But now a child has become so much more complicated. And, for some reason I cannot explain, I feel a prick of conscience when I imagine never telling Alfred of my initial intentions with him. The deception I will have to employ, while not elaborate, does not sit well with me. I will have to feign surprise at the pregnancy—and the prospect only makes me feel sicker than I do already.
In truth, in life, unless it involves Alfred de Lacey, nee Saintsbury, I am seldom surprised.
For some reason, this entire conundrum makes me only yearn for London more.
“Very well,” Alfred says after a brief pause. “I am prepared to leave whenever it pleases you.”
“In a few days’ time then, we shall away,” I say. “I will tell the servants to ready everything and to prepare for an extended absence. You should consider what you want to bring to London and what of your possessions can stay here at Trescott.”
My husband nods, not seeming particularly concerned about the task. It is true that besides his books and a few good items of clothing, my husband has not much to his name.
“Do you consider, wife, that here in this very room is where you first bedded me?”
I smile at that. “I have notbedded you here at all, husband.”
“Perhaps it is a matter of semantic debate. I still see the act as bedding even if it did not involve cock and quim.”
“Well, perhaps we should settle the matter,” I say. His eyes glow from his own wine—which I allow him now. I laugh at the memory of how I deprived him of wine on that first morning together. It was absurd of me, really, but I suppose I did it to punish him for already having such an effect on me.
“You would like me to take you right here, would you, wife?”
“I will make no protest,” I say, flashing him a grin over my wine glass.
That is encouragement enough. He stands and throws his serviette on his plate. The large table separates us and he closes the space quickly.
“Stand,” he commands.
The days when he needed instruction appear to be behind us. At least in some instances. Anticipation pools in my belly. What will he do to me? I truly have no idea.
He begins undressing me, stripping me of my gown and then my petticoats. I stand only in my stockings and corset—I did not bother with a shift or drawers.
He kisses me softly, exploring my mouth as tenderly as if it were the only plunder he planned. I melt into him, savoring the soft treatment, idly wondering what he will do next.
He reaches down between my legs and begins to stroke. I give a little exhale at this incursion. He has learned so well how to please me since our first time together. Soon, he has me shivering and panting.
“Come for me,” he says brusquely in my ear.
“I thought you were going to bed me properly, sir?”
He does not pause his touching. He continues stroking in and out of my channel.
“I have plans for you,” he says. “Do not think. Do not protest. Trust me.”
His fingers are concentrated on my clit, bringing me to the brink.
“Come for me, Annabelle,” he repeats.
It is not difficult to obey.
I break, crying out and burying my face into his shoulder. The cold air of the dining room causes gooseflesh to rise even as my skin is hot and overcome from his touch.
“Very good,” Alfred says with a smile, letting me clutch him. “Now I want you to lie on the table.”
He gestures towards the broad expanse of table covered only by a cloth. I lie horizontally across the table as he indicated—the table is so wide that only my feet hang off of it.
I assume he will fuck me, but to my surprise he kneels down and pulls me to the edge.
In a moment, his mouth is on my core, and he is teasing me softly towards continued arousal. I am still sensitive from my last orgasm, but his mouth works so gently that I experience no discomfort. And very soon, I am vibrating with pleasure once more. He eases two fingers inside of me and I moan.
