“You wouldn’t inconvenience me. I mean, there’s a bit of a mess, isn’t there? But that’s easily cleaned up. And it would be warm and cozy in the winter. So very pleasant.”
Even if there would be no ecstasy for her in her marital duty, there would be physical closeness and, she hoped, some pleasure for her husband. And although he had not been effusive about that pleasure—when was he ever effusive about anything?—she had liked giving it to him.
She wanted to be the one to give it to him.
He cleared his throat. “I see. Yes, it would be warm.”
“But nottoowarm. Just right. Even in the summer,” she said, thinking ahead for once. She didn’t want him not to come to her in the hotter months.
Now it was his turn to stare into the fire. “I take it you did not enjoy the act.”
“Yes, yes, I did.” She felt herself blush. “What made you say that?”
“Your choice of words.Warmandcozyandpleasant.”
“Those are good words,” she said indignantly.
“Yes, they are.” He went back to reading his paper.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m thinking.”
She dearly wished she could see his face behind the newspaper. “What are you thinking about?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Oh.”
He folded his paper down. “It’s too soon to know if you are with child. So, the question doesn’t need an answer yet.”
“Yes, it’s far too soon.”
But when would she know? She counted on her fingers. At least she had the assurance he would come to her bed—oh, at least ten more times. Her courses were very regular and as soon as she missed a day—well, their time in bed together might end.
Until she wanted another child.
He watched her touch her own fingers in some mysterious dance and wondered what they’d feel like on his cock.
Jesus.
He flipped his paper back up before he became any more aroused just looking at her.
Warmandpleasantandcozy. Pleasant, for God’s sake! When he had been as hard as granite and brimming over as soon as he got into the bed, panicked he would spill just touching her.
Oliver turned the page of his newspaper, frowning.
Yesterday, he would have been happy she had said it waspleasant. Anything would have been better thanvile, which is what Violet had said it was.
No, Henrietta hadn’t been revolted like Violet had been. She hadn’t been scared and mute like Emily. He had been a fool to think Henrietta would be. She was not Violet or Emily.
However, he was still himself. A failure, now and forever. He had provoked nothing in her exceptcozyandpleasant. Andwarm.
Damn, he was worthless. He was a hot water bottle, not a husband.
“I wish,” she said.
“You wish what?” he bit out, still stewing in his anger at himself.
