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 myself. She was carrying my sister when my father died.’ The words almost stuck in her throat and she hurried past them. ‘After the birth, she was so very weak.’ Memories of her mother were equally painful. ‘When Father had been with us, she’d been young and happy. But without him, she’d go days without speaking, staring out of the window of our tiny apartment, her beauty fading a little each year, until the life was gone from her.’
Will must have recognised the fact, for his hand tightened on her shoulder, as if he could lead her away from the past. ‘But you still have your sister.’
‘Her name is Margot,’ she said, relieved. ‘She is in school.’
He opened one eye and glanced at her. ‘At this time of year?’
‘She spends summers and holidays there as well,’ Justine said. ‘I have no money to help her and must tend to my own work. It is better that she remain there, if there is nowhere for her to stay.’
He had opened both eyes to stare at her now. ‘You have somewhere now,’ he said, shaking his head in disappointment. ‘You are mistress of a house that is more than large enough to hold a young woman, no matter how extravagant her needs might be. Tell me, how old is little Margot?’
‘Nearly twenty,’ she
