Chapter Fifteen

She ought to be tired. Emily lay in her soft bed, unable to sleep. This was the end of her first full day of married life. Everything was a haphazard pile of sticks, brittle and unorderly.

Pretending this was normal was difficult, but a perfect lady would find a way. Emily had kept telling herself that after her ride with Oscar. He'd left her abruptly when they'd arrived back at the house. The housekeeper had immediately commandeered her attention to check all the cleaning was up to her standard and the budget was appropriate. The cook had then been eager to gain her approval of menus, which were remarkably void of butter, cream, and eggs for a man as wealthy as Markshall. Emily had nodded and reassured them and queried just enough to ensure they felt heard and knew she cared.

But all the time she'd been thinking of the revelation of Oscar's care of a little girl, Fanny. Lady Lakenham had inadvertently caused him to reveal something disinterestedly good about himself. He could have sent her to a poor house to be trained as an overworked and underpaid maid-of-all-work to the bourgeoisie. He could have ignored Fanny. But instead, he sponsored her and arranged for her to be trained in a proper craft.

It was directly at odds with his reputation and much of what he'd told her. She'd been thinking of how maybe he wasn't so bad. Then he'd spoilt it, rather like Connie always did, by talking of things Emily would rather forget. Her sister too had a habit of bringing up Emily hunting or riding when she felt herself under scrutiny. His bringing up hunting had reminded her that as a moral woman, she ought to resist him. And that was probably a good thing. Probably.

The only solution was to throw herself more into her ferns. Her mission to find the affy fern hadn't progressed at all since she'd met Markshall and it made her itch. She'd received a letter from Mrs. Burnham saying the Lady Hunters were back in Cumbria and telling her about the uneventful remainder of the trip. From Miss Green she'd had a letter with thinly veiled worry that Emily's marriage would mean the group ceased to exist. Emily shared that concern and had no idea how to answer.

That was a problem she wasn't sure how to manage. She'd already written to Beatrix Anderson, her friend from Cumbria who was already in London, asking her to visit and discuss the issue.

She stared up into the canopy of the bed. This was married life then. Alone, thinking. Worrying. If last night's emotions had had the breadth and depth of Handel's Messiah in a summer rose garden, tonight was… Silence. A solitary quiet. The bed was large and despite the bedwarmer, the edges were cold.

There was no sound from his room next door, but she knew he was there. She'd been lying for an interminable amount of time when she'd heard Markshall's firm steps in the corridor, then the muffled sound of him sending away his valet. Having spent so much time yesterday waiting on his bed, not reading, she could conjure up the image of the room perfectly. The red curtains, the solid, unfussy furniture, and the richly patterned carpet.

By comparison, the ladylike pale blue of her own chambers seemed frigid.

In the dark, she could admit what she couldn't think in the light. She wanted to be in that fire-colored room, with Oscar. Some would say it was her duty to lie with her husband. But then, she'd promised to obey, and he'd made it clear she'd repulsed him.

It was wrong to want him; it was neither modest nor sensible. But she wanted every overwhelming, hazily remembered sensation again. Her body had never felt as it did with his, the curve of her breasts against the hard planes of his chest, the slit she'd never realized was made for a man.

Perhaps she only wanted the sensations he evoked in her. If she could mimic it, would this vague longing go away?

The treacherous thought seeped through her and made her hands, clumsy and inexperienced, move down her body. It was wanton to open her legs, lying on her back, and slip her fingers into the satiny hair and into the moisture beyond. But surely it wasn't as weak as going to her husband.

This part of her was strange and unknown. It had never occurred to her to explore herself here. She parted then stroked down the folds and a thrill went through her at the sensation. This was another world, slippery and soft, with unexpected mountain ridges and a rounded hill. Then there was the space of liquid quicksand that seemed to bring her finger inside, just as it had Markshall's member. Her finger was caught so tight, it seemed impossible that the enormously larger part of her husband had ever been there. It was her body's magic trick, revealed to her by him.

She moved her finger gently, trying to find what Markshall had done to build her into a wild passion. It felt nice, only nice. What had he done to make her shudder and moan? She hadn't been analyzing or making notes, she'd been immersed in the reverie.

Had he stroked her? She made long motions, up and down and felt the stirrings of... Frustration. As she touched herself, she wasn't managing to find the critical patch Markshall had found. A fleeting touch sent electricity through her, but then it went darting away as she tried to do it again.

Could it be that it only happened with a man? Her mother had never said anything on that matter. Neither had her mother told her a man would lick between her legs.

She was such an uneducated idiot. She had no idea how her own body even worked beyond that her courses arrived approximately once a month and her legs and arms all moved.

She stilled her hand. This was getting her nowhere. For hours she could try to reach the sensation her tingling body required. Much more efficient to see if Markshall wanted to repeat the experience for her.

It was wrong. Her feelings were wrong and the things he'd done to her were wrong. But so were many other things she'd done and she needed this. The reasons for her disgust at herself and him had been visceral this morning but now seemed as though they were viewed through an out of focus telescope, blurry and indistinct. But still, they were there, even through the haze of her frustration.

She was determined not to give in.

She opened her eyes. The curtains were closed, but the moonlight was peeking through, spilling silver into the room. It seeped in despite the barriers, like Markshall into her life.

She would not think of him.

Perhaps she'd suggest silver as a theme for Connie's debut. It would look lovely with deep green... No. Connie was always adamant about not wanting to be anything like Emily and green was too associated with ferns. A light pink or soft blue would be better for her. Although at Emily's debut, before her interest in ferns, everything had been draped in a deep pink, so Connie wouldn't want pink.

Before ferns. A half lifetime ago. When she'd no more dreamed of collecting something so delicate as ferns than of marrying a man like Lord Markshall. When her heart had belonged to James, a man she couldn't bear to think of any more. And yet here she was, in the next room to a rake who made her burn for the feel of his hands on her.

Ugh, she must not think of Markshall.

She stared at the shadows of the unfamiliar furniture in the room. All items he must have collected at one time or another. What was he doing now? It was quiet, and she'd heard him retire to bed. He wasn't pining for her, evidently.

From somewhere downstairs, she heard a long clock strike three.

It was the dark of the night and she hadn't slept. She couldn't sleep for the need to go to her husband. If she just got it out of herself this once, like a bad humor, it would be solved. She crept out of bed.

Just this once.