Marriage agreed with her. She had to admit it. It seemed so incomprehensible that just weeks ago she had been merely counting down the hours until she would at last be freed of any expectation of marriage, until her dowry could be released into her hands and she could finally eschew all those wretched societal expectations to travel instead. Somehow, though it seemed beyond the bearing of imagination, she felt as though she had finally found her place.
James had proved to be a magnanimous husband, a rare species of man who did not place the burden of ladylike behavior upon her shoulders. He encouraged her wild streak shamelessly, raced her on horseback across the rolling hills surrounding his estate, plied her with brandy until she shared her secrets with him, and he shared his with her.
He had taught her how to play billiards, and then distracted her from her aims by slipping his hands up her skirts. She had never expected that marriage would be so much fun. Or that her husband would choose to spend so much of his time with her. She had had the vague sense that married couples met at the breakfast table, and occasionally for dinner, if neither of them had more pressing engagements, and little in between. Nora and Robert had been an exception, not the rule. She doubted very much that her current experience of marriage would be matched if she had in fact married Adrian. He had been kind and pleasant, but also rigid and unbending. She could not imagine that he would approve of his wife indulging in spirits, or smoking cigars. Nor would he have ever considered—and as James had done just three nights ago—chasing his wife through the east wing in the early hours of the morning, stark naked. Together they had discovered rooms that James hadn’t even remembered existed, and the illicit thrill of making love in an airy music room, and surrounded by walls of books on the chaise lounge in one of the many libraries.
The thought elicited a giggle, and James looked up from the handful of correspondence he’d brought with him to the parlor, where they awaited Bartleby’s summons to dinner.
“What can you be thinking of?” he asked, momentarily diverted.
“Adrian,” she said honestly. “He would never have approved of half the things you have.” She paused reflectively, before admitting, somewhat sheepishly, “Probably all of them, in fact.”
Very deliberately he set his correspondence aside and rose from his seat, stripping off his coat as he did so. His cravat was next; he hooked a finger through the fabric, yanked it from around his neck, and cast it aside.
Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she squirmed restlessly in her seat. “James,” she said on high, nervous laugh. “What are you doing?”
“My wife,” he said severely, “is thinking of another man. I won’t have it.” He snapped the parlor door closed, and clicked the lock into place, then proceeded to yank his shirt over his head.
“I wasn’t!” she protested, inwardly delighted. “I was only thinking how very glad I am to be married to you.”
“Better,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s not quite enough.”
Anticipation thrummed through her veins, but she said anyway, “Bartleby will knock any moment now.”
“He can wait. They can all wait. I pay them very generous wages to do so.” He caught her as she leapt up from her chair, bore her back against the wood-paneled wall, and pinned her place with his body.
When Bartleby did, indeed, knock a few minutes later, neither of them heard.
And if they were both more than a trifle disheveled when they did, at last, go in to dinner, well…the staff was well-paid not to notice such things.