“I’ll be gentle,” he said. And probably quick, he thought, as he began to move in a rhythm as old as time, seeking his own fulfillment. Louisa responded, writhing beneath him, driving him even more rapidly toward completion. Soon after, she arched her slender body, his name on her lips like a plea for mercy as she spiraled into ecstasy once more. And this time, he followed.
*
Later that night,Louisa opened her eyes to candlelight and the sound of a quill scratching on paper. She blinked and lifted up on an elbow, squinting into the low light to see Maxwell, clad in his dressing-gown, seated at the table by the window, bent over a paper, pen in hand.
“Maxwell?” She rubbed her eyes, trying to ease a slight headache. “What are you doing?”
“Making a few notes,” he said, still scribbling. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just needed to jot down some ideas while they were fresh in my mind.”
“Oh.” She stifled a yawn. “What is the hour?”
“A little after three.”
“Goodness.” She flopped back onto her pillow. “It’s awfully early. Or maybe terribly late.”
“Aye, I’m afraid I don’t sleep much. But don’t worry. We’ll have separate bedrooms when we get back to Northcott. That way, I won’t disturb you.”
Louisa’s foggy brain tried to make sense of what he’d said. “Separate bedrooms?”
“For sleeping, aye.” His chair creaked as he turned to look at her. “Onlyfor sleeping.”
Her responding smile, which she aimed at the ceiling, was perfunctory. It was not at all uncommon, of course, for husbands and wives to have separate chambers. But, in Louisa’s mind, it should perhaps not be quite so soon after their marriage. Her romantic ideal was falling asleep in her husband’s arms and waking up in them as well. She pressed a hand to her forehead and suppressed a sigh.
Maxwell muttered something under his breath as he set his pen down and rose to his feet. Then he shrugged off his dressing gown and climbed back into bed, taking her into his arms. “I’ve upset you, haven’t I? Damn it, Louisa. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m not upset.” She trailed a fingertip over the light bristle on his jaw. “Well, all right, maybe just alittleupset. But you did warn me, to be fair. No flowery or romantic notions, I believe you said.”
“It seems my sense of timing is also abysmal,” he said. “I apologize.”
“No, it’s all right.” Her lips pursed as she pondered. “Besides, who knows? By the time we get back to Northcott, you might have become accustomed to sleeping with me.”
“Notsleeping is the issue.” He stroked her hair. “For some reason, I do my best thinking at night and tend to wander about.”
“I see.” Stifling another yawn, she snuggled into his chest and listened to the solid beat of his heart. “In that case, for the rest of our honeymoon, if you awaken me at some God-forsaken hour, I shall just roll over and go back to sleep.”
“Ah, but what if there are occasions when I don’twantyou to go back to sleep?” His hand wandered down her back and caressed her bottom. “In fact, I believe this might be one of those occasions.”
Louisa felt his arousal pressing against her and suppressed a shiver of excitement, but huffed, feigning nonchalance. “Well, I suppose I could make an exception in that case. Do you have something special in mind?”
He laughed softly. “I certainly do,” he said, and lowered his mouth to hers.
Chapter Eleven
Louisa sat atthe writing desk in The Lakeview Hotel library and read over the latest entry in her new journal. The book, bound in fine, soft leather, had a been a gift from Maxwell, one of several that had been waiting for her when they’d arrived at their honeymoon destination. The journal had been accompanied by a gold fountain pen inscribed with her name, and a crystal inkwell. Her husband, while not a man given to poetic lines or public shows of affection, was certainly generous.
“I’m glad it pleases you,” he’d said, when she’d expressed her delight and surprise at receiving the journal. “Given your love of the written word, I thought you might enjoy writing a few of your own.”
It was an unexpected gift, one she could have neither imagined nor foreseen. Louisa loved to read, but journaling—keeping a diary—was something she had never done. Till now. And she’d since discovered that she loved it. The other gifts included a pretty pearl brooch and an ivory-and-lace fan. But the journal was Louisa’s favorite. The most recent entry detailed this, their final day in the Lake District. There had not been much to tell. Apart from an after-luncheon stroll through the village, it had been a lazy day, spent mostly in their room or in the hotel’s lounge.
Tomorrow, at an early hour, they would begin their three-day journey back to Northcott Manor. Louisa could quite easily havestayed a while longer, though she had the feeling Maxwell was keen to resume his industrious life. His nighttime restlessness had worsened as the days passed, though their larger suite at The Lakeview Hotel meant that he disturbed her less, since he could retire to their private sitting-room.
Pen in hand, she pondered over the composition of her closing sentence. How to sum it all up.
Everything had been practically perfect. Their hotel suite, with its beamed ceilings and soft carpets, blended rustic charm with luxurious comfort. The food had been excellent, and the views of the lake and surrounding hills were majestic, to say the least.
They had made love every night, often twice, sometimes in the morning, and on the occasional afternoon. While there had been no verbal expressions of love from either of them, Louisa refused to entertain any feelings of disappointment. That her husband found her desirable was not in any doubt at all. Besides, she told herself, they were still learning about each other. However, whether he knew it or not, Maxwell had already captured Louisa’s heart.
With the exception of two soggy days, the weather had cooperated. Consequently, there had taken several outings to local places of interest, a picnic on the shores of Windermere, and an unforgettable trip on the newly launched steamer, The Lady of the Lake. A detailed account of that, and every other day, now existed in the pages of Louisa’s journal. With one exception.
