“Jane, oh Jane,” he cried as he reached that apex.
His hard lovemaking, his dark passion stoked her own fires so much she followed right after. Her whole body had been possessed by his energy, and she trembled to feel his hard, thick member pulsing within her as she squeezed in release. Afterward they collapsed to the bed together, exhausted, still connected, for neither made a move to pull away. I am yours, don’t you see, dear Edward? I love you so much. Tell me you love me…
“Oh Jane,” he said again, burying his face in her nape, clutching her wrist as if she might steal away even though he lay on top of her, pinning her to the bed. “I’ve come to enjoy you so much. I pleased you, didn’t I? I wasn’t too rough?”
“No, it was fine.”
This was always fine between them, whether he was rough or sweet, or some mysterious mood in between. But…
“Do you love me?” she asked, hating the pitiable treble in her voice. But she had to know. “Have you come to love me, Edward?”
He drew back and turned her about to meet his gaze. “Oh, darling, of course I love you. Don’t you know it?”
He petted her as if to reassure her and kissed her forehead. She searched his eyes in the dim light, but too soon he moved away, urging her to perform her night’s toilette so they could get some sleep.
He loved her, of course he did. He had said so. He treated her kindly, with respect in all things, so of course he must love her. When he returned to bed, he took her in his arms and held her close as he drifted to sleep, but she didn’t sleep.
He loves me, she thought, drowsing on his scent. He loves me. He loves me, even though I’m not as perfect as he is. That has to be enough.
*
Townsend avoided his gentlemen’s club for a while, but now that he was back in town his friends expected at least occasional attendance. He entered in a wary mood, making his way toward the dining room. Last time he’d visited these august, wood-paneled walls, he’d been full of smug glee for proposing to Jane, who he thought was June.
He was not that man any longer. For one thing, he was no longer obsessed with Ophelia. That’s what it had been, an obsession. He’d taken a few of her qualities—her beauty, her talent, her delicate manner—and conjured her into a woman of goddess-like perfection, when the truth was, she was as human as any other woman in his life. Why had he done it? Perhaps he’d needed some lofty ideal to pine over. He’d been a dissolute bachelor for so long, frequenting Pearl’s erotic house with his friends on far too regular a basis…
Well, that embarrassing obsession was over. Wescott had been kind enough not to mock him for it when they finally made up their differences. A man was permitted an occasional lapse in sanity, wasn’t he? If he’d been asked a couple weeks ago, he’d have said his marriage to Jane was the lapse in sanity, but now he saw things differently. Now he realized Jane had come along at just the right moment to save him from himself.
She’d saved him from being too pretentious, too unbending, too apt to expect perfection of himself and those in his life. The last few days, especially, he was coming to see the blessings she’d brought to him, blessings he hadn’t perceived until he realized he had idolized the wrong woman.
And so he entered White’s dining room a very different man, and greeted his friends with a refreshed realization of their importance as well as their foibles. He took care to greet Wescott as warmly as he greeted Marlow and August, and as he took his seat at their luncheon table, the world felt in balance again.
“What are we eating?” he asked.
“Pheasant pie and some sort of healthy soup,” said Marlow. “It tastes good nonetheless.”
“More importantly, what are we drinking?” August held up a mug of ale and signaled the waiter to bring one for Townsend.
“How are things at your parents’ house?” asked Wescott when they were all set up with food and drink. “The ball’s tomorrow, yes?”
“It is, therefore I’ve stayed away. Jane’s gone to help my mother, though, or perhaps just keep her calm. She’s still on her quest to become the children’s favorite aunt before they return to Italy.”
“How do Belinda and Rosalind feel about that?”
Townsend shrugged. “Belinda’s preoccupied with her newborn and Rosalind’s caught up in preparations for her coming-out this season, so neither of them is putting up much of a fight.”
“I believe in Jane,” said Marlow. “She’s delightful, Townsey. I’m sure your mother is grateful for her assistance.”
“Jane’s delighted to help. It’s to be her first ball as a married woman, and my father taught her to waltz like an ace, so there’s that.”