Joseph enjoyed Sir Thomas’s dinner guests very much.
That is, he enjoyed them in as much as he could enjoy any strangers at any meal when he was preoccupied with the promise—threat? vow?—to expect sex with his wife.
And not just any promise/threat/vow. Tessa had come to him with confidence and fire in her voice, with a spark in her eyes that lit the languishing fuse in his own. He tried to prepare himself for possible reconsideration, for a goodwill attempt that resulted with something less than sex, for fatigue, or missing the baby, for a stomachache.
And yet, he could not wipe the look in her eye or the mettle in her voice from his mind. It lodged in his chest and caused his loins to throb.
His wife hadn’t asked, she hadn’t hinted, she hadn’t eventeased. She’d informed him in no uncertain terms. Sex tonight, in the giant bed of the beautifully appointed guest suite.
Dinner, therefore, felt very secondary. He comprehended very little of the mealtime conversation. The guests were a father and son, Mr. and Mr. McMillan, and the son’s wife. As Sir Thomas promised, both father and son were active in Whig politics in the area and informed him of men he should meet and lower offices that might, in coming years, be an easy win for a newcomer.
Excellent, good, what a lucky coincidence,he’d said again and again. Are we to pudding yet? Was it rude to encourage the men to forgo port and cigars?
Meanwhile, Tessa seemed unhurried and unfazed. She dazzled Sir Thomas, Mrs. McMillan, and Lady Winnifred with stories about Christian and, eventually, with her interest in the dockyard. Sir Thomas promised to introduce her to the Hartlepool dock master, a man he claimed to know well, and to recommend her if, as he put it, “...Joseph permitted Mrs. Chance to seek some role in the dockyard.”
Joseph had been listening with one ear and he winked at his wife. It was a pity that such fortuitous news carried an addendum about Joseph’s perceived “permission,” but Tessa did not challenge him. She knew as well as Joseph that, if they smiled along, Sir Thomas would sell them his house, make the dockyard introductions, and then hie off to London, never to bother them again. Eventually, Tessa would show every man in town the role of Joseph’s “permission” when it came to her employment.
After an exceedingly lengthy dinner, Lady Winnifred asked if Mrs. McMillan might play the pianoforte. The younger woman declined because she had suffered a burn to one of her fingers, and Joseph had never been more grateful.
He was just about to claim exhaustion and ask to be excused when Tessa asked if she might have a go.
Or not, Joseph thought, suddenly intrigued. He did love hearing his wife play.
Lady Winnifred accepted and Tessa hurried to the piano, settling her waterfall of fuchsia skirts over the small bench. Joseph lowered himself into a chair. He postponed his accelerated enthusiasm forafter, and allowed himself to sink into the beauty of his wife at the keys of a piano. He narrowed his eyes. His gaze traced the curve of her waist and bottom. He promptly forgot the other guests, who sat primly around him, waiting for a minuet or waltz. He licked his lips and reveled in the next best thing to going to bed with his wife.
The composition that followed, a sonata, began with a soft prelude, like the first drops of rain. The notes rose, like a good, soaking shower. After that, she pounded a thunderous, drapery-trembling crescendo that threatened to shatter windows and take down beams. Her playing was like a storm, rolling through the cavernous house.
Joseph swallowed hard, aroused by the theatre of her playing and the drama of the sound. He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, the sway of her body over the keys. Her delicate slipper on the pedal reminded him of a tongue darting out every fifth beat.
He shifted in his seat and glanced around the room. Maids and footmen had gathered just outside of doorways to listen. Sir Thomas and his wife and the elder Mr. McMillan stared at Tessa with disbelief and at the pianoforte with concern. The younger McMillans, Joseph was relieved to see, looked thoroughly entertained.
Bloody right you are entertained,he thought. When it was over, he clapped politely—clappedironically, considering the insufficiency of the five other members of the audience. Their feeble clapping was laughable after the verbosity of her performance. Tessa, he saw, did not care. She rose from the bench, gave a little bow, and shot Joseph a flushed, hot look.
Joseph coughed, and then called out, “Well done, darling.Well done.”
After the performance, it was no surprise that their hosts began to suggest fatigue and “...overstimulation.”
Well done again,Joseph thought.
The McMillans excused themselves and Joseph and Tessa soon followed, climbing the curved staircase to their appointed room in the guest wing.
Beyond pleasantries and praise for the meal to the hosts, Tessa had not spoken since her tumultuous recital. She rested a calm hand on Joseph’s arm and allowed him to lead her.
His pulse, still elevated from her sonata, kicked up again. The same confidence he’d seen before the meal was also in the hand on his arm; it was in her enigmatic silence, her straight back and raised chin.
Excitement coursed through him, andhe blew out a breath. He’d been in a near constant state of arousal since they’d convened at the inn in Hartlepool; and that said nothing of the previous eleven months, when he’d fallen in love with her twice but not taken her to bed once.
When they reached the bedroom door, she said, “May I have five minutes? Lady Winnifred is sending her maid to assist me.”
“Right,” he said, and he pretended to study a row of paintings down the corridor. When the maid arrived, his heartbeat kicked up yet again. Blood coursed through his veins at an invigorating, almost lightening rate. He heard his pulse in his ears.
When he heard the door gently click shut and he saw the maid descending the stairs, Joseph let out an audible breath. His loins grew heavy and tight. He rolled his neck and reminded himself that nothing was an inevitability. He would not perish if they tried, and tried, and tried again.
His hand shook as he knocked twice on the door. He tried to call out, but his voice broke like a youth. Swearing in his head, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by the fire and a lone candle beside the bed. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He shut the door. He called out again. “Tessa?”
He scanned the room, giving full attention to the dark corners and curtained window seat. He squinted at the fire.
