A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  The clock chimed ten. “Shall I ring for the butler?” Abigail asked. “Do you want some tea?” and then more hesitantly, “Or a glass of brandy?”

  Arthur chuckled, rose from his chair, and extended a hand to help her from hers. “Do you think my courage needs support?” And then, more softly, “Does yours?”

  Abigail shook her bent head mutely, and Arthur lifted her face so he could place a quick, light kiss on her lips. “Go up now, my love,” he said gently. “I will just tell the servants that they may close the house.”

  The words were so ordinary, so much what a husband would say to a wife, that the quiver of nervousness Abigail had felt, although she denied it, quieted. Nonetheless, she undressed very quickly and sent the maid away, fearing that Arthur would come in while the girl was in the room. Not that there was anything wrong with a husband entering his wife’s room while her maid was there, but Abigail felt awkward about it. As the door closed, she regretted what she had done. Waiting alone in the dark would be worse, she thought, but the idea had hardly formed before the door to Arthur’s room opened and he stepped through.

  The night candle he carried lit his face and showed that his hair was tumbled out of its usual smoothly combed style. Plainly he had undressed as quickly as she. Abigail smiled and drew breath to speak, but never got a word out. She had not realized Arthur could move so fast. Nonetheless, he had set down the candle, closed her mouth with his own, and pulled off the light coverlet to expose her before she could say anything. As his body came down against hers, the dressing gown he was wearing fell open, fell away, and she realized that he was naked under it.

  Startled by what almost seemed like an attack, Abigail stiffened, afraid he would mount her and take her before she was ready. However, for a moment nothing more happened, Arthur simply held the whole length of her body against his while he kissed her hungrily. As her surprise dissipated, excitement followed in its wake. The lack of large movements in their bodies seemed to generate an abnormal sensitivity in her. She could feel the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest when he breathed, the tiny trembling of the muscles of his abdomen and thighs, the heat and pressure of his hard staff between them.

  She was flooded by a desire more urgent and more violent than she had ever felt with Francis. Her arms went around him, one hand tracing the barely perceptible ridges of his spine, the other scratching gently at the backs of his legs and probing between them. A deep, muffled sound rose from his throat and he bucked against her, his arms tightening their grip until Abigail could scarcely breathe. In the next instant, he had let her go, pulled back, seized her nightdress and brutally ripped it away from her body.

  Abigail gasped with surprise and gasped again as he lowered his face to her breasts. His violence had made her expect him to bite her, but instead his tongue licked out, passing over one nipple and then over the other, the movement of his head from side to side so swift that the sensation seemed continuous. Abigail began to shake with need. She pulled at him, too lost in desire to find words for what she wanted, but words were not necessary. Arthur came astride her, arching his body so that his mouth did not leave her breasts. She felt for him, positioned him, embracing him with her legs and tightening them about him fiercely as he thrust to drive himself deep, deep.

  She heard him saying something, groaning, but she could not listen, could not wait. She heaved against him, flexing and relaxing her legs, feeling him begin to move in rhythm, his body shuddering as he fought to hold back a climax that could not be controlled because she drove him faster and harder and would not let him be still. But it did not matter, for in the same moment that he cried out despairingly, her own voice rose, choked and savage, as ecstasy tore her apart.

  For a moment after she felt nothing beyond the slow waves of receding pleasure, then a sense of surprise stole over her at her actions. Francis had loved her and had tried to please her. Before she had learned despair, she had learned to enjoy his lovemaking, she had welcomed it, but never in the way she had urged Arthur. Fortunately, before shame could follow surprise, he spoke.

  “Dream woman,” he sighed, “dream woman. Are you real? If I let you go, will you disappear?”

  Relief from the fear she had shocked or disgusted him made Abigail mischievous. She grasped his head and held it where it was, buried in her neck. “Who is your dream woman?” she whispered so that the sound of her voice could not betray her. “Say my name, O clever man who can utter praise that any woman might accept as her own.”

  “Honi soit qui mal y pense,” Arthur said, laughter and indignation mingling in his voice. “I am innocent. Your name is Abigail, and you have a dreadful, suspicious character.”

  “Perhaps so,” she agreed, letting go of his head and chuckling, “but I doubt that you have been innocent for a very long time, and by all accounts, my suspicions are justifiable.”

  He slid off her but continued to hold her so that their bodies touched. “I do not know who has been telling you tales,” he complained, “but if anyone claims I like women in droves, it is a lie. I have many faults, but being that kind of fool is not one of them.”

  Abigail snuggled contentedly against him. “Well,” she admitted, smiling, “Hilda told me you were a rake and a lecher, but to do what she claimed, you would have had to start at about three years of age—and even at that, I doubt you would have had time to eat or sleep.”

  He chuckled and hugged her, rubbing his cheek affectionately against the top of her head.

  “No,” Abigail went on, serious now, “it was you who told me, Arthur. The tone of your voice, the way you look at a woman—not obscenely, I have had looks enough like that and they are repellent, not exciting. I cannot describe it, but you are…practiced…skilled.”

  He was silent for a while and then said, “I will not try to tell you there has never been another woman, but I hope you will believe that I am not merely going without feeling through a well-worn routine. Abigail, I have never before thought of staying in the same house with any woman. In fact, the idea was always revolting to me.” There was another little silence before he added, rather huskily, “And I have never in my life behaved as I did to you. I could not wait, and I was sick with fear afterward that I had hurt you or frightened you, but it was done before I could stop myself.”

  For a moment Abigail was puzzled and then realized he was referring to the way he had torn off her nightgown. “I shall be sure in the future not to place any impediments in your way,” she said, smiling into his shoulder, “and I am glad to hear that it is not a necessary preliminary, for obviously it would grow quite expensive.”

  He could not help laughing, but he drew her still closer and murmured, “Dream woman. Any other would have pouted at me even if she were not really angry. You are perfect. You even felt my need and answered it.”

  They lay embraced for a few moments longer, but it was warm in the room, and Abigail became aware of the damp stickiness of the perspiration caused by their violent activity. She pulled away a trifle. Arthur sighed, but did not try to hold her, turning flat on his back. Perversely, the moment they were separated, Abigail felt chilly. She sat up, intending to reach for the coverlet Arthur had tossed to the foot of the bed, but the light from the night candle he had not bothered to blow out sent a gleam across his sweat-shiny skin that attracted her eyes.

  The dim glow highlighted his strong neck and the swelling muscles of his shoulders and biceps. There was less definition of the musculature of his broad chest because the light was dim and the curly light brown hair, growing in a wide V to the navel, obscured the strong curve of the pectorals. Still, Abigail could make out a deep shadow, emphasized by the sparser growth of hair. His hips were narrow, his belly flat and also lightly ridged with muscle.

  Abigail blinked sleepily, wondering idly how a man whose main interests seemed to be politics and women kept his body so hard, then smiled, remembering that gentlemanly pursuits included much riding, driving and walking—the first tw
o of which, at least, took strength—and even such activities as fencing and boxing. A faint movement in the deep shadow between Arthur’s strong thighs made her half-closed eyes widen, and she turned to find him, not asleep as she had thought but looking at her. A hand reached out and pulled her down.

  “And do you like what you see?” he whispered into her ear, pressing her against him so that she could feel his hardening shaft rising against her.

  As he spoke, one of the arms that held her slid down her body in a silent, sensuous appeal. An automatic protest rose to Abigail’s lips, but she did not utter it. Much to her surprise, a lazy response stirred in her. Nonetheless, she knew that if Arthur expected another explosion of passion from her, he would be disappointed.

  She felt his mouth on her hair and raised her face for his kiss, but before their lips met she whispered, “Do not expect too much of me. I have never been so—so quick or—or so eager before, and I do not think—”

  He did not let her finish and did not answer because his mouth was busy with more interesting activities than making words, and his hands played with assured skill over her body, producing an exquisite effect. Since he had praised rather than been shocked by her earlier uninhibited response, Abigail felt freer with Arthur than she ever had with Francis. She explored him with hands and mouth too, touching, scratching, kissing—fascinated and excited by his soft moans of pleasure, by his pleas to her to continue and to desist so intermingled that it was clear he wanted both simultaneously, and by his spontaneous sensual movements.

  It was a very different lovemaking—long and lingering. And although climax again came almost as soon as Arthur mounted her, it came in rolling waves of pleasure rather than with tearing violence. Abigail had completely forgotten her last words before they began their love play, but when they were at peace Arthur suddenly laughed. She made a sleepy, inquiring sound, too tired to ask a question in words.

  “You see, there was nothing to ‘think’ about,” he whispered in her ear naughtily. “First you shelled the nut with a good hard blow, and then you brought out the meat, whole and perfect.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Having been married for many years, the feel of a man’s body beside her in the bed was comforting to Abigail. She turned in her sleep and threw an arm across the broad, warm male chest and a leg over his hips. What had been comforting to Abigail, however, spelled danger to Arthur. Ordinarily, he did not dare allow himself to fall asleep in the bed of a mistress lest he sleep too long and a maid or jealous husband find him there. Thus, when her movement woke him and he saw light through the ill-fitting curtains, he almost leapt out of bed. Panic sent his heart, pounding fiercely, right up into his throat, but he controlled his first impulse long enough to look at the woman beside him—whereupon he sighed and relaxed.

  The tensing of his body communicated itself to Abigail, who tightened her grip a little and murmured a wordless sound meant to reassure an uneasy sleeper. Her confidence sent a tide of joy through him. It was another proof of her innocence—no woman who cheated in love could be so indifferent to who lay beside her. But that was the least of his pleasure. He had never thought that Abigail was other than faithful. The lift in his spirits was on his own account, generated by the knowledge that there was, at least for now, no need for concealment, no need to creep out of this warm bed, struggle into clammy clothes, and steal out into a chill, damp morning. He sighed with satisfaction. There was no need even to remove to his own room. Abigail’s embrace told him he was welcome to lie with her as long as he liked, that she was indifferent to the custom that sent a man back into his own solitary bed after the act of love was over.

  Idly he wondered why the custom had begun, and then smiled at himself. In so many of the marriages made these days both husband and wife desired as little of their mates’ company as was possible. Arthur drew back his head just enough to see Abigail’s face. No, he could not imagine ever wishing to see less of it, not so much because it was beautiful as because, even smoothed and motionless in sleep, it was full of her character—little lines of laughter around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes, and two very faint vertical creases between her brows that marked her frowning concentration or fits of fury. The years might take away the beauty, but they could not change what was really Abigail, and he would not tire of that.

  He felt a stirring of desire, but she was sleeping so soundly that he did not wish to wake her, and delight made him smile again. There was no need to grab and cram. This sweet would be there for him later in the morning or on the coming night. He shifted his hips to settle her leg more comfortably over him, put his own arm around her, and drifted easily asleep.

  It was Abigail’s movement that again wakened him, but this time without anxiety. She was inching her way out of his grasp, plainly intending to get out of bed without disturbing him. Playfully Arthur clutched her tight to him, growling, “And where do you think you are going, me beauty? Tryin’ to escape, eh?”

  “Oh, don’t squeeze me,” she gasped. “You’ll find yourself swimming.”

  He laughed but let her go at once, and she fled to her dressing room. Then, thinking her idea excellent, he went into his own room and emptied his bladder. Still, by the time Abigail returned, he was lying at ease with his arms behind his head. He noted with amusement that she had not only relieved herself but combed her hair and put on a delicate peignoir.

  Lifting an eyebrow, Arthur said, “That was not a very romantic remark for your first greeting to me.”

  Abigail sniffed disdainfully at his teasing. “It would have been even less romantic if I got you all wet. Believe me, that was not the moment for sweet nothings. And it was all your fault anyway. I was in such a hurry to get into bed that I didn’t—” She stopped abruptly. Arthur had reached toward her and in shifting from his face to his hand, her eye had been caught by an odd object on his nightstand beside the bed. It was a limp sack of some membrane she did not recognize but of oddly familiar shape. “What is that?” she asked.

  Arthur smiled. “It is called a condom, and it is my way of redeeming my promise to you that you would have no reason to regret loving me. Did you think I would be so careless of you, my darling, as to get you with child? There are other ways of preventing it, but I find this the least disturbing to my partner and myself.” He raised his brows at her look of astonishment. “Perhaps I should not have left it there, but I thought you might be familiar with the device. After all, Daphne is nine… Are you displeased?”

  “No, of course not,” Abigail replied. “I am grateful. I suppose I was a fool, but I never gave a thought to becoming pregnant.” She shook her head. “I don’t think Francis used such a thing, but I don’t know because we didn’t—” She stopped speaking abruptly again and made a helpless gesture, unable to mention their foreplay in words and feeling uneasy. It was not fair, she thought, to talk about Francis, so inferior in every way to Arthur.

  He sat up swiftly and drew her to him, again delighted at what he felt was the perfect balance in her character. More than one of his mistresses had complained to him of her husband, and although he realized it was a way of justifying their relationship and in most cases knew what was said was true, he still found it distasteful. He found it as crude for a woman to denigrate one man to another as for a man to boast of the women who yielded to him. And Abigail’s shyness with regard to talking about their lovemaking he found as charming as it was foolish.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly, hugging her gently and affectionately. “I did not mean to pry, only to reassure you.” And then he plucked at her peignoir and asked in a teasing tone, “Why did you put on this silly piece of fluff? Did you not promise to put no more impediments in my way?”

  She laughed and pushed him away. “That is not an impediment, it is an expression of vanity. There is less beauty in the naked body than in one partially concealed. And it is too late in the morning to be complaining about impediments. If my maid does not scratch at the do
or any moment, I will suspect that she is listening outside it.”

  Arthur sighed. “That is the horrid truth, and besides I am very hungry. All that exertion makes a man—”

  “Out!” Abigail cried, blushing and laughing. “You are shameless and want to make me the same.”

  “Yes,” Arthur agreed with sublime simplicity, but he fled the room laughing as she threatened to hit him with a pillow snatched from the bed.

  Nonetheless, he was surprised and not terribly pleased to find her setting a full plate down on the table when he entered the breakfast room. Arthur was accustomed to eating alone or with other men, like Bertram, who would not think of expecting him to serve them or of trying to serve him and would allow him to read his newspaper or his mail in peace, unless there was important business that had to be mentioned. In a hardly conscious rejection of her company, he went directly to the sideboard and began to select from the dishes that were there.

  Abigail glanced at him and immediately sat down and turned her attention to her food without saying anything at all. When he had brought his plate to the table and picked up a newspaper from the pile lying there, she silently took another, noting that he had picked up the Morning Post and pleased that it was not the Sun, which was particularly rabid against America. Propping the Times in front of her, she soon became thoroughly absorbed, although there was no very important news, and she was so startled that she barely kept herself from jumping when he spoke.

  “Have I yet told you this morning that I love you, Abigail?”

  “No, and it is very dear of you to do so, considering that I have invaded your breakfast table,” she replied, smiling. “I beg your pardon, but I was hungry too, and I find it impossible to make a hearty breakfast with a tray balanced on my thighs.”

  He smiled back but still looked uncomfortable, and Abigail guessed that the sentence must have been intended to mollify her. She was casting around in her mind for what Arthur thought he had done to annoy her and was just about to assure him that she was as content as he to read the paper without conversation when he asked, “What would you like to do today?”