“There’s something I should have told you before we married, James.”
Christ. Whatever terrible thing she was about to say, he wanted to stop her.
She nodded as if he’d spoken. “I should have told you and now I cannot live with it.”
“Go on,” he ground out.
“I . . . My mother was not a well woman.”
James blinked. “Pardon?”
“My mother. She was ill for many years before she died.” She paused to take a deep, shaky breath. “And there’s a possibility I could have inherited her illness.”
He cocked his head, totally confused. “Her illness? Sarah, have you been unwell? Does this have to do with your headaches?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. My mother . . . You must understand, it went on for years. It was quite mild at first. I saw her doctor today, and he says I’m exhibiting some of her symptoms.” Her fingers twisted her skirts.
“I don’t understand. Are you speaking of something other than your mother’s lunacy?”
Sarah drew back as if he’d slapped her. Her face faded to the colorless white it had been only moments before. “What?”
James reached for her elbow. “Why don’t you sit down?” Actually, he needed to sit down himself. This had nothing to do with her loving another man, and his knees wanted him to drop down and say a quick prayer of thanks.
But she didn’t move toward the chair, she only looked down at his hand and then back at his face. “You knew?”
“About your mother? Of course.”
“But how?”
“Your father told me when I asked for your hand.”
“You knew she was mad? You knew she took her own life?”
“Yes.” When she only gaped up at him, he touched her cheek, stroking the line of the bone beneath. “And I’m sorry for it. You were so young. It must have broken your heart.”
“But . . . but I thought you didn’t know. I thought I should have told you.”
“Well, I have never revealed how my father died. Apoplexy, by the way.”
“James,” she gasped. “You knew? And you still married me?”
“What in the world have you been thinking? And you still haven’t explained what happened today.”
“As I said, I went to see my mother’s doctor.” She finally headed toward the chairs nearest the fireplace and James followed gratefully. He needed to sit down.
“I’ve been worried,” she continued. “And I found a book written by Doctor Whitcomb. It detailed some of my symptoms—”
“What symptoms?”
Her cheeks flamed to scarlet at the question. “I’ve been recently overcome with . . . feelings and . . . urges.”
“Urges?”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed,” she added in a rush.
“Your urges?” His mind finally latched on to an impossible thought. “Ah, Sarah? Are you speaking of our recent lovemaking?”
“Yes! I don’t wish to speak of it, James, but you have seen the changes. Doctor Whitcomb says it is one of the first signs of hysteria. I don’t want to go mad, James. You have no idea the destruction it brings. He is willing to treat me, but—”
“Sarah, stop! You are not mad. You are the most serene person I know.”
“But I do not feel serene!” she cried. “I feel restless and hot and hungry, and it only gets worse every day! Doctor Whitcomb says that treatment will help me to control these thoughts, but—”
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered, finally dropping into a chair, unable to wait a moment longer for her to be seated.
“Oh, James, I never ever meant to—”
“A doctor actually means to treat you for wanting to make love with your husband? Perhaps you are mad.”
“James!”
“Did he hurt you?”
Sarah shook her head. “Who?”
“The doctor. Did he hurt you or frighten you or—”
“No!” Sarah interrupted. “I only went to ask him a few questions. There was a quick examination, and . . . but I never should have kept this from you. If I become like my mother . . .”
“Come here.”
She frowned at his firm tone.
“Come here, Sarah.”
“Why?” Though she’d started off so vulnerable, Sarah now looked angry and strong as she took only one step closer to him.
As soon as she was within reach, James snagged her waist. She struggled when he pulled her to his lap, and James’s body appreciated the fight.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “This is serious.”
He wrapped his arms around her to keep her still. “Hush. Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you?”
She glared at him. “No.”
“Have I never told you?”
“No.”
“It was at the Worthings’ party, do you remember? And before I saw you, I was thinking, ‘My God, Beatrice Worthing has a terrifically bad singing voice.’ But when she finished that song, you were there, Sarah. My first glimpse of such a lovely stranger. You clapped as you approached Beatrice, smiling as if she’d just performed a beautiful aria. And I heard you ask if she knew your very favorite song in the world. I noticed, because I thought you were mad, volunteering your favorite song to be butchered.
“But then she began to sing, and I realized what you had done.”
“What?” Sarah breathed.
He stroked her back. “You had given her a song in a lower key, in her natural voice, and it was almost lovely. You saved her from humiliating herself.”
She shook her head.
“And I watched you smiling over Beatrice as she sang, and something in my heart twisted so hard I thought everyone must have noticed. But the evening went on; everyone else was unchanged, but I was a different man.”
Her face turned up to him, eyes swimming with shock.
“I thought in that one moment that I might love you, Sarah.”
“You did?” When she blinked, two fat tears escaped and slipped down her face.
“I did. But that is very near an insult. I didn’t know you. We had not even been introduced. I knew nothing of your quick mind and sly sense of humor. I had no idea that you were kind not only to your friends but also to strangers, even those beneath your notice. I could not know that your shyness would slowly blossom into this fascinating passion.
“And I could not have known that you held such foolish bravery in your quiet soul. That hint of a feeling I had was a shadow compared to how I feel for you now, love.”
“But . . . the doctor. My mother.”
“Nonsense. You are as steady and lovely as the moon. When your father explained the circumstances, he made a point of saying that you had never shown any of your mother’s tendencies to be melodramatic and overemotional, but I did not need to be told that.”
“But it was so clear when I read the book . . .”
“Come. Let’s see it.” He could see obstinacy creeping back into her face, so he simply stood and set her on her feet. “Where is it?”
Five minutes later, he was staring, slack jawed, at the unbelievable nonsense that had been tormenting his poor wife. “This is ridiculous!”
Sarah stopped her pacing and set her jaw. “How could you know that? I have experienced everything listed there. Who are you to say that it doesn’t signify?”
“I . . .” There was no decent way to broach this subject. “I do not wish to offend you.”
She threw her hands in the air. “That is the least of my worries, James!”
Damn. “All right . . . before I knew you . . . That is . . . I had, um, experiences. With other women. Just a few.”
Her expression didn’t budge.
“They all enjoyed themselves. They all experienced pleasure, Sarah. That is rather the point of it. Only the most worthless of men can enjoy himself without regard for his partner.”
Her jaw edged out. She crossed her arms. “But these were harlots, were they not?”<
br />
“Um . . .” Ah, Jesus, there was no way around this. “I am not a man who feels comfortable paying for the use of a woman’s body.”
“What does that mean?”
“They were not harlots. They were normal women. Respectable.”
“They could hardly have been respectable, James!”
“Sarah . . . When a woman’s husband dies or leaves her or . . . her need does not fade away, just as a man’s does not. Your body is designed to feel pleasure, and that would not change if I were to die tomorrow.”
“But . . .” Her face twisted in confusion. “The doctor was clear.”
“Damn it,” he growled, sorry that he made her jump, but not willing to back down. “Did he do anything to help your mother? Did she improve? Did she recover?”
“No.”
“Your father made clear to me that she had been under treatment for many years. He said that in the end it made no difference. The doctor did nothing for her. He is a charlatan. A hack.”
“He said she was already too far gone—”
“Damn it, I am your husband, and I am telling you that sexual desire has nothing to do with madness, Sarah. Do you believe me?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. She clenched her arms tighter over her chest. “Those other women? They . . . they reached climax with you?”
James ignored the heat that climbed up his face. “Yes.”
“Perhaps you are only humoring me.”
“By God, I would hardly classify throwing other women in your face as humoring you!”
Sarah rubbed her arms and bit her lip, but she did not respond.
“I love you, Sarah.” Her eyes flew wide at the words, and James realized he had never said them out loud. “I love you, and if I thought you were in danger, you must believe I would do everything I could to make you well again. But there is nothing wrong with you. You are perfect.”
James was known as a fierce negotiator in the Commons, and there was a reason for that. He could read people, and the signs of capitulation were clear on Sarah’s face. She wanted to give in, wanted to believe him. Finally, he knew exactly what to say to end her distress.
“When we married you made me a promise, Sarah.”
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “I did?”
“Before God and our family, you promised to love and obey.”
“I-I did.”
“Then let me make this clear. If there is anything you need to learn about your body or my own, I will be the one to teach you. Do you understand?”
She stared, teetering on the edge of giving in to him.
“If you have questions about desire, we will find the answers together. We will discover your pleasure together. No more books by idiotic quacks. And if you become worried over your health, we will find the best doctor in London. Are we agreed?”
His wife took a deep breath and let her arms fall, so that only her hands stayed clasped together. One finger worked over the ring he’d placed on her hand a few weeks before. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Pardon?”
“Yes, I will come to you, James.”
The sound of his name on her lips combined with sheer relief and rolled through him like a wave. But she needed his strength, not his gratitude. “Good,” he said quietly. “Now I believe that your last lesson was quite inadequate.”
Her lips parted in question.
“We just barely touched on male anatomy.”
Sarah’s gaze trailed down his body before it jerked back to meet his. “James, it is the middle of the day.”
“So it is.”
A flush touched her lips, then deepened.
“You have clearly been in search of answers today,” he pressed. “What is it you wish to know, wife?”
When her tongue darted out to wet her lips, James knew that victory was his. And hers.
He unknotted his tie and locked the door . . . and the lesson began.
CHAPTER 7
Sarah stretched her legs beneath the sheets, seeking out a cooler spot. How strange it felt to be so thoroughly naked in her own bed. Strange and very wicked. She stretched even longer, letting her body sink into the fine linen.
It wasn’t even dinnertime yet. She should rise and dress. James had been up for nearly an hour, though he’d kissed her after he’d dressed, and ordered her to stay abed.
Smiling at the memory, Sarah set aside thoughts of getting up. Her husband had told her to stay and relax, and she had vowed to obey him.
Despite the heaviness of her limbs, Sarah felt amazingly light. She’d told him the truth—he’d known the truth—and James had not rejected her. In fact, he’d assured her she was normal.
When he’d spoken of other women, Sarah should have been hurt. Perhaps one day the idea would wound her, but today she could only be grateful for those women. She was like them; she was not like her mother. She was not anxious and nervous and morose, she was happy.
Touching his body had made her happy. Making him groan with her touch had brought her joy. Sarah snuggled into the pillow with a grin.
“What has you purring like a kitten?” her husband’s voice asked from the other side of the bed.
“James!” Sarah popped up, dragging the sheets with her.
“Such modesty all of a sudden.”
“Hush.” Her blush seemed to make him smile as he sat on the edge of the bed. He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek.
“Shall I call for dinner? I thought perhaps we could dine here.”
Sarah thought of the servants and what they would think . . . and found that she no longer cared. “I’d like that.”
When he reached for the bellpull, Sarah gasped. Dark bruises covered his knuckles. One of them was scraped. “What have you done to your hand?”
His arm froze for a moment before he grasped the cord and tugged. “You needn’t concern yourself with your appointment next week. The doctor understands that you have no need of his care.”
“All right. But what has that to do with your hand?”
His gaze slid to hers.
“James, you didn’t!”
“When we married, I vowed to love and protect you.”
“What can beating a man of science have to do with protecting me?”
Her husband did not look the least bit chastened when he shrugged. “All right. I’ll concede the point. Consider it part of loving you then.”
“James!” she scolded, though she couldn’t manage to put much heat into her voice, perhaps because he had mentioned love again. He loved her. He knew all her secrets and still he loved her.
When he took her hand and stroked his thumb over her palm, they both watched. Once again, Sarah marveled at the contrast of his skin against hers. His fingers were long and bronzed and dusted with hair, and the sight of his scraped knuckles thrilled her in a way that didn’t bear examination. Ladies were not bloodthirsty, after all.
“James?” she whispered.
“Hm?”
She turned her hand around and threaded her fingers through his. “I have one last confession.”
His thumb froze against her hand. “Another?”
“Yes. I think . . . that is, I am quite sure that I am terribly in love with you.”
“Ah, I see. Terribly?”
“Yes, horribly.”
Slowly, he raised her hand to his mouth for a long, lingering kiss that turned into a smile against her skin. “Good. I would hate to think myself alone in this misery. But I detect that you were recently in doubt.”
She swallowed the thickness from her throat. “Not doubt. Not of you. I have only felt so . . . confused. My life changed so completely. A new home, a new role, a new life. I was Mrs. Hood, and I did not know who she was.”
When she dared a look at James’s face, she found his brow falling into a deep frown. “I never thought . . .” he murmured. “That sounds horrid, Sarah.”
“No, it wasn’t horrid! It was only a change, and you have been lovely and patient and
kind. And if it hadn’t been you . . . if it hadn’t been you, James, I would’ve been afraid and lost.
“But it was you,” she said when he looked as if he would interrupt. “And now I know who I am again. I am Sarah. I am your wife. And I love you.”
James did not answer. He only stared down at their clasped hands, with his mouth set in a flat line.
Love and fear pulsed through Sarah’s veins. She had said too much, revealed something that might hurt him. “James?”
“I am thinking what I could do to help you adjust. I am trying to imagine how it would feel to give up my home and family and habits and start anew with a virtual stranger.”
Sarah could not help but smile at that. He was hardly a stranger anymore. The fear left her, dissipating through her skin and disappearing entirely.
She kissed his shoulder, but he didn’t look up. “The strangest thing was that I had never been allowed to even be alone with a man, and suddenly . . .” She smiled at him when he glanced up, a pained expression on his face. “Suddenly I was expected to be very alone with a man, if you understand my meaning.”
James cringed. “I think I do.”
“But I have come to realize that the best solution for strangeness is complete immersion.”
“Immersion?”
“Yes. If you truly wish to help me adjust . . . ?”
His eyes grew warmer at her tone and flickered down the sheet that hid her body. “Oh, I most certainly do.”
“Then I believe if you would focus your attentions on only my most pressing anxieties . . .”
James leaned a little closer and idly wrapped one hand into a trailing edge of the sheet. “My God, Mrs. Hood. You are a genius. Pray tell, what is your most aching concern?”
Sarah nodded, trying to look solemn even as she blushed to the roots of her hair. “I am wondering . . .”
“Yes?” When he shifted, the sheet wrapped around her bosom became precariously loose.
“I understand that a husband has certain needs . . .”
His hand moved beneath the edge of the linen, and his fingers spread wide over her naked knee. “Oh, yes,” he answered, voice a little lower than it had been. “Definite needs.”
“But I’ve read several books on the subject, and it’s not clear . . .”
Lessons in Pleasure Page 7
