Lessons in Pleasure

“Yes,” she whispered. “A bit.”

“Oh, I see.” He tried not to indulge the disappointment that flooded his veins. The disappointment had no effect on his erection, unfortunately, but it also did not dull his need to breathe her in after a full day away from her side. Whether they made love or not, he wanted to be in bed with her.

He looked toward the pale smudge of her face in the dark. “Can I get you anything, sweetheart?”

“No, Mary has already brought a glass of wine to help me sleep.”

“Very well.” He walked slowly back to the dressing room, wondering if she was really sick or only suffering a guilty conscience as she had the day before. Or, he supposed, it was possible she was miffed over his long absence today. Regardless, he meant to join her in their bed.

A few minutes later, he slid beneath the cool sheets, startling a little jerk from her side of the mattress. “James?”

“Shh. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh.” That one little sound seemed full of relief, forcing James to push down his wounded pride.

“Go back to sleep, Sarah.” He felt her nod and reached to smooth a hand over her brow. No fever, at any rate. When he repeated the motion, she sighed. “A headache?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Come.” He tucked her into his shoulder, meaning to offer comfort, but the seconds dragged into minutes before her body relaxed into his. “Go to sleep, love.”

Her nod stirred up the scent of her soap as she finally lay an arm across his naked chest. She was thoroughly clothed in a long-sleeved gown far too hot for the night. Staring at the blackness above him, James wondered what that meant. His chest ached with the answer.

He could not be so greedy next time. As he’d said himself, they had a lifetime of nights together. Sarah had lived nineteen of her twenty years knowing nothing of her own body, much less her husband’s. He could not resent her nervousness . . . even if it did thrust a knife through h

is gut.

“I’m so sorry,” Sarah whispered again, as if she could feel the sorrow churning inside him. Her hand stroked his chest, smoothing away some of the pain.

When he pulled her tighter and pressed a kiss to her forehead, Sarah’s arm wrapped farther around him. She rolled her whole body against his side, moved one flannel-covered knee up over his thigh, and the rest of his worry flowed away like a receding tide.

She’d never lain like this before, pressed so comfortably against his naked flesh. She’d never sighed into his skin and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder like a settling cat. This was a headache, nothing more.

She was his wife and he loved her. All would be well, or he would make it so.

CHAPTER 6

The nondescript door gave no indication of what Sarah would find within. It looked neither seedy nor stately. The blue painted wood wasn’t scarred, but neither was it ornate. A tiny sign hung above the lintel, naming the occupant of the space and his credentials, but again, that offered her no help. She already knew who Dr. Whitcomb was and why she was here.

Sarah clutched her reticule tighter and eyed his doorstep from the opposite side of the narrow street. She needed answers. She could not go through one more day of lies and subterfuge. Of course, her head really had been pounding the night before, but she knew that wasn’t why she’d apologized to her husband. She’d apologized for bringing this curse into his house, for lying, for failing to live up to the promises she’d made at their wedding. For pretending to be a whole woman, when it seemed more clear every day that she was not.

She needed to know.

Her foot had just touched the first cobblestone in the street when that dreaded door swung open. Sarah leaped back, nearly tumbling to her backside when her heel caught on the curb.

A lady emerged. A real lady, not a shopgirl or seamstress. The feather in her hat bobbed jauntily as she descended the steps. Her cheeks glowed with good health. Her smile looked soft and sleepy, relieved even. Was this woman under his care? Impossible to think she could be ill, but in his book Dr. Whitcomb promised an 85 percent success rate with his specialized battery of treatments.

Sarah watched the woman touch a lace-edged handkerchief to her brow before a shiny carriage pulled up to take her away.

Bolstered by the innocuous scene, she stepped off the curb again and rushed across the street. If Dr. Whitcomb could save her and her marriage, Sarah would risk anything. She knocked before she could lose her nerve, and a thin maid in an oversized mobcap opened the door.

“I need to see Doctor Whitcomb, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s an emergency. I’m sure he’ll see me. He treated my mother.”

The maid looked doubtful, but she opened the door wide, revealing a small entry. “Doctor Whitcomb is a busy man, of course, but I’ll convey your message.”