herself make a sound deep in her throat.
“Touch me,” he whispered against her lips.
She set one hand tentatively against his chest-it was hard and dusted with hair. The other arm she set about his waist. She had always wanted to touch him, she realized, but she had never laid claim to him as her own. Hers had always been the passive role of obedient wife. Was it possible for a woman to claim a man? Was it right? Was it seemly?
He was not simply going to lift her nightgown tonight, bring himself down on top of her, and penetrate her. That was already clear. She was enormously thankful. It had always been over so very quickly, long before she could even begin to draw any secret pleasure from it.
She was not prepared, though, for all the things he did before the inevitable moment came. He touched her everywhere, with his hands, with his mouth, even with his teeth, first through her nightgown, then beneath it. Finally he slid both hands beneath the gown and lifted it up her body and over her head and along her lifted arms.
And they were both naked.
She should have been horribly shocked, especially as there was so much light in the room and the bedcovers had been pushed back. But her body was humming with pleasure, and his hands and his mouth and his eyes made her feel beautiful. She was having a hard time containing the sensations that were pulsing with her blood into every nerve ending in her body.
She throbbed between her thighs and up inside, longing for his penetration, not wanting it too soon, knowing that all would be over within moments once it did happen.
She touched him lightly with her hands-above the waist-and said nothing.
When his hand slid between her legs and explored and caressed the soft secret folds, she knew that she was wet and hot-his fingers felt contrastingly cool. He slid a finger up inside her. She kept her eyes closed and tried to concentrate upon her breathing.
And then he moved over her and lowered his weight on her and spread her legs wide with his own. Familiarity returned as he slid his hands beneath her buttocks and she spread her arms across the bed and pressed her palms into the mattress and drew a slow, deep breath.
He came inside slowly, sliding into wetness, stretching her, filling her. He felt gloriously hard. She fought the urge to tighten inner muscles about him, and lay still.
It lasted far longer than she remembered. He worked her with a slow, deep, firm rhythm for a long time, filling her with himself, filling her, too, with a longing so intense that she wondered if indeed there was any difference between pain and pleasure. By the time he quickened and deepened the rhythm, she was digging into the mattress with her fingers and biting hard on her upper lip in an effort to control herself-though what it was she controlled or stopped from happening she did not know.
He made a guttural sound of satisfaction against the side of her face, and she felt the remembered heat at her core. She was taking his seed into herself again. Despite the slight, unidentified dissatisfaction she felt as all his weight relaxed down onto her and he fell still, Elizabeth smiled and felt happiness well inside to replace the raw discomfort of physical desire not quite allowed to complete itself.
They were not estranged.
Perhaps there would be another child.
When he came for an occasional visit to Wyldwood-and surely he would come for Jeremy’s sake-they would perhaps share a bed for a few minutes each night and she would be able to feel this pleasure again.
She tried not to feel dejection when he drew free of her and moved off her. He would return to his room now, and she would feel the remembered emptiness of being alone once more. But differently from all those other times, she would have pleasant memories with which to warm herself until she slept. And perhaps he would come back tomorrow night.
He lay beside her for a while, turned toward her. Then he rested a hand on her stomach and made light circles with it. He sighed audibly.
“For a while,” he said, “I thought it was perhaps more than duty.”
She turned her head sharply to look at him. He was half smiling.
“It was not duty,” she said.
“You just do not like me very much, do you?” he said. “Or is it sex you do not like? Or both?”
Joy went crashing out of her again, and she felt her eyes fill with tears.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not satisfy you. I did my best. I am sorry.”
“Damn,” he said so softly that she was not even sure he had uttered such a shocking word.
He turned sharply away and sat up on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees, the fingers of both hands pushing through his hair. Elizabeth felt two tears spill over, one to pool against her nose, the other to plop off onto her pillow.
“I am sorry,” she said again. “What did I do wrong? Tell me, and I will do better next time.”
“What has she done to you?” he said. “This is all her doing, is it not?”
“Whose?” she asked, bewildered.
“Your mother’s,” he said. “You are not naturally frigid, are you? I thought so until today, but I have seen you laughing and flushed and happy. You are warmly maternal with Jeremy. Do you hate me so much? Or are you merely a product of your mother’s rigid ideas of what a lady should be?”
But she had heard only one thing. She stared at his back in horror.
“I am not frigid,” she protested. “I am not. I feel things as deeply as anyone else. How could you say such a cruel thing? I am sorry if I do not satisfy you, but I am not frigid.”
She turned over onto her side, spread her hands over her face, and tried-unsuccessfully-to muffle the sobs she could not control.
“Elizabeth-”
“Go away,” she wailed. “Go away. You are horrid, and I hate you. I am not fr-frigid I wish you would… I wish you would go to the devil.” She had never, ever said such a thing aloud, or even thought it, until now.
For a few moments she did not know what he was doing. She waited for the sound of the door opening and closing. But then the bed beside her depressed. He had come around it and sat down. He was wearing his dressing robe. He set the backs of his knuckles against her hot, wet cheek and rubbed them back and forth lightly.
“Forgive me,” he said. “Please forgive me.”
She turned her face into the mattress, shrugging his hand away.
“No,” she said. “How could you say such a thing after… after what happened. I thought it was wonderful. Obviously I know nothing. It was not wonderful at all, was it? Go away, then. Go away and never come back. Jeremy and I have lived without you for three months. We can live without you for the rest of our lives.”
“Elizabeth,” he said, and she had the satisfaction of hearing distress in his voice. “My dearest, I had no intention of hurting you. Curse me for a fool that I ever said such a thing. I do not believe it. We did everything wrong from the start, did we not? We allowed this marriage to be arranged for us. There was nothing too wrong in that-it happens all the time. But we made no attempt to make it our own marriage. We allowed awkwardness and perhaps some resentment to keep us almost silent with each other. And then my father died and everything fell to pieces. It was all my fault. I should have persevered. I should have been more patient, gentler with you. I should
