“Wehave a townhouse in London and a country estate,” she corrects. “And that’s why I have the housekeepers. One in each location as a matter of fact.”
“Yes, but having a housekeeper does not mean you can ignore everything of a domestic nature. Other than looking at expenses, that is.”
Annabelle snorts. “I beg to differ.”
“Well—”
Then I stop. I don’t want to insult her.
She blanches. “Are youcomplainingabout my housekeeping?”
“Mrs. de Lacey,” I say, keeping my tone light. “You are a busy woman. I am merely trying to take a burden from your shoulders.”
“And you think the way I run things now is lacking?”
“No, not exactly,” I say, because it is true—there is nothingwrongwith how she manages her homes. “But now that we are to have a family, our domestic life could be a bit more…personal.”
“Warm,” she says. “Not cold. Like me.”
“I didn’t say cold—andyouaren’t cold,” I correct. “But the houses could be warmer, yes.”
She sighs. “Very well. I suppose I do not have any interest in domestic matters anyway. And if you say you enjoy it and think you can manage it on top of your duties as vicar of Trescott…”
“I think I shall be able to manage it. I am not exactly overrun with responsibilities these days.”
“If it suits you, I will not object,” she says. “But I wish to speak with you about two things, husband, and they have nothing to do withhousekeeping.”
She turns towards me as she says the words and I begin to harden. It has been only a little over twenty-four hours since we copulated in some form, and my appetite for her is keen. I hope that whatever she has in mind is of a sexual variety. I figure that actual copulation will not be possible given her pregnancy—and over the coming months, I will miss being inside her warm, tight core—but more of what we did on the train seems to pose no risk that I can think of.
“Tell me.”
“You said the other day that you were afraid to bed me properly because you feared it might harm the pregnancy.”
“I think I bedded you very properly on the train and when we first arrived in this house.”
She rolls her eyes. “Very well, you did. But you ignore my meaning.”
I nod. “Of course, I do not know what other married couples do. But I am—so—” I struggle to say it, knowing somehow that she will laugh. “—so brutishly large. It doesn’t seem safe.”
She does laugh then, but I don’t mind. The truth is that I like making Annabelle laugh. She does not do it easily.
“You are large,” she says. “But no man, I think, is large enough to reach all the way into a woman’s womb.”
I have seen drawings of female anatomy before, so I understand her meaning. And yet still I pause.
“I wouldn’t want to do anything to harm you—or the child.”
“You won’t,” she says, grabbing my hand. “And I find that I desperately want to bed my husband. But we can be gentle. If it will ease your worries.”
My cock, traitor that it is, is already hard against her hip. I suppose that my fear is not exactly rational. It springs in part from my sense that what Annabelle and I do together,and how good it feels, cannot be enjoyed without some punishment or attendant deprivation.
“You know I cannot refuse you. And that I’ve missed?—”
I break off because her hand flutters to my cock.
“Are you sure you are well? You do not feel sick?”
She shakes her head. “Not now.”
