Lessons in Pleasure

It wasn’t even dinnertime yet. She should rise and dress. James had been up for nearly an hour, though he’d kissed her after he’d dressed, and ordered her to stay abed.

Smiling at the memory, Sarah set aside thoughts of getting up. Her husband had told her to stay and relax, and she had vowed to obey him.

Despite the heaviness of her limbs, Sarah felt amazingly light. She’d told him the truth—he’d known the truth—and James had not rejected her. In fact, he’d assured her she was normal.

When he’d spoken of other women, Sarah should have been hurt. Perhaps one day the idea would wound her, but today she could only be grateful for those women. She was like them; she was not like her mother. She was not anxious and nervous and morose, she was happy.

Touching his body had made her happy. Making him groan with her touch had brought her joy. Sarah snuggled into the pillow with a grin.

“What has you purring like a kitten?” her husband’s voice asked from the other side of the bed.

“James!” Sarah popped up, dragging the sheets with her.

“Such modesty all of a sudden.”

“Hush.” Her blush seemed to make him smile as he sat on the edge of the bed. He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek.

“Shall I call for dinner? I thought perhaps we could dine here.”

Sarah thought of the servants and what they would think . . . and found that she no longer cared. “I’d like that.”

When he reached for the bellpull, Sarah gasped. Dark bruises covered his knuckles. One of them was scraped. “What have you done to your hand?”

His arm froze for a moment before he grasped the cord and tugged. “You needn’t concern yourself with your appointment next week. The doctor understands that you have no need of his care.”

“All right. But what has that to do with your hand?”

His gaze slid to hers.

“James, you didn’t!”

“When we married, I vowed to love and protect you.”

“What can beating a man of science have to do with protecting me?”

Her husband did not look the least bit chastened when he shrugged. “All right. I’ll concede the point. Consider it part of loving you then.”

“James!” she scolded, though she couldn’t manage to put much heat into her voice, perhaps because he had mentioned love again. He loved her. He knew all her secrets and still he loved her.

When he took her hand and stroked his thumb over her palm, they both watched. Once again, Sarah marveled at the contrast of his skin against hers. His fingers were long and bronzed and dusted with hair, and the sight of his scraped knuckles thrilled her in a way that didn’t bear examination. Ladies were not bloodthirsty, after all.

“James?” she whispered.

“Hm?”

She turned her hand around and threaded her fingers through his. “I have one last confession.”

His thumb froze against her hand. “Another?”

“Yes. I think . . . that is, I am quite sure that I am terribly in love with you.”

“Ah, I see. Terribly?”

“Yes, horribly.”

Slowly, he raised her hand to his mouth for a long, lingering kiss that turned into a smile against her skin. “Good. I would hate to think myself alone in this misery. But I detect that you were recently in doubt.”

She swallowed the thickness from her throat. “Not doubt. Not of you. I have only felt so . . . confused. My life changed so completely. A new home, a new role, a new life. I was Mrs. Hood, and I did not know who she was.”