After a little flicker of hesitation in his eyes, he said, ‘Agreed.’

There was another long silence as if both of them were weighing up what should happen next. Evie, nervous, but anxious to seal their agreement, pulled back the bedsheet. ‘Since it’s still our wedding night, you’d better come in.’

Douglas undressed quickly and complied. They lay side by side on their backs for a few moments. Evie was tense, uncertain what to do. Then he placed a hand on her stomach over the thin muslin of her nightgown. She shivered.

For a woman of her age, Evie lacked experience in matters of the heart. While young men had occasionally caught her eye, with none had it got so far as an invitation to dance, let alone courtship and kisses. She hesitated to blame the scandal around her father for the ruination of her prospects, but it was undeniable that it had changed the course of her own life. At what should have been the time to embark on romantic adventures, she’d been interred on the outskirts of a small Hampshire village, with an old lady. On the occasions when she ventured out to exchange library books or shop for personal essentials, any potential candidates would have been busy at work. If Mrs Shipley-Thomas had ever felt guilty about her companion’s isolation she gave no indication. So, apart from the odd cheeky wink from the butcher’s delivery boy, she’d had few encounters with men, and none of her age or class.

Her knowledge of sexual matters was not informed by experience but gleaned – probably with questionable accuracy – from other girls at her boarding school and embellished by the novels she’d read aloud to her employer. These lacked anatomical details and involved much sighing, swooning and burning lips. Right now, none of these things were happening to her, or evidently to Douglas. She’d no idea if her lips would be on fire when in contact with his, as he showed no sign of kissing her. His eyes were tightly closed and his mouth set in a hard line. When his hand moved from her stomach to her breasts she experienced an involuntary shiver of pleasure. The hand moved down beneath her nightgown, rucking it up around her waist.

‘Open your legs,’ he said.

Trembling, she did as he asked. His hand moved up her thigh until he was touching her up there, where she’d never been touched by anyone, except experimentally and guiltily herself. As his fingers explored her, she started to think this might actually turn out to be enjoyable – until he lifted his body over hers, guided himself into position and without warning thrust inside her.

It was like being torn apart. She suppressed a cry and prayed it would be over quickly. Douglas’s eyes were still closed, his forehead creased in concentration, her breath rasping as he moved inside her while she lay motionless beneath him. She tried to think of something else, to listen to the sound of cicadas, to breathe in the scent of gardenias through the open window. Just as the pain began to recede, he grunted, the thrusting stopped, and he rolled off her. She felt something warm and sticky running between her legs.