A Substitute Wife for the Prizefighter: A Victorian Romance

by Alice Coldbreath

  When he returned, Lizzie was patting their horse which was tethered near the wagon. Seeing him, she approached and threw the last of her branches into the fire. “Shall I fetch more?” she asked.

  He considered the fire. “No, this should last long enough for our needs.”

  “In that case, I just need to slip into the field opposite.” She did not meet his eye, and he guessed her meaning.

  Damn it, maybe he should have bought a chamber pot too. He’d never had to contend with maidenly modesty before. “Don’t go far.” When she returned, he had a pot of water hung over the fire and was spreading a piece of sacking over the damp ground. “Come and sit here with me,” he said. “While we wait for this to boil. I’ve something here for you.”

  Lizzie joined him, sinking down beside him. “What is it?” He retrieved the packet of tea from his pocket and tossed it into her lap. “Tea leaves?” She sounded pleased.

  “There’s no milk, but I got the other things you’ll need,” he gestured toward the blue enamel tea set he had bought that morning while she still slept.

  “And cups!” Lizzie picked up the pieces, turning them over. “They’re made of metal,” she exclaimed with surprise.

  “Not what you’re used to,” he said wryly. “But bone china doesn’t fare well in a moving wagon.”

  “I’m sure this is much more functional,” she agreed inspecting the tea-strainer and spoons with interest. “Thank you.” She looked up. “And I always prefer lemon to milk, in any case.”

  “I haven’t got lemon either.”

  “Well no,” she conceded. “But what I meant was that I’m used to drinking it black.”

  Once the first lot of water was boiled, she set about brewing the tea, and Benedict refilled the pot. By the time their beverage was ready, they drank it with their shoulders touching to guard against the decided nip in the air.

  “What is the horse’s name?” she asked. “You never told me.”

  “Florence.”

  “She’s very large. What kind of horse is she?”

  “An Irish cob. You should turn in after this. It’s getting cold.”

  She gave a murmur of agreement. “Do you have such a thing as a hot water bottle?” she asked. “My aunt kept stoneware ones for the winter months. There were most effective, I always found.”

  “No,” he answered after a moment, giving her a meaningful look. “You won’t need one now, Lizzie. You’ve got me instead.”

  She cleared her throat. “Well, yes, there is that, I suppose,” she agreed in a stifled voice.

  “Get along inside,” he recommended. “I’ll bring in the water for your wash once it’s hot enough. Take these matches,” he said passing her a box. “To light the lamp so you can see what you’re doing in there.”

  She took the matches from him and clambered to her feet, hurrying over to the wagon and shutting the door behind her. Sitting alone, he found himself running over her words from earlier. What was that comment she had made about her legs, he wondered mystified. It did not do to let your mind wander when it came to conversing with Lizzie, as she tended to go haring off in another direction.

  With a shrug, Benedict added another branch to the fire and rested his forearms against his knees. It was good he had a few moments now to collect himself, for in truth he felt over-keen to join her and needed some breathing space to pull himself together.

  His heart had nearly leaped out of his chest when Lizzie had said they should come back early tonight. It was her boldness he liked, he told himself, that was all, and he’d always enjoyed a challenge. That had to account for it. He shifted uneasily and peered beneath the lid of the pot. It needed another five minutes at least.

  Breathing out slowly, he went over all the reasons why tonight’s consummation was bound to be a disappointment. She was a strait-laced virgin, and she had about twenty years of a puritan upbringing to shrug off before she’d make him a halfway decent bedpartner.

  When that did not dampen his enthusiasm as it ought, Benedict had a strange realization. A good deal of his excitement was simply the prospect of getting his hands on her. Added to that was the heady prospect of her hands on him. God, he actually wanted that, he realized, feeling dumbfounded.

  All those weeks of seeing Lizzie’s sour face during his tiresome courtship should not have wrought this effect on him. Back then he had imagined her disapproving eye had all the warmth of a fish on the slab. He had found Betsy’s spinster cousin about as appealing as a dunk in a cold trough of water. Yet here he was slavering after her.

  Betsy, he thought with a start. He had not even thought of her once in the last day or so. And yet he had been so close to marrying her. It wasn’t until that god-awful dinner at Sitwell Place that he had realized he absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, could not go through with it. Perhaps he should thank providence or that light-fingered vicar for showing him a way out. No, he amended with a faint smile, it was Lizzie’s gimlet eye which had spared him an awful fate.

  The lid of the pot rattled, letting him know it was boiling. He poured the water into the large wash jug and knocked on the door of the wagon. Lizzie opened it swathed in her white cotton nightgown and shawl and took it from him with thanks.

  Benedict kicked earth over the remains of the campfire and went to relieve himself in the wooded area behind them. Then he smoked a cigarillo, giving her time to ready herself before his return. When he knocked on the door again, she yanked it open at once.

  “Where have you been? I thought you’d changed your mind or got lost.”

  “Changed my mind?” he echoed as he climbed in and pulled the door shut behind him. “I was being considerate and giving you time to wash and undress.”

  “Undress?” Lizzie echoed blinking. She looked down at the nightgown buttoned up to her neck.

  “Get in the bed,” he recommended. “There isn’t room to swing a cat in here, and it’s my turn.” He poured the remaining water into the bowl and started unbuttoning his waistcoat. Behind him he heard her move over to the bed and climb in.

  “I wonder where that saying comes from,” her muffled voice remarked from the bed. “Why would anyone swing a cat about in any event? It makes no sense as well as being inordinately cruel.”

  “I believe,” Benedict remarked as he flung his waistcoat on top of one of the wooden boxes and started unfastening his shirt, “it refers to a cat o’ nine tails.”

  “Oh,” Lizzie sounded impressed. “So, it refers then to flogging?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Room to wield the whip,” she pondered. “Yes, I suppose that does make sense. Though of course, it is still a very cruel metaphor.”

  He added his shirt to the pile, plunged his hands into the basin of water, and started to vigorously wash his face and neck. By the time he was shaking the water out of his ears, she had thought of some other line of enquiry.

  “I wonder how your family contrive to sleep in just two wagons,” she remarked. “I suppose your brothers must share.”

  Benedict set the bar of soap aside and unbuttoned his trousers, stripping down to his long underwear. “They manage,” he said shortly. Then he remembered she was likely nervous and forced himself to elaborate. “In the summer they build a tent with branches and a leather cover, and Jack sleeps in that.”

  “How curious.”

  He stripped and washed the rest of himself in record time and even considered for a moment climbing back into his underwear. Glancing over his shoulder, he found her staring up at the ceiling in any case. There seemed little point in putting them on only to take them off again. Instead, he made for the bed and climbed in. When his naked body came into contact with hers, he let out a sigh of relief between his teeth, despite the enveloping nightgown.

  Lizzie lay stiff as a board as he shifted against her side. Small wonder for she must feel what was poking into her hip. He wound an arm about her, drawing her closer as he breathed out, striving to calm himself. His excitement was disp
roportionate. He needed to calm down. “I suppose I’m the first naked man you’ve seen,” he commented. “Except for those Greek statues of yours.” Lizzie gave a nod. “Were they wearing fig leaves?” he asked huskily.

  Lizzie cleared her throat. “The exhibition wasn’t intended for a female audience,” she replied in a slightly strangled voice.

  “Which means?” he prompted.

  “They weren’t wearing fig leaves.”

  There it was again. He liked how she didn’t lie however tempted she might be. “So, mine isn’t the first cock you’ve seen, then?”

  She gave a horrified gasp. “I didn’t look! At yours, I mean,” she added conscientiously.

  “So, you did look at the museum?” he laughed softly.

  Lizzie plucked at the coverlet. “Well – yes,” she admitted in a rush.

  “And what did you think?”

  Her color deepened. “I didn’t really know what to think.” She ventured a glance at him. “Would you say art faithfully represents the appendage?”

  Benedict felt inclined to laugh again. Not a pastime he indulged much in. “I don’t know about that,” he said unevenly. “I’m not much of an art connoisseur.” He rolled onto his back. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  She gave him a scandalized look as he drew down the sheets, baring himself to her shocked gaze. He didn’t feel cold at all right now. He felt blazing hot as he displayed himself for her pleasure, or rather he should say for her edification. For all her embarrassment, he noticed her gaze was riveted to what curved away from his thighs, standing for her attention. Her eyes widened, then flew to meet his, then returned once again to contemplate his erection.

  “How do I compare?” he asked curiously as the moment stretched out. She must be impressed, he reflected. He couldn’t remember a time he’d been more aroused.

  Lizzie sucked in a breath. “They did not have hair there as you do,” she observed quietly. “Or if they did, not much of it. And they weren’t – um – ” she faltered for words, her eyes averting delicately. “That is, they did not – ”

  “They weren’t hard as I am,” he supplied when words apparently failed her.

  She frowned at that. “I believe they were made of marble. You are made of flesh.”

  “They weren’t hard for a woman, I should say,” he corrected himself. “In everyday life, mine is not stiff like this, or it would never fit it in my breeches.”

  She looked much struck by this. “Well, no, I suppose it would not.”

  “Anything else?” he asked. When she hesitated, he asked curiously, “What?”

  “They were altogether neater in proportion,” she blurted. “I can’t see how that could possibly – ” She floundered a moment before concluding in failing accents, “ – fit.”

  Benedict struggled, but this time could not entirely contain his laughter. “It will, though,” he assured her. “We just have to make sure you’re ready to receive me.”

  She mulled this over a moment before asking “How?” rather pointedly.

  “We have to – ” he paused. “Kiss and touch a bit.”

  She blew out a breath. “I don’t see how that would help.”

  “You haven’t asked where I need to touch you yet.”

  Lizzie regarded him, the misgiving plain to see on her face. “Where?” she asked.

  He grinned at her. “It’s your turn to show me yours now, Lizzie.”

  “What?” Her voice was little more than a squeak at this point.

  “You heard me. Draw down the covers and show me what you’ve got.”

  Her expression was aghast. “You’re not serious.”

  “Oh, but I am,” he assured her, reaching for the pillows and piling them up behind her. “Lean back. You can keep your nightgown on if you want.”

  Her expression told him that she had no intention of losing her robe. Casting him a quelling look, she pushed the blankets down exposing her white clad body. Then she reached down and started to draw the demure nightdress up over her shins.

  Benedict caught his breath. What was it she had said earlier about her legs? Had he ever figured that out? She had nice legs, slender, but well formed. Without even thinking about it, he reached out to wrap his fingers around her ankle and slide them up her shapely calf. Lizzie gave an exclamation and started violently.

  It occurred to him that he was likely the only man who’d ever touched her. For some reason, that thought had him breathing even harder. “Higher,” he said hoarsely when the hemline paused at her pretty knees. The thought gave him a momentary pause. When had he ever thought to appreciate a woman’s knees?

  Lizzie gave an almost audible gulp. Then she closed her eyes, fell back against the pillows, and yanked her nightgown up to her waist.

  Benedict kept his eyes on her averted face. “Look at me, Lizzie.” She shook her head. “I’m not going to do anything until you do.”

  One eye flickered open at that. “What do you mean?” she croaked.

  “I won’t look or touch until you’re fully with me in this.” She opened both her eyes at that. “How about a fair exchange?” he offered. “And we each get to touch the other.” He waited for her to tell him she didn’t want to touch him, so he could convince her otherwise. But to his surprise the words never came.

  “That … sounds fair,” she conceded. He kept his eyes on her face. “You can look at me now,” she prompted him. “I looked at you, so it’s only fair.”

  He allowed his gaze to dip down to where her pale thighs were pressed together below a triangle of light brown hair. His eyes dwelt there a moment appreciatively. “Nice,” he said on an outward breath. She gave a choked sound. “What?” He tore his eyes away to meet hers.

  “It seems an odd thing to say, that’s all. There’s not really much for you to – well – see. Not like yours, I mean.” She must have seen the change in his expression for she asked at once. “What is it? Why do you look like that?”

  He hesitated. “That’s because I go inside you.” Clearly, she knew that already from her earlier concerns about his size, but he wasn’t sure how far her knowledge extended of such things. When she said nothing, he lifted his hand from where it rested, lightly tracing the soft skin of her calf. “Can I touch you now?” he asked hoarsely.

  She nodded and he reached across to carefully cup the mound her between her legs. Lizzie gave the same startled sound she had made when he touched her leg.

  “Are my hands cold?”

  She shook her head. “Female statues don’t have hair either,” she commented after a moment, breathlessly. “I always wondered about it.”

  “Maybe it’s hard to sculpt,” he answered absently, as his thumb sifted through her curls.

  Her breathing hitched a moment. “N-no, that doesn’t make sense. They show hair on their head, just not …”

  “Between their legs?” he supplied. Hearing the pillow rustle, he guessed she was nodding. “This hair is much more delicate though,” he pointed out. “Maybe the models didn’t let the artists get close enough to make it out.”

  “Benedict!” she squeaked as his hand slipped between her legs, gently tracing her there.

  He lifted his head and shifted over her. “Yes, my Lizzie?” he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers in a kiss that coaxed and teased. For the first time he let his tongue trace lightly over her lips even as his fingers did the same below.

  When Lizzie gasped, he slid his tongue into her astonished mouth, even as he carefully explored her hidden folds and felt her quivering response until his fingers were coated in a warm, wet welcome that had him groaning aloud.

  “Wait,” she gasped. “Wait.” He stilled his fingers at once, tilting back his head to look at her.

  “Too fast?” he asked raggedly. Jesus. He didn’t know if he could go any slower.

  The look in her eyes was conflicted. “I don’t know what I’m doing!” she said shakily, her cheeks poppy red, her blonde locks escaping from its braid.

  �
��You’re doing just fine.”

  Her chest heaved beneath the cotton nightgown. “I am?” Her eyes sought assurance from him. Whatever she saw in the depths of his own seemed to work, for she seemed to relax.

  “Just kissing and touching, remember?” he assured her, withdrawing his hand from between her legs. He wanted to taste his fingers, but he didn’t want to shock the holy hell out of her, so instead, he stared at her lips which were reddened from his kisses.

  He’d never really noticed her lips before. They weren’t the cupid’s bow that popular songs extolled, but they were delicate and surprisingly sweet. He wanted to crush them under his own instead of sipping from them like some lovesick swain. She nodded and started to say ‘yes’, when he hungrily took her mouth, bearing her back onto the pillows and covering her body with his own.

  This time he did not hold back, but gave her the kiss he wanted, rough and tender at the same time with plenty of tongue. Lizzie squeaked and panted underneath him, and he was sure she was shocked as hell at the way he pressed his manhood into her hips and belly, rubbing and straining against her.

  He told himself he was getting her acquainted with it, but in truth it was as much for his own relief as anything. The noises she made seemed to make him even wilder for her. He ran his hands down her slim back and over the swell of her bottom before tugging her body flush against his and grinding against the cradle of her hips. “Are you going to touch me now, Lizzie?” he whispered raggedly. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

  Her hands, which had been close to her sides, rose to loop around his neck. “Where?” she asked against his jaw. Even the touch of her featherlight breath made his dick jump.

  “Everywhere.” His voice was so gravelly he scarce recognized it. He shuddered when her palms skimmed down his spine and circled his shoulder blades before sliding around to his chest.

  “You’ve hair here too,” she murmured, scraping her fingers through his chest hair. “I saw it this afternoon when you boxed.”

  “I liked you looking at me,” he admitted raggedly. Where the hell had that come from? Her hands slid down his sides and stopped at his hips, lightly clasping him there and making him growl. He thought she would stop there or await further instruction, but instead, she shifted away from him, putting space between them.