But if what humans did was unpleasant, then surely she would have heard something about it. Women complained about childbirth, but not the act that caused it. And all the women in the paintings at Vitium et Virtus had seemed happy enough, as had the female guests she had seen leading gentlemen up the stairs.
When the moment came for her, if it ever did, she prayed that she would know what to do. Frederick would not think her bothersome or stupid. He would think she was wonderful and would tell her so repeatedly. Then they would lie together in the bed, still naked, and there would be more kissing and no arguing at all until after they got up.
Because, no matter how good it might be in bed, and how good it had been tonight, she was sure there would still be arguing. Perhaps there was something that she could do that would render him not quite so totally unreasonable. But short of a blow to the head that left him permanently dazed, she could not think of what it might be.
At supper, he had claimed that he had no immediate plans to return to London. But even if he came to her bed, he would go eventually, back to the club he had forbidden her to enter. She had not seen him do anything particularly scandalous, when she had been there. But she could not imagine him forgoing the pleasures that he was not sharing with his wife.
He would be there and she would be miles away, wondering about him. She would be tossing in bed as she was tonight, her skin hot, her body tingling, wanting whatever it was that women got when their husbands thought of them as a wife and not an inconvenience.
She could not stand the thought of it any more. To be so near to him but still alone was agony. She slid out of bed and, without bothering to grab a wrap or slippers, slipped out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the front door of the house.
She ran through the yard, feeling the cool grass between her toes. It was a warm night. The moon was full and so bright that it was almost like walking in daylight, but there was not enough breeze to dry the perspiration that made her nightgown cling uncomfortably to her body. She paused for a moment, weighing the wisdom of her plan against how pleasant it might be. Then she turned her steps toward the pond.
It was not really an escape, she reminded herself. She was still on the property. But with each step she took she felt more peaceful than she had since the kiss on the balcony. It was not as if she wanted to get away from him. No matter how hard it was, it was better than being married to Nash Bowles. But that did not make this marriage right.
Her parents had been happy together. But more than that. She had seen the love in them when they had looked into each other’s eyes. It had been something she’d expected, when she had begun to search for a husband. But as she had watched other girls accept offers with little more than lukewarm affection, she had begun to see just how rare a thing such shared feelings must be. To find that she was falling in love with Frederick Challenger, of all people…
Perhaps it was not love at all. Maybe it was only lust. She had never felt that before. Perhaps the two were indistinguishable from each other. It was perfectly normal to be attracted to a handsome man. But it would be foolish to fall in love with a man who’d spent most of their acquaintance looking at her as though she was a broken toy that needed to be fixed.
She reached the edge of the pond and bent over it, cupping her hands and scooping up the clear dark water and splashing it on to her heated face.
She was not in love. If her feelings were more than temporary infatuation, she would begin to care that they were not reciprocated. Then, she would begin trying to follow his rules and trying to act normal to please him. Since she had no idea what normal was, she would likely fail. Even if she succeeded, there was no proof that it would be enough to win his heart. It was just as likely that he would raise the bar once she had reached it and become even more strict.
She dipped a bare toe into the water, watching the silver trail of tiny waves in the moonlight. It was some consolation that, if she had to be alone, it was at least a beautiful evening. The song of night birds was loud in the still air. The water at her feet was as warm as a bath.
Did she dare to swim in it? Frederick had promised her that the land around his home would be as much hers as it was his. What was to prevent her from enjoying it? Without another thought she stripped her nightgown over her head and spread it on a bush to keep it from the damp grass. Then, she waded into the water and dived for the centre.
This was what she had needed. Her worries seemed to melt away with the water. When she broke the surface, the drops clinging to her arms were as bright as diamonds. She splashed in front of her, watching the ripples and laughing softly at the wonder of it all. Perhaps it would not be so bad to be alone if she could have more nights like this.
With a few easy strokes, she was back to the side again and threw herself down on the mossy bank to let the air dry her skin and hair before returning to the house. She closed her eyes and watched the silver light still patterning the inside of her eyelids.
Suddenly, everything went dark.
She opened them, expecting to see a cloud on the face of the moon. Instead, the dark silhouette of a man was blocking the light. She gasped and reached for something to cover herself, then stopped. It was far too late to worry about such things, even if she’d had a robe within reach.
‘What the devil are you doing?’ Her husband’s voice brought the first chill to the night air.
‘I should think that was obvious,’ she replied, trying to keep the fear from her reply. How long had he been watching her? It did not matter, for he could see her now, lying at his feet as naked as a pagan offering.
But he did not appear to be moved by the sight of her. ‘If you wished to swim, we could have gone to Bath for the waters. Or you could have gone to Brighton and dressed appropriately for it.’
‘I could have dressed to swim,’ she said, squinting up to try to decipher the expression on his face. There was no point in bothering, for it was most certainly disapproval. ‘Have you ever tried to swim in the costumes allowed to women, on such rare occasions that we are encouraged into the water?’
The silence of his response was answer enough.
‘Nor have you been carted into the water like freight in a bathing machine,’ she said. ‘It makes no sense to be wheeled into the deep and hauled back again, just to avoid getting mud between one’s toes.’
‘If you find the process of going for a ladylike sea bath so objectionable, you should refrain from the water altogether.’ There was a curious quality to his voice now, as if he was barely maintaining control of something.
‘But I like to swim,’ she said. ‘It is quite liberating.’ She made an expansive gesture, only to remember that when one was still totally nude, it did not do to debate the merits of athletics.
‘You are quite liberated enough for one evening, I think,’ he said, snatching her nightgown from its branch and tossing it to her.
‘And, as usual, you are more constricted than I thought it was possible for a man to be,’ she said, scrambling to her feet and clutching the fabric between her hands.
‘Constricted?’ His face was still in shadow, but she could imagine the look of anger that must be there. ‘I’ve a good mind to show you what happens when constraints are removed.’
‘I wish you would. Then perhaps I would not think I had married an unbearable prig.’
