She stared at the words. After a pause, he started to scrunch up the paper, but she took his hand.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
Joy shimmered in his eyes, and he gestured once more, but she shook her head.
He let out a sigh, then scribbled on the paper again.
Go. Now. I’ll join you as soon as I can.
He dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers. Pleasure tightened within her, and she parted her lips in invitation—but he withdrew, his cheeks turning pink, as if he were a callow youth wooing a young girl for the first time, fearful of rejection.
She placed a hand on his arm. “I shall await you with eagerness, Charles.”
He closed his eyes, and his nostrils flared as she spoke his name. Then he shifted on his feet, his brow creasing as if in discomfort. She retreated to the door and glanced over her shoulder to see him seated at the table once more, scribbling on the paper, his hands shaking. Then she ascended the stairs, issuing instructions to a passing footman that she was not to be disturbed until morning, and made her way to her chamber.
*
By the timeshe heard her husband’s footsteps, Olivia had lit the fire, changed into her nightgown, and climbed into bed.
A little pulse throbbed in her center as she glanced out of the window. There was something that felt so decadent, sowicked, about a marital visit in the afternoon. Eleanor had spoken of how a little wickedness enhanced the pleasure of a coupling—how Montague spent many hours loving her in all manner of positions and locations, including outdoors, where the risk of being observed added a piquancy to the occasion.
Would she ever know that pleasure herself? When Charles took her for the first time, her heart had ached at how gently he held her. But she couldn’t forget the sting of pain or the absence of pleasure, save for the far-off promise of ecstasy that never came—like the end of a rainbow that she used to chase over the fields as a child but could never reach, no matter how fast she ran.
A soft knock came on the door, and she called out, her throat dry with anticipation. Her husband entered, fully clothed, clutching a folded note in his hands. He set the note aside then shed his jacket and shirt, fumbling at his necktie before it came loose.
Silence thickened the air, save for his breathing, and Olvia’s nervesovercame her with the need to fill it with something—anything.
“D-did you enjoy your trip to London?”
The corner of his lip curved in a smile, and he nodded, then began to unbutton his breeches.
“Perhaps, if it’s not too much to ask, you might take me with you next time? Eleanor said in her letter that she was disappointed to see you when—”
He lost his balance and stumbled against a chair, knocking it over. Olivia pulled back the bedsheet to climb out, but he raised his hand, shaking his head. She met his gaze and her stomach fluttered at the guilt in his eyes.
“Charles? What’s the matter? Is it something to do with Eleanor?”
He gestured, slowly, with his hands.
I’m sorry.
“Sorry?” Olivia swallowed her apprehension. “Wh-what for? Is Eleanor unwell?”
He shook his head, then gestured again.
“I don’t understand…”
He reached for the paper on her dressing table, wrote on it, and held it up.
I visited a doxy in London, but I did not touch her. I’ve not touched another woman since I married you. I swear on my mother’s grave.
She read the words, suppressing the ache in her heart.
“And—Eleanor?”
He frowned.
“Did Eleanor see you there?”
