She did not want to think.

She slept until after eleven. She forced her eyes open and was surprised to find the sun slamming through the curtains. Despite that, she felt a cold fear sitting on the back of her neck, like a sheen of sweat. Were men like women at all? Any of them? Last night she had been sure that Howard was so like her he was her. He’d felt as she did, moved with her, wanted what she wanted. Yet today? Uncertainty laced her consciousness. Would he call? Nathaniel hadn’t. And Aubrey had wanted her well enough until they married. Did all men simply want to possess and then forget it? Move on as though nothing had happened?

No, she would not think that of Howard.

She moved her head tentatively, fully expecting it to ache with the effects of whisky, wine and a late night, but it wasn’t sore. It was light and she felt an urge to laugh out loud. She rose, washed, dressed and went downstairs. She walked through the dim parlour and opened the doors on to the fresh day; the housemaid was in the garden with Mabel.

‘We thought you were off colour, ma’am. Thought we’d let you sleep.’

Vivian nodded and smiled but didn’t trust herself to speak. What would she say? At least his name. That for certain. She’d shout it out, repeat it time after time, squeeze it into every conversation. She might even tell the maid all about last night; how he’d kissed her and had her, filling her up with everything good and exciting in the world. That wouldn’t do. She looked into the parlour but the tray had been cleared and the room polished; windows were thrown wide open. It was hard to believe he’d been there.

Yet he had.

She felt him all over her. She tingled. She thought it was likely that he’d kissed every inch of her body last night, as he’d touched every inch of her mind. He’d reached her. Weeks ago. She realised she should have closed off. A married woman, a woman who had fallen in lust before and acted upon it with dire results, should have known better, been more guarded. Every sane and shrewd part of her consciousness was bawling out for caution, prudence, discretion, wariness, watchfulness. But she had plunged. Dived. Fallen. Ignoring any circumspection that ought to be brought into effect.

‘Cook has cleared away breakfast. Shall I fetch you something? Toast?’

Food? The idea was extraordinary. Vivian couldn’t eat. She shook her head. The maid looked concerned. ‘A cup of tea, then? Shall I put the kettle on the stove?’ Vivian nodded. Tea would be lovely, but mostly she wanted the maid to leave her alone with her thoughts.

She settled down on the grass next to Mabel and reflected on last night. The skin around her nipples pulled a little, contracted. She felt an amplified throb between her legs. He’d had sixteen or seventeen women! He wasn’t exactly sure how many. Was she number eighteen? Would there be a nineteenth? Of course there must. She couldn’t expect him to end with her; they had no entitlement to that. She was married.