But then she speaks.
“You are mine.”
“Say that I belong to you.”
“You belong to me,” she gasps.
I move my hips roughly, and then she cries out.
And I do too.
It is, in my opinion, a rather spectacular way to make my point.
Chapter 53
Annabelle
Iawake the next morning with a lurch in my stomach.
I am still half asleep when I run across the room and into the water closet.
After being sick, I lie down on the floor. I hoped that my morning nausea would not worsen—but I have no such luck.
I begin to peel myself off the floor, but before I can move Alfred is beside me. He gently lifts me up.
“Here, my love,” he murmurs.
I never imagined that a man could carry so many contrasts—that he could be gentle and rough at the right times. Last night, I gloried in his insistence on belonging to me and the roughness with which he convinced me of it. But now I need his gentleness just as much.
Of course, while I enjoyed his erotic insistence on my ownership of him, his refusal to negate our marriage articles has done nothing to solve the horrible guilt that mounts in me every day. I hoped that, if I changed the articles, I wouldn’t feel so guilty about the origins of our relationship—and this pregnancy.
However, my attempt was a spectacular failure.
He helps me to the bed, and it is a miracle I don’t retch again on the journey.
“Matilda gave me ginger tea,” I manage when I am down, my eyes closed. “She said it would help.”
“Wait here. Don’t move. I will arrange everything with Mrs. Swanson.”
I nod and he leaves the room.
Mrs. Swanson is my housekeeper and to hear Alfred tell it, he is about to be much more familiar with her. Not just for the tea, but because he wants to take a greater hand in our domestic concerns. While I was mildly offended at first by his characterization of my administration of my households, I can’t truly say that he is wrong. A home was never something I was concerned with building and I am not of a domestic nature. Perhaps Icouldenjoy the domestic if I had someone else to manage and arrange it for me. I am willing to let him try.
If Alfred wants to arrange our home in addition to being a vicar, I see nothing wrong with it.
I would like him, however, to have somethingelse.
Not serving people as a vicar. And not serving me at home.
Something that could be an outlet for all that is inside of him. And that comes out most when he is bedding me. That feral, desirous part of himself that no one but me has ever appreciated but is so core to the man.
My stomach lurches again, and I have to close my eyes.
Five minutes later, Alfred comes back with a pile of nearly burnt toast and the ginger tea that Matilda recommended. I have the distinct impression that he rushed the staff to make these items—and I amgrateful, given how I am feeling.
But even after I finish this repast, I am ill. Better than before, yes, but not confident in my ability to get out of bed.
I am also bone-wearyingly tired.
