“Even then,” he said. “A lie is a lie, regardless of the intent behind it.”
And his wife was rather adept at spinning schemes. Lewis considered her. Somehow, he could not quite make himself think that Bridget was aliar.
Bridget hummed and closed her eyes, stretching her arms above her head. “Did you enjoy it, too?”
“Yes,” he said. “Did you have any doubts?”
“I thought you did,” she said. “You—you shouted, and I felt you inside me. Y-you were wet.”
There was something charming in how she clearly wanted to speak to him but did not quite know the words to express what she wanted. Lewis rather suspected that husbands and wives did not discuss their consummations in this explicit detail, but he ought not be surprised that headstrong Bridget was so eager to discuss the experience.
“I did enjoy myself,” he said. “As much as you did, I am certain.”
“I am glad.” She paused. “No books ever mention this aspect of marriage.”
Some did, but certainly not the kind that a young lady would be allowed to read.
“Maybe that is for the best,” Lewis said. “Not all consummations are enjoyable.”
“Maybe ladies should know that,” Bridget pointed out, “so they know what to expect.”
“But it would make for a terrible novel,” Lewis said. “I imagine some of the charm is lost once the lady marries her beloved only to have a disappointing wedding night.”
Bridget stifled a yawn. She curled her body towards him and edged closer. “I suppose that is true. And ladies would likewise be disappointed if such scenes all went well, and they learned that their own marriages were lacking in happy consummations.”
“And of course, such material is quite vulgar,” Lewis said.
Bridget grinned. “Of course.”
It was impossible not to be charmed by Bridget when she gazed at him like that, her green eyes wide with wonder and her face softened. He could almost make himself believe that she was fond of him, but that was preposterous. This marriage of theirs was convenient and nothing more. Her better behavior indicated only that she had finally learned what was expected of her.
It was not fondness, certainly not love. Lewis doubted that it was even respect. Maybe they had come to a mutual understanding, though. That was more than many marriages had.
His thoughts were disturbingly close to sentimental, so Lewis sat upright and put his back to her. Now, came the awkwardness of banishing her from his bed. “You are tired,” he said. “You should rest, my wife.”
“Is that what you want to do?” she asked. “I could join you.”
The mattress creaked, and fabric rustled behind him. Bridget had moved. He resisted the impulse to look over his shoulder at her, for fear that she might have arranged herself into another alluring position. As if she needed to arrange herself. She was beautiful, young, and naked. Any man with eyes would have felt his blood stir at the sight of her.
She had asked to join him. A lump rose in Lewis’s throat. It was too easy to imagine himself rolling over in the bed and pulling her flush against him. They could fall asleep holding one another, their limbs entangled, and her warmth and softness pressed against him. Bridget likely wanted that, too. She adored pleasure. That was all this was.
“That is not what our marriage is,” Lewis said.
Bridget let out a sharp laugh. “What do you mean?”
If he stayed in bed with her, if hesleptbeside her, Lewis would become more attached to her. He might start to develop some tender feelings for her beyond what he already felt, and that could not happen. Even if Bridget had not used his grandmother in her schemes, that did not mean she had ceased all her deceitful behavior.
He could not let himself be vulnerable ever, but especially not with her. Lewis had survived because he was in control of everything and everyone around him, and he could not let Bridget tear that all down.
“Lewis?” she asked softly.
Of course, she would not take his silence as an answer. “Our marriage is one of convenience,” he said. “Neither of us really wanted it.”
“What does that matter?”
“We must be vigilant,” he said. “Husbands only sleep with wives who they love. If we forget what we are, for even a moment, we risk ruining everything.”
“But how?” Bridget asked softly. “One night together would not—would not be some catastrophe, would it?”
