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whataperfectwasteoftime · 10 months

Text

No Net Ensnares Me

**co-written with @littlebirdsbookshelf**

Pairing: Victorian!Marcus Pike x f!reader

Rating: Explicit (smut, 18+ only)

Word count: 20k!!!

Warnings: Arranged marriage AU; strangers to spouses to lovers; period-typical views on women, virginity, marriage, and sex; YEARNING, oh so much yearning; Marcus being a dumbass; smut: fingering, virgin!reader, unprotected PIV sex

Authors Note: The title comes from, no surprises here, Jane Eyre. The book mentioned in this fic, The Transmission of Life, is a real book published in 1873 and is just as hilarious as it sounds. The full pdf is available online if you ever wish to cringe at what is essentially Victorian era sex-ed for men. **Happiest of birthdays to my co-writer, who spent her birthday spending time getting this amaaaaaaaaazing fic ready to post!**

Penny's Masterlist | Morgan's Masterlist

Splash!

You wince as water hits your skirts before you have the chance to pull them up and out of the way.

Mother isn't going to want to see another dress with mud stains.

It's not your fault–if you could simply wear short trousers like your younger brother, Edward, does in the summer, you could avoid the problem altogether. If he were just a little bit wider in the hips, you could probably steal some. Next summer, perhaps.

The water burbling in the small stream on the property is cool and refreshing, and the rush of the current makes such a pleasant, soothing sound as it cascades over the little pebbles. You pick one up–a flat, smooth one. You'd once seen Father teach Edward to skip stones, but when you had asked to learn, he had gently chastised you that it wasn't proper. You toss the stone in the same manner you remember seeing them do, but it simply plunks into the water with a small splash, not even skipping once.

With a little huff of laughter, you sit on one of the large boulders on the side of the stream and wiggle your toes around in the water. This is where you feel most at peace. Not at finishing school, where you were forced to endure hours upon hours of dance, embroidery, sewing, and etiquette lessons. Nor at home, where your mother seems to follow you about looking for faults to critique and your father spends all of his attention on raising Edward to be the next man of the house.

No, despite the relentless and unending teasing you’ve endured for it at the hands of your finishing school peers, you feel most at home when you are running free through the woods or cooling your bare feet in the water.

Most unbecoming!

The words ring loud and clear in your brain, and in your mother’s voice, no less. You aren’t sure why she’s so ridiculously concerned with raising you up to marry off–not when Edward will surely continue in your father’s footsteps, carrying on the family legacy. Besides, you’re quite a few years past marrying age, now, and if your betrothal was so very important, wouldn’t they have shipped you off to the first man that would have you?

You smile wickedly to yourself. Perhaps the problem is that there is no man that would have you.

Feral creature, your headmistresses had thrown the accusation like so many embroidery needles through fabric. Unmarriageable. Unmanageable. Horrid and brash, like a boy.

Well, if the shoe fits… you’re happy to languish as an old maid–why, soon you’ll have aged enough to earn the label of eccentric! You snort. An old maid. At twenty-eight. You’ve hardly even left your county; let alone seen anything of the world. You’ve done nothing, traveled nowhere, not even attended university, because such things were ‘not for ladies of your station.’

No, you are quite fine remaining unwed. Being someone’s wife was just one more way for them to entrap you.

Upon your return to the house, your parents are waiting for you in the sitting room just inside the front hall.

"Excellent news, sweetling," your father says as you enter, brandishing a letter. "We’ve had a letter from The Earl! The Pikes have agreed to the union of our two families in marriage."

"Fifteen seems rather young, does it not?" you comment, shooting a look at Edward, who sticks out his tongue. "Not very husbandly behavior, brother."

"Silly child," your mother scolds, never one to find humor in any situation, "the Pikes have only one child; a son. You are to be married to Lord Marcus Pike in a fortnight."

"A fortnight?" The words are practically shrieked as you whirl around to face your parents.

"Don't shout so, dearest," your mother adds, a false sweetness in her words.

"He's a good man by all accounts," your father interjects. "Well bred, and of course dreadfully wealthy. It will be a good match for our families."

"Am I to be a meal ticket?" you ask, your voice quieter as you come to grips with the gravity of the situation.

"Sweetling," your father begins, but you back away, horrified.

"Don't 'sweetling' me," you snap. "Where was my input in any of this? Don't I deserve to know my… my…"

"Fiancé," your brother finishes, unhelpfully.

"I don't know what he looks like," you say. "I don't even know how old he is."

"He's…" your mother glances at the letter again, "eight and thirty."

"And unmarried? What's wrong with him?" you demand.

"Now, now, sweetling. There's nothing wrong with the man."

"How do you know? Have you met him?"

"I–" Your father searches for an answer, but can't seem to find one.

"We'll all have met in a fortnight," your mother interjects. "So it hardly matters, discussing such things now."

"It matters to me," you mutter. Gathering your skirts in one hand, you start for the stairs.

"Dearest," Mother cries. "Your skirts!"

"They'll wash," you snap. "I've got bigger things to worry about now, don't I?"

You tramp up the stairs in a huff, ready to throw yourself onto your bed and scream into your pillow, wallowing in the unfairness of it all, but just before you throw the door shut, your mother is there, having followed you.

"I would like to rest–" you offer weakly.

"I feel the need to warn you," she says, pushing past your protest, "that this kind of unladylike behavior will not be appropriate for a married woman of your status. You cannot run about the woods like a feral animal; you will have responsibilities. Duties. We have not yet spoken, you and I, of what it is to please a husband–"

"And we won't begin now," you interrupt. "Mother, I'm tired. I wish to lie down."

You don’t wait for her to leave before collapsing inelegantly on your bed and burying your face in the covers. Blessedly, she says nothing more, leaving you to sulk in your misery.

Married. To a man you’ve never even met. Realistically, you knew this day would come, eventually. At the age of twenty-eight, being unwed was starting to be an unusual condition. All of your peers have been wives for quite some time; most of them already surrounded by children. You suppose you should be grateful to your parents for waiting this long–although you know that part of their apparent difficulty in finding a match was directly caused by your advancing years. The last prospect had declined your father’s offer and had instead asked for the hand of your neighbor’s daughter–who was not yet even twenty years!

You have to admit, that one stung a little–even if you felt nowhere near ready to be someone’s wife. The weight of that responsibility has always felt so suffocating, when all you ever wanted to do was be yourself. You wonder if any other wives ever have the urge to run through the woods at night, wiggle their toes in the middle of a mud puddle, or lay in the grass and stare at the stars.

You’re sure that your betrothed would not want a wife who behaved in such a way.

You create an image in your mind of the man you’re to marry. He must be objectionable, in some way, to have remained a bachelor for so long. Perhaps he’s disfigured, or his breath is horrid, or… oh God–what if he’s cruel?

You shake the thought away–too horrifying to think of.

With an anxious mind and heavy heart, you manage to fall asleep.

“Straighten your back.”

“I’ve been sitting in a cramped carriage for over three hours,” you remark, trying not to clench your jaw in irritation at your mother’s reminder.

“Well, you’re not in one now, so do try and act like it, dearest.”

You grit your teeth and put an exaggerated curve in your spine, sticking your chin up and looking haughtily down your nose as you, your parents, and your brother walk up the stairs to the manor house currently occupied by Lord Pike, the only son of the Earl of Tennesley.

Lining either side of the stairs are the home’s staff, each bowing and curtsying as you pass them. At the front door, a large contingency awaits–his parents, you presume, perhaps some relatives, and there, standing at the front of the group, is a man.

At first glance, there’s nothing outwardly objectionable about him, as you had feared. He’s dressed smartly in a black frock coat, a maroon waistcoat, and a tie of damask silk neatly centered under his crisply starched collar. As your eyes dart over his figure a second time, you notice the gold albert chain glinting at the left side of his waist, and an amber tie pin tucked neatly below the knot. He’s tall, but not overly so, with dark brown hair that seems to be doing everything it can to escape its styling. As you warily march up the stairs, your feet seeming heavier with every step, you can make out his features. His lips are soft and plush, his eyes dark as he watches your approach. He might be a decade your senior, but his looks are still boyish and youthful.

He stands rigidly and formally: his arms ramrod straight at his sides, and his chin lifted. His jaw is tense, but you can see the flicker of nervousness in his eyes–an anxiety that matches your own.

It disappears quickly as you walk the final steps to come face to face with him, so much so that you suddenly wonder if you’d simply imagined it in the first place, projecting your own feelings onto the face of a stranger.

The man steps forward to meet you, stiffly extending his hand and clearing his throat.

“What a privilege and an honor it is to meet you,” he intones, his tone just as uptight as the rest of him.

For a moment, you’re frozen to the spot–until your mother elbows you in the ribs, hitting the boning of your too-tight corset and making you inhale sharply; it causes you to remember yourself and your manners.

“I am grateful for your generous hospitality, Lord Pike,” you say, your formal tone barely recognizable to your own ears. You extend a gloved hand for him to take, and he does–clasping it gently and drawing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

You drop your eyes, unable to look directly at the action.

“Marcus, please,” he says, much more quietly this time, and without the unbearable rigidity from before. “We are to be wed, after all.”

You don’t know what to say to the man, so you say nothing.

The two of you stand in silence, almost daring one another to speak first.

“What lovely grounds,” your mother says cheerfully beside you. “So many delightful flowers.”

Lord Pike–Marcus–awkwardly clears his throat for the second time. When he speaks, his voice is formal again, and a touch too loud.

“I had tea prepared for us in the drawing room,” he announces. “You’ve come a long way, you must be in need of refreshment.”

“How very lovely,” you answer, imitating and even exaggerating the man’s too-formal tone. If Marcus notices your mocking, he doesn’t show it, but your mother shoots you a look of warning.

Flanked by your parents, you follow your betrothed to an ornate sitting room. At first, you head straight for one of the single chairs, but at your mother's stern look, you reluctantly sink down onto a loveseat–one whose other cushion is already occupied by one Lord Pike.

He smiles at you, but something about it seems disingenuous.

"Lovely weather, is it not?"

"I find it rather disagreeable," you answer stiffly, even though the sun is shining and the temperature mild.

"Dreadful," Marcus amends, seemingly wanting to agree with whatever you say. "It smells of rain."

"According to the almanac, it won't rain for another week at least," you counter.

"Quite true. Tea?" he asks, holding out a delicate cup that looks comically small in his hand.

You take the proffered teacup but don't drink.

"What sorts of activities interest you?" he asks, with the air of someone who isn't actually interested in the answer.

"I find the process of setting water to boil quite enthralling," you remark, still using the same artificially formal tone. "I like to trim the hedges in the garden by picking one leaf at a time. And you?" You smile sweetly at your betrothed, who looks entirely confused.

"I… I enjoy reading," he stammers, "taking walks of the evening." He glances over at his own father. "Hunts, of course."

"How exhilarating," you gush. "Snuffing the life out of unsuspecting animals sounds thrilling."

Edward snorts into his tea. You don't dare venture a glance at your own parents, who must surely be wondering if the arrangement was going to end within the first five minutes of meeting.

Your brother, on the other hand, delights in Marcus’ apparent anxiety with a sardonic grin.

“So, Marcus, I hear you have traveled the continent quite extensively?” Edward asks with an air of geniality. Beside him on the settee, you try to force a grin down. You know where his line of questioning is headed, having fallen into the same trap yourself many times over.

“Yes,” Marcus nods, “In that part of the globe, I’ve traveled quite extensively through much of France, Germany, Italy, and the middle east”

“Ah, then you must be quite excited to hear we’ve been linked to the continent by telephone!”

Marcus pales, fidgeting surreptitiously with his shirt-cuff. “I can’t say I was aware of that.”

“It was in the paper at least this last fortnight!” Edward exclaims, feigning surprise and pointedly ignoring the heavy stare of your father from the other side of the room.

“Well, I…” Marcus fumbles as that steadfast exterior of his cracks for just a moment, revealing the anxiety beneath. In mere seconds, he recovers his constitution, his expression blank and amiable once again. “I am afraid I haven’t spent as much time as I ought on events as of late, though I will be sure to rectify that.”

“No matter, no matter,” Edmund smiles, putting on the air of a man much older than his years, as is his talent. “You are a very busy man, I’m sure.”

“Indeed,” Marcus nods, watching you and your brother briefly lock eyes before quickly returning your gazes to your plates.

"The church in the village, that shall be the venue of the wedding, correct?" your mother interrupts, attempting to salvage the conversation before the table falls into silence.

"Indeed," Mrs. Pike responds. "It has been decorated handsomely for the occasion, of course."

The two women start their own conversation regarding tomorrow's ceremony, leaving you and Marcus to fall silent.

"Does the tea not suit you?”

You frown and look over at your betrothed. “Pardon?”

“You have not taken a single sip.”

You stare down at the liquid in the too-ornate cup. In the comfort of your own home, you enjoy sitting by the window and looking out over the garden, a steaming cup of tea in your lap. Here, however, the thought of drinking anything this rigid man gives you turns your stomach.

“I hate tea,” you lie.

Marcus blinks dumbly, taken off-guard by your blunt statement. After a split second of staring, he recovers; he schools his expression back into aloof disinterest. “I sincerely apologise for the misunderstanding. I can have some coffee brought up, or some hot water with lemon. I can arrange for milk–”

“No.”

At your interruption, he falls silent, and doesn’t attempt to speak to you again for the rest of the afternoon.

When evening falls, you and your family are shown to the guest wing of the manor. You’ll sleep here tonight, but tomorrow… you shudder. Tomorrow, you’ll be sleeping in the bed of a man you barely know, on the night of your marriage.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Edward is already snoring, and your parents’ breaths are deep and even with sleep as well–all three of them apparently unconcerned and unbothered by the fact that, two days from now, they shall ride away in their carriage, leaving their oldest child in the arms of a stranger.

You do not know how long you drift, prisoner to your own rapidly-swirling thoughts, but when sleep finally claims you, your dreams are likewise disquieting.

Your body doesn’t feel like your own. You’re an outside observer, looking down on the girl–woman–in an ornate white dress.

Part of your lightheadedness, you suppose, is the fault of the corset underneath–laced perhaps a bit tighter than medically recommended. That, combined with the suffocating silk fabric of the wedding dress and the weight of the veil on your head, and you’re hotter and more uncomfortable than you’ve ever felt in your life.

You stand outside the doors to the church like a statue, your expression as grey and somber as stone, when your mother joins you.

“They’re nearly ready,” she explains. “The organist was late.”

You nod, about to place your hand on the door handle, when she stops you.

“Wait. We didn’t talk about—about your duties, about what you should come to expect tonight.”

“Mother–” you mutter, shaking your head, but she continues.

“Please,” she says, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard, making you frown and look at her face–which is etched with concern. “I want you to be prepared. I want you to understand and expect that there will be pain, so that you do not react unfavorably in the moment.”

“Pain?” you repeat, the nerves you didn’t think could grow any higher reaching a crescendo–and just moments before you’re to walk down the aisle.

“It won’t always be painful,” your mother adds. “It may not be enjoyable, but in time, you will come to appreciate it.”

“If it’s not enjoyable, then why do people do it?” you ask pointedly, arching an eyebrow and glowering in her direction.

“He will find it to be enjoyable,” she explains gently. “And it’s your duty as a wife to please your husband.”

With that, she ushers you–stunned and open-mouthed–through the church doors to meet your fate.

The cacophony of the organ is drowned out by your heart hammering in your ribcage as you slowly walk down the aisle. Your betrothed is already there, of course, and staring intently with those deep brown eyes of his. As you enter the room, his lips part almost of their own accord, and he looks almost stunned to see you.

His gaze is intolerable–boring into you as you turn and face him at the dias, and you wish you could tell him to look somewhere else. The preacher speaks, but you don’t hear the words over the rushing of blood in your ears. Your chest hurts, the top of your too-tightly fitted corset digging into your ribs and your hips painfully, and above all else, you’re simply angry.

You recite your vows in a monotone, staring blankly at Marcus’s chest as the ceremony proceeds. You don’t even realize the officiant has said the words “man and wife” until Marcus–your new husband–squeezes your hands to get your attention.

“We’re supposed to kiss,” he announces, as if you didn’t understand how a wedding worked.

“Yes,” you agree flatly, but remaining where you are and not stepping closer at all. In the end, Marcus is the one who moves, stepping forward to press a stiff, chaste kiss on your unpuckered lips.

And just like that, you’ve become somebody’s wife.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to eat anything, trussed up the way you are. You barely have room for air, let alone any of the mountains of food on the table in front of you. You push some potatoes around your plate with your fork, listening to Marcus make unbearable small-talk with your father. His mother and yours are deep in a discussion about embroidery, and your brother is telling Marcus’s father about his schooling. You’re the only one without a conversation partner.

"Is the food not to your liking?"

It takes you longer than usual to realize someone is speaking to you. You glance up and realize that your new husband is watching you with concern written all over his face.

"What?"

"The food," he repeats. "You've barely eaten."

"Not hungry, I suppose," you lie. You're starving, but the cursed undergarments your mother forced you into are digging into your stomach uncomfortably already.

"Better eat up," Marcus's father says with a laugh. "You'll both need your energy!"

The men at the table erupt with laughter, alongside a few tittering giggles from the other married ladies in the room, but you and Marcus sit awkwardly silent and unsmiling.

"Indeed, we've kept these two newlyweds apart for long enough," your mother adds, as though the two of you are deeply in love and not mere strangers until just yesterday.

With your heart in your throat, you allow yourself to be ushered up and away from the table by Marcus’ mother. She leads you through the large manor house, chattering gently at your elbow. If you had any room in your mind to think much about her, you might have thought she was attempting to be kind–removing you for a while from the icy gaze of your mother–but your thoughts are too full of dread to take much notice of her. With a small smile, she takes your hands in hers and bids you a good night, informing you that Marcus would join you in only a moment.

Then, down another corridor, she disappears.

Again, anger simmers up inside you at the fact that you’ve been left like a child waiting to be collected from school. However, instead of waiting for your governess, you’ve been left to wait for your husband to collect you, as if you were no more than a piece of chattel to be moved from one location to the next.

Still, you don’t dare move from in front of the large oak doors.

At either side of you, the corridor stretches out, funneling all sounds down toward you. You can hear other family members retiring for the night, guests finding their rooms, and the soft, whispering chatter of staff and maids as they receive instruction.

One voice you recognise out of the rest–the voice of your mother somewhere to your right. You listen, straining to hear her words as she speaks in quiet tones to some other unknown person.

“Ensure that in the morning you personally collect the linens from the room,” she murmurs, her voice fading as she disappears somewhere into the unfamiliar halls of the house. “Any sheets are to be brought to myself and the countess so it may be proven that she wed her only son to a proper young lady of good morals.”

With that, your anger boils over. It becomes a growing, frothing thing in your stomach, filling you up until you think you might scream out at the indignity of it all.

Does the whole house know of the humiliation you are about to suffer? Are they all listening at keyholes and in servant corridors? It seems that even the most intimate moment of your life is to be a public spectacle!

Before you can stalk after her in a fit rage, heavy steps to your left freeze you in your place.

Your new husband and his father–who looks a little worse for drink, in your opinion–round the corner of the corridor to your left.

Something akin to relief passes across Marcus’ expression.

The Earl, leaning over to his son, whispers something in his ear–something that has your new husband forcing a smile. Without a word to you, he politely bids his father a pleasant evening before gently guiding you into his bedroom with a hand at your lower back. The moment the door closes behind you, however, he immediately moves away, nearly retreating across the room, and his smile falls.

“I would not–” he swallows, looking down at the floor. “I cannot, in good conscience, accept a partner who is unwilling,” he murmurs.

“I am willing, my lord,” you say stiffly, because you know it’s what you’re supposed to say. Inside, however, your heart is racing as you remember your mother’s words from earlier. I want you to understand and expect that there will be pain, so that you do not react unfavorably in the moment. You suppress a shudder of nerves.

Marcus’s eyes shoot up to meet yours, his gaze dark and discerning.

“No,” he says softly. “No, I do not believe that to be true.”

It’s your turn to swallow and look at the floor. It’s not–of course it isn’t. You’d rather sleep in this corset all night than consummate your marriage, but surely, if like your mother said, he’d find the act enjoyable, he would want to fulfill this expected–and anticipated–duty? You shake your head, not understanding, but Marcus doesn’t budge.

“Listen,” he entreats. “I cannot ask such a thing from you. You can have your own quarters if you like, after everyone leaves. I had a wing of the manor prepared; it can be yours, all yours, if you’d rather not share–well, if you’d like your own space.”

You nod, too stunned to speak at first, but then you remember: “But how will we… the sheet,” you say weakly.

Marcus smiles–and you realise that it looks different than all the other expressions on his face that you’ve witnessed thus far, but you’re not sure why. You watch, confused, as he strides over to a small cabinet and opens it, withdrawing a small vial.

“What on earth–”

“It’s paint,” he explains. “A bit of crimson pigment. We spill a few drops on the sheet, and no one will know the difference.”

“Why–” you begin, shaking your head in disbelief. “Why would you do such a thing? Lie to our families?”

“I’ve made quite a few vows today already, but I’d like to offer one more to you now,” your husband says quietly. “I vow to never hurt you. I vow that I will never share this bed with you unless you wish it. You are to be my partner in life–equals–and I will not take that which isn’t enthusiastically offered to me. On my life, I swear this to you.”

The man’s sincerity stuns you into silence. He stares at you entreatingly, his eyebrows upturned and his eyes wide with uncertainty.

“Is this… amenable, to you?” he asks awkwardly, holding up the vial of red pigment again.

“Y-Yes,” you answer, nodding quickly. “Yes. I–thank you.”

You watch, fascinated, as Marcus pulls out a little eyedropper and spills a couple of droplets on the sheet. The colour stands out sharply against the white fabric, and you find yourself entranced by the way it bleeds into the fibers of the material.

“There,” he says simply, replacing the lid and hiding the vial in the cabinet again.

You take a deep, relieved breath in. Or you try to–it feels as though your lungs can only inflate to half of their capacity. You have to get out of these torturous clothes.

“Would you ring for a maid to assist me with my outer garments?” you ask, your voice stiff with formality again as you grapple with the prospect of undressing in front of a near stranger. Although you’ll be able to keep your chemise on, shedding your outer layers still brings more vulnerability than you’re comfortable with.

“That would surely give our little game away,” Marcus says with a little half-smile, “and alert the entire manor to what we aren’t doing.”

“Oh.” You stare down at the floor again. He’s right, of course.

“You’re uncomfortable,” he observes quietly. “You’ve hardly been able to breathe all evening.”

“My mother was a bit ambitious with the laces,” you say dryly.

“Let me help,” Marcus pleads softly. “I–I’ll be careful, and I won’t… look, or anything but I–you can’t possibly sleep in all of that.” He takes a cautious step toward you, his expression open and unguarded as he approaches. “Simply say the words, and I’ll–”

Rather than speak, you turn your back to him, wordlessly offering the row of tiny buttons on your wedding dress for him to undo. He doesn’t speak either, silently starting at the top of the row and gently working his way down. The quiet is almost companionable as he works, undoing button after button until he’s able to carefully draw the garment down your shoulders.

“Good heavens, this thing weighs a ton,” he muses, letting the ornate white fabric crumple to the floor in an inelegant heap. “How on earth do you stay upright with all these skirts as well?”

Despite your anxious and dour mood, you cannot stop the quiet laugh that escapes your lips at his gentle teasing.

“We womenfolk are secretly stronger than anyone realises,” you joke as you begin removing your petticoats and your bustle cage, letting them all pool at your feet before stepping out of them.

“I’m certain that’s the truth,” your husband responds, a small smile colouring the tone of his voice, softening it.

With your underclothes now out of the way–save for your chemise and drawers–you can feel the warmth of Marcus’s hands as they come to the laces of your corset.

“My God, this is–” he murmurs with a frown. “However do you endure such a thing?”

You shrug, not knowing how to answer. It’s not like you had a choice in the matter.

“I had no idea,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” He quickly loosens the garment, his hands working far quicker than they had while unbuttoning your dress in his apparent urgency. As you undo the hooks at the front, he helps to draw it away from your body and then casts it aside with a soft tsk. “If you’d like to burn it, I would gladly supply you with a match.”

“It’s my finest corset,” you remark, tipping your head back and taking in your first full breath since that morning, sighing in relief as you stretch at the waist, finally unencumbered by boning meant to keep you upright.

“An oxymoron,” he says dryly.

Suddenly remembering himself, Marcus steps back comically fast, turning around and averting his eyes in your state of undress. Cheeks heating with embarrassment, you quickly rid yourself of your shoes and dart over to the bed, pulling the covers up to your chin.

You keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling as you listen to the sound of your new husband undressing. You can only glance out of the corner of your eye as he slips into bed beside you, and you realise he's still wearing his undershirt and trousers just before he extinguishes the lamp.

Marcus’s bed is large enough that a wide gulf of unused mattress spreads out between the two of you, even without hugging the very edge of it–which you do. You curl into yourself, listening to the unfamiliar sound of another person breathing beside you as you attempt to relax your body and mind enough that sleep will claim you.

It's a big undertaking; your mind continues to whirl for what seems like hours before you feel the pull of dreams.

Neither you nor Marcus speak again until morning.

Come daylight, Marcus calls for the footman to have your things brought to his room, immediately excusing himself to give you privacy as you wait for your lady’s maid–your own having been relieved of her position by your parents despite your protests. She introduces herself as Bridget in a somewhat anxious voice. She’s about the same age as yourself; meek, though she has a warm smile as she shows you to the ladies bath and dressing room. Through the door, you watch another maid enter and begin her duties. Another maid, this one obviously of higher rank, gathers the bedding to be washed, and you watch as the little red stain is carried out of the room.

"Are you feeling well this morn, Lady Pike?" your lady’s maid asks timidly as she begins setting out your clothing.

"Quite well," you answer tightly, hoping the waver in your voice doesn't betray you.

Once dressed in your favorite maroon day-dress, your new husband escorts you to the dining room for a small breakfast before your families depart. The meal is dreadfully awkward; every head in the room is turned toward the two of you as you pick politely at a piece of toast. You know your mother would disapprove if you attacked your food with the hunger you secretly felt–having not eaten a true meal since yesterday morning. You wonder to yourself if the breakfast will still be available when everyone leaves and you can gorge yourself freely.

You sneak a glance at your husband. Would he think you rude, too?

Perhaps you could steal down to the kitchens later and help yourself. Besides, if there is anything finishing school has taught you, it is that being on the side of the staff will make your life exponentially easier.

Again, neither you nor Marcus speak to one another. He’s stiff and formal again, and you suddenly find yourself longing for the way he spoke to you last night when you were finally alone–for the first time since meeting. The upright rigidity with which he holds himself in public was gone, then–replaced with concern, sincerity… and warmth.

He had looked upon you with kind, understanding eyes. Eyes that are now staring at the food on his plate with vague disinterest.

Finally, after Marcus’ own family has departed, your parents prepare to take their leave. You hug each of them in turn, before wrapping Edward in a tight embrace.

“Be good,” you whisper to him, your voice filled with emotion. “Don’t neglect your studies. Don’t play pranks on your tutors.”

“What if they’re very good pranks?” your baby brother whispers back.

You laugh quietly, and a lone tear escapes, rolling down your cheek. “Only if you promise to describe it in detail in your letters.”

“I will if you promise to not turn into an old, boring hag, now that you’re married,” he returns.

“By my life, I shall be just as difficult as before.”

You watch your family depart with shining eyes, willing your tears to hold themselves at bay until you can retreat to your own chamber–wherever it may be–and cry in private. For now, you force a smile on your face and join your new husband in waving farewell as the last of the wedding guests depart, leaving the two of you alone.

“Never have I been more relieved to see the departure of guests,” Marcus remarks beside you.

Your mirth takes you by surprise, and a watery giggle escapes your lips even as another tear falls.

He turns to look at you, his brow furrowing in concern as he sees your tears.

“We shall visit often, if you would like,” he says quietly. “And we can have them over anytime you please.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You’ll miss them, of course, but it’s the finality of the situation that’s truly the source of your grief. You’re alone. In an unfamiliar house. With a stranger.

Your husband.

“I should like to show you around,” he says carefully. “If you’re amenable to such a thing? Or if you’d rather I begin and end the tour with your chambers, I’d be more than happy to do so.”

Your first instinct is to immediately lock yourself in your quarters and never come out, but before you can tell him, a moment of clarity causes you to pause. You could certainly spend this day and all your days sulking in your rooms, but in the end, the only one that hurts is you. That’s no way to live in your own house, now is it?

“It is quite a large manor,” you say carefully, “and I’ve yet seen very little of it.”

A wide, toothy smile spreads across your new husband’s face, and you finally realise what’s different about this particular expression:

It’s completely and utterly genuine.

“Of course.” He seems surprised that you agreed to his request, but he quickly schools his expression into one of practiced formality–although his eyes still twinkle with mirth as he offers you his arm. “My lady.”

Despite yourself, you offer him a small smile and carefully tuck your hand into the crook of his elbow, and, placing his hand over your own, he gently guides you back inside.

Though your new husband’s manor house is quite large, it’s older and far less grand than most country houses you’re used to–houses filled to the brim with highly polished marble, bright rooms, and brightly dyed drapings that hurt your eyes. The main halls and the rooms used most often by guests have obviously been updated quite beautifully to suit current fashions, but as you allow Marcus to lead you slowly through the house, you see that the smaller halls and rooms used only by the sole owner of the home have remained mostly untouched. The tapestry lined rooms are somewhat dim, but at the same time they are cozy and warm–reminding you of the castles and knights that your governess used to tell you stories of to help you fall asleep.

The silent and unmoved man you married disappears once again, and the excited, talkative man that piques your curiosity takes his place. Marcus points out where additions have been made over the centuries, where old stone walls have been rebuilt and repaired, where the original 12th century walls once stood. He tells you stories of boyhood summers here, of the nooks and crannies of this old house that he explored as a youth.

It isn't until the tour of the home is entirely over that you finally gather up the courage to speak.

“If it is not too much to ask, why do you live apart from your family? Surely your father has a much larger and grander home than this?”

“That he does,” Marcus says, politely taking your hand as he leads you down the stairs. “Although I cannot call it home. I recall very little of my time there as a young boy. Once I was old enough, I went to Eaton for my schooling, then on to Cambridge.”

“That I can understand,” you answer. “I never felt much at home in my own house, and most of my girlhood was spent away at school.”

Your husband nods, falling silent again for a brief moment. He seems to be turning words around in his mind, or perhaps deciding whether or not to speak or to move on.

“This house was my uncle’s–my father’s younger brother,” he begins, quieter and less assured than before. “He was a bachelor all his life, and so he was almost a second father to me, just as I was the son he did not have… and when he died, he left the manor and the land to me. He knew I’d get far more use from it than anyone else–that I would find a home in it, rather than just another house.”

At the bottom of the stair, your husband stops, his hand still holding onto yours.

“I want you to feel at home here, just as I do,” Marcus says. “For it is your home too, after all.”

“And yet one door remains closed to me,” you remark, thinking of the one room you had passed by without entering.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Just my–my study.”

“Oh.” you look down at your hands. “Of course. I–I apologise, I overstepped.”

“No,” Marcus says emphatically. “No, of course not it’s just–”

“–private.”

“–messy.”

The two of you speak at the same time.

“Oh.”

“I–here, let me show you.” Grabbing your hand, Marcus pulls you down a side corridor, back to the large oak doors that had remained closed.

On opening the door, your husband lets you step into the room first, though you find yourself frozen at the sheer overwhelming number of things to look at. The room is littered all about with papers and open books on every available surface. Workbenches and small tables are scattered about haphazardly, and pressed up against the single window sits a grand desk covered over with test tubes, flasks, bunsen burners, and the like, making the room look more like a chemical laboratory than a gentleman’s study. There’s a comfortable armchair tucked into one corner of the room, and a well-worn sofa in another corner. Each wall is lined with tall bookshelves that reach right up to the ceiling, packed with every sort of books you could imagine, interspersed with artifacts and small sculptures.

However, what captures your immediate attention is the two large easels stood side by side against one wall, yet another table holding a curious brass instrument between the two of them.

On each easel stands a painting which, to your eye, looks identical to the other.

"Why do you have two of the same painting?" you ask.

"Oh!" Marcus looks excited as he stands by your side and joins you in staring at the wall. "It's quite the interesting story. See, one of these artworks is worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. The other is a rather convincing fake someone was trying to sell off to the British Museum."

"Which one is which?"

"Ah, that's the question, isn't it!" Your new husband claps his hands excitedly, looking more animated than you've ever seen him. "And it's a question that stumped even Scotland Yard. But look!" he dashes over to a paint-splattered workbench, which is covered with hundreds of little vials and dishes.

"At what am I looking?" you ask, eyes raking over the untidy desk with a confused frown.

"Pigment analysis. If you take samples from each canvas, you'll find that one was made with the most high-quality oils, and the other with a cheap imitation."

"What… what is all of this?" you ask, inspecting the little vials scattered all over the table.

"Paint. It's… my specialty, in a way."

“Your specialty,” you repeat.

“In my travels, the subject that has always interested me the most is art,” Marcus explains. “My uncle left an extensive collection, of course, but what truly fascinates me is the thriving market for forgeries.” He walks over to his desk and retrieves a pile of papers, looking down at them with an eager expression as he talks. “Do you know how many museums around the world have fallen victim to an extraordinarily convincing fake?”

“Quite a lot, I’m guessing?” you answer with a shrug.

“So many!” he exclaims, smiling happily at your response. “It intrigued me. I began to study the techniques of forgery; how to determine the genuine from the counterfeit. I’ve worked with the British Museum, with the Louvre, the Alte Pinakothek in Germany…”

“So you are a detective?” you ask, astounded at this new revelation about the man you’d just married.

“I am… an independent contractor, I suppose you’d say,” Marcus answers, picking up a test tube of old paint and examining it as he talks. “I’ve worked with the police in various countries, but I also take cases from individual collectors across the continent. I’ve invented several different methods of pigment analysis, as you can see.” He pauses, taking in your bewildered expression. “You think me strange,” he chuckles, though you can hear the self-deprecation clear through his geniality.

“Yes.”

If he’s hurt by your blunt answer, he doesn’t show it. Slowly, ever so slowly, he approaches you–as one would a wild animal. You stare at him as he stops in front of you–closer than he had been at your wedding–and gently takes both of your hands in his.

“I know I’m nobody’s first choice,” he says softly, staring down at your clasped hands. “I know you had little say in the matter. But I hope–” his breath stutters, “–I hope you can eventually see me as a companion. That we could become friends, even. I would only wish for you to be happy here. You will want for nothing–not if I can help it. Anything you desire, anything you wish for, you will have it.”

“I can’t say I want for many things. Books. A garden I can disappear into whenever I please.”

“My library is yours. Anything you wish to read.”

Your eyes rake over his cramped shelves hungrily. “Are you certain?”

“Of course,” Marcus answers, sounding surprised. “What is mine is now also yours, now that we are man and wife.”

“Oh,” you intone quietly. Of course–you didn’t even think of the possibility that these books could be considered yours as well.

“I’d like to show you one more thing,” your husband says softly, interrupting your train of thought.

“Of course.”

He extends his arm, and you take it again, surprised at how natural it feels for your hand to be gently enclosed at the crook of his elbow. You walk together down the stairs of the front hall and outside.

“The grounds are quite extensive,” Marcus explains as you walk. “It would take quite some time to explore them all, but in light of our conversation, I want you to see something.”

You walk for what seems like ages, until you come up to an old and obviously unused garden. Unlike the rest of the immaculate landscaping, this portion has grown over quite a bit with vines and weeds, although the structure is still sturdy, if weathered by age.

“This section was my uncle’s garden. It has fallen into disrepair, obviously,” he remarks. “But with a bit of care, it could be a beautiful little hideaway once again. It’s private, lush, and a perfect place to disappear into any time you wish for an escape.”

Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, touched as you are by the man’s thoughtfulness, and also at the trust he bestowed in you by giving you free roam of something that once belonged to his beloved uncle.

“It can be yours to do as you please,” he continues. “Any type of greenery you wish, any decoration you desire. You can set one of the groundskeepers to toil in it, or you can do the work yourself if you prefer. Anything you want or need–it’s yours.”

“I’d like to do the work myself, if that’s all right,” you tell him quietly. “I’d–I’d like a project. Something to occupy my days.”

“I fully understand,” Marcus says with a smile, and you smile too–thinking of his chaotic study.

He pulls out his pocket watch and examines it. “Would you look at that,” he remarks. “It’s lunchtime.”

Your stomach rumbles loudly–and to your mortification, Marcus hears it.

"Hungry?" he chuckles.

"By either etiquette or corset, I have not had a proper meal since yesterday morning," you say truthfully.

Marcus’s mouth falls open. "Surely you jest."

"I'm afraid not."

"And I've had you walking all over the countryside," he mutters to himself. "For goodness' sake, come eat."

You take his arm again–leaning against him somewhat, because you are rather dizzy–and trek back to the manor.

The luncheon is quite meager, not intended to be a proper meal, but Marcus quickly pulls one of the footmen aside.

"If you could, George, have Mrs. Stoker prepare a second course for luncheon? I think we will require quite a bit more than what she prepared," he tells him, eyes flicking anxiously toward you. "The poor thing is famished, please."

As the footman nods and retreats from the room, Marcus guides you to a chair and pulls it out for you to sink down. He immediately hands you a piece of bread and butter, which you accept and start to chew gratefully, no longer caring about proper etiquette.

You tear through all the food on the table, refilling your plate when the footmen bring more as requested by your husband. He digs in too, and the two of you eat in content silence for quite some time before he speaks again.

"I've neglected you. I'm sorry."

You shrug your shoulders dismissively. "It is quite alright."

"A good husband should see to the needs of his wife," Marcus says seriously, and for some reason, the words cause warmth to course throughout your body.

You don't know what to do with the feeling, so you push it–and him–away.

"I don't need someone to fuss over me," you remark shortly.

"Of course," he says immediately. "I'm sorry. In truth, I don't know how to be a good husband. I regret the many mistakes I will surely make."

"In this, we may be a good match," you comment. "I know nothing of being a wife, and I fear I may be a lousy one."

"I don't think you possibly could be," Marcus says, so softly that the words are barely audible in the room.

Taken aback by the quiet sincerity in his voice, you suddenly want nothing more than to be by yourself. After all, you haven’t had a single moment alone in days, and you find yourself longing for solitude.

"I should like to retire to my bedroom for a little while to rest," you announce, standing from your chair abruptly. Marcus stands too, ever clinging rigidly to etiquette. You give the man a curt nod before turning and fleeing from the room.

When the door to your bedroom clicks shut behind you, your chest heaves in relief, and you sink down to the floor where you stand, too emotionally exhausted to go any further.

Looking around the room, you note that your trunks have already been opened, your things put away. The work of the manor's servants, you think with a sigh. This, more than any other of the overwhelming events of the past two days, makes your situation feel real. You live here, now. All your belongings are here.

With a shaky breath, you stand and begin to look around the room, starting with the little writing desk by the large bay windows. Lifting the lid, you find that all of your stationary and ink has been put away in the little compartments and shelves within. Despite your exhaustion, you smile. Whoever had put your things away had done it in almost exactly the same manner as you would have done yourself.

Even more curious now, you continue walking around the room. What few books your parents had allowed you to own have been put away on the bookshelves. Mostly etiquette manuals, you found their value in making witty annotations and jokes in the margins. Your journals are here also, and you open the oldest one, smiling sadly at the careful cursive of your seventeen year-old self.

Putting that one aside, you instead pick up the one on the other end with the deep blue cover and only around half of the pages filled. Head over-full of thoughts and worries, you sit down at the little desk to write.

"Your Lady!" a timid voice calls out, interrupting your reverie some time later.

“Who is it?”

“It is Bridget, your lady.”

“Oh, yes, come in!” you call back, quickly trying to wipe away the frustrated tears that have escaped at steady intervals as your pen scraped across the paper of your journal.

You turn to see the young woman smiling at you expectantly with her hands clasped in front of her body.

"It is about time to get you dressed for dinner, your lady," Bridget announces, already headed for the smaller bath and dressing room adjoining your bedroom.

Dinner is a formal affair, just as it was at your parents' home. Your new lady's maid helps you to dress in one of your nicest gowns and pulls your hair back into delicate plaits that cascade down your back.

You meet Marcus in the large banquet hall. Despite having seen each other just a few hours before, he takes your hand in greeting and kisses it gently.

"My lady."

"My lord," you return stiffly, wanting to remain aloof.

He appears as though he has more to say, but he suddenly shuts his mouth and extends his arm. "Shall we?"

Unlike the lunch parlor, the dinner table is long and foreboding. You sit at one end, and Marcus sits at the other, so far apart that you can’t distinguish his expressions–nor his words.

"What?" you call out in response to something you didn't understand.

"The soup is quite good!" Marcus repeats, raising his voice so that it rings out in the large, formal dining room.

"Yes!" you return at the same volume. "I wanted to thank you, husband, for taking me to see that garden earlier. It truly meant–"

"What?"

"I said—oh for goodness' sake." You abruptly stand, causing Marcus to shoot to his feet as well. He, along with the footman, watches in alarm as you grab your cutlery and march down the endless table and sit down in the seat next to him, instead.

He seems stunned beyond words, at a loss of how to respond to your actions. You help yourself to another serving of ham while he hesitantly sinks back down into his seat.

"This is quite a large table," you comment lightly. "I prefer to be able to hear my dinner-mates."

"I usually eat in the drawing room," Marcus confesses quietly. "This room is too large and formal for one man."

"It is hardly different with two."

"That settles it," he says, smiling. "Tomorrow we shall have dinner there, instead. The sun comes in through the windows at this time of evening; it's quite lovely in there at this hour."

You cast your eyes around the banquet hall. It's an interior room; all the lighting comes from the lamps on the walls. It might be the grandest space in the entire manor, but to you, it’s stuffy and imposing.

"I would like that, my lord."

"Marcus."

"...Marcus."

Your new husband smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with contentment.

"May I ask a question of you, Marcus?"

"Of course."

"I'd like to know more about the pigment analysis you were talking about earlier, and the scientific method. I find it quite fascinating."

Marcus’s eyes widen in surprise and confusion. "Truly?"

"Why, of course. My father forbade me from learning such things–said science was too complex for a woman's brain to handle."

"Nonsense. I know of quite a few women in the scientific field who could best some of the most learned scholars.” His voice rings out in the room with a conviction that surprises you–and him. Blinking rapidly, he continues, quieter and more cautious. “I could teach you," he offers quietly. "If–if you'd like."

"You would do that?"

"Of course! We can go there after dinner. I can have coffee and a light dessert sent up for us as well."

You find yourself smiling–really, truly smiling–for the first time since coming here. Eating sweets after dinner? Reading books? Discussing science? It's everything your parents used to forbid in one single evening.

"I would like that," you tell Marcus, and he grins back.

You stay in his study until the last candle burns down to the wick. When the light flickers, the man looks up from his book in alarm and looks at his pocketwatch.

"Good heavens, it's nearly midnight. Come, let me walk you to your rooms," Marcus says quietly.

"Oh, but I'm still–" you protest, clutching your own book defensively.

“Take it with you,” he insists. “Take an entire armful, and then come back tomorrow for an armful more. I meant what I said–these books are yours, too.”

In the end, you only leave with the one you’re currently looking through. You tuck it under one arm and slip your other hand into the crook of Marcus’s elbow, allowing him to escort you through manor and back to the rooms he’s designated to be yours. After bidding you good night, he gently takes your hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For the book, the–the garden, for… everything, really. I was afraid I would be quite sad today but… I had a nice time.”

Something about your words causes Marcus to stiffen. Gone is the excitement in his smile as he had explained his experiments with pigment. Gone is the fondness in his eyes as he had told you to take every book in his study if you so desired. Gone is the warmth against the back of your hand; he drops your hand and clears his throat awkwardly.

“It is quite late,” he remarks stiffly. “Far too late to be up wandering the halls. Sleep well, my… my wife.” His expression, just before he turns and marches back the way he came, is troubled.

Confused by the sudden change in his character, you open the doors with a frown and slip inside your chambers.

A strange man, indeed.

The days that follow surprise you in their companionability. You and your new husband fall into a pleasant routine: You have breakfast together before retreating to your separate occupations–you to toil in the garden and he to his study to work on his cases. After a light lunch, he will often accompany you on the grounds, complimenting the rapid metamorphosis from overgrown weeds to flowers and shrubs, neatly planted in a row and perfectly maintained. When you tire of gardening, you join him in his study–sometimes simply reading in his leather armchair while he works at his desk, and sometimes listening curiously as he explains his methods.

As Marcus had promised, you have quickly grown to see him as a companion of sorts. His company is pleasant, his conversation enjoyable. He is, on occasion, dreadfully formal–but you like to hypothesize that this is more a product of his upbringing than a true indicator of his personality.

It does grate on you, though–especially when the weight of expectation seems to stop his mirth dead in its tracks. He will laugh at something silly you’ve said or done, and then abruptly clear his throat and look away, making you feel as though he finds your joking distasteful.

You enjoy him most in his study. He seems most at home among the chaos of the room, and it is where he is most likely to forget himself–becoming animated and eager rather than stiff and unsmiling. True to his word, he teaches you; reading introductory tomes on the scientific method and recreating some of the experiments outlined within. Despite your inexperience in this field, Marcus never talks down to you–he seems to delight in having a conversation partner, especially one who takes interest in the same subjects.

In the evenings, you dine in the less-formal parlor rather than the banquet hall you detest so. The sun illuminates the entire room, sending multicoloured prisms across the table wherever a beam hits the crystal glassware.

Before the sun sets entirely but after the summer heat of midday has abated, you stroll across the grounds on Marcus’s arm. He tells you of his upbringing, of his schooling, and of his travels across the continent, and you cannot help but listen with rapt attention. You study his face in profile, following the line of his aquiline nose and watching the shape of his lips as he speaks. The evening light bathes his skin in golden light and makes his dark eyes appear almost amber.

You cannot deny that your husband is quite a handsome man.

Yet every night, Marcus escorts you back to your quarters, presses a soft, warm kiss on the back of your hand, and quietly–and formally–bids you goodnight. Not once does he ask for your company, nor does he ever seem to touch you anywhere else but your hands. A large part of you is grateful, of course, but a much smaller–and quickly growing–part of you is beginning to wonder if your marriage will remain a chaste, cautious friendship for all of your days.

It is the same part of you that pretends to feel the warmth of his lips on your hand hours after he’s wished you goodnight.

Approximately a month after your arrival at Pike Manor, your husband announces over breakfast that he has been called to London for a case.

“When are you to leave?” you ask, looking up in surprise.

“Right away; I should be on the road already, but I did not want to be hungry for the journey.”

“I see.” You nod, choosing to ignore the pang of jealousy in the pit of your stomach at the prospect of seeing the city. “I wish you great success in your sleuthing.”

Marcus grins. “It’s quite an interesting one,” he says, taking a folded letter out of his waistcoat pocket. “Several paintings intended for auction at Sotheby’s have simply disappeared into thin air, only to be mysteriously replaced several days later.”

“Why on earth would the thief bring them back?” you ask, intrigued. “Unless… oh! You don’t believe they were truly returned, do you? They were replaced with forgeries.”

Your husband’s smile widens. “Such an astute observation, indeed. That is why I have been called to investigate.” Stuffing the last of his breakfast into his mouth rather inelegantly, he stands and walks hastily to the front hall.

“I may be back quite late in the evening, so do not feel the need to wait up for my return,” Marcus says, pulling on his ulster coat at the door. “While I am in the city, is there anything you should desire I retrieve for you?”

“None that comes to my mind,” you answer cordially. “Have a good trip.”

“I think I am beginning to learn your little expressions. Come, be truthful with me.” A mischievous, teasing look twinkles in his dark eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Anything you desire shall be yours. That was my promise, was it not?”

Your face heats. “It was.”

“Then I shall ask again, is there anything you are wanting of?”

“If it isn’t much trouble, could you bring back some blank notebooks and…maybe more ink?”

“The ink you use to write your letters?”

“Yes. If it isn’t any trouble, of course. I could retrieve the empty bottle for you if–”

“No need, I already know the one you’re speaking of. I’ll return with a new bottle and a spare for you.”

“Thank you, husband.”

Hesitatingly, Marcus leans toward you. Then, with the utmost caution, he leans down and presses a single chaste kiss to your cheek.

The soft press of his lips to your skin sends a little thrill through you, rooting you to the spot where you stand. When he straightens up once more, the softest of expressions washes over his features.

“I shall send a wire should I be kept in the city any longer than expected,” he says, reaching out to give a gentle squeeze to your hand. “Have a good day, my darling.”

His affectionate endearment has your heart fluttering in your chest, unsure if you should smile or if you should pull away.

“I shall. Have a safe journey, Marcus.”

You watch through the curtains as the carriage pulls away from the manor and eventually disappears from sight. Only when you can see no trace of your husband do you slowly bring your hand to your cheek, pressing lightly against the spot where his lips had touched.

You sit in your chamber and attempt to write, but the open window, with its curtains blowing gently in the breeze, calls to you. A picnic in your garden is what this day calls for, you decide. Grinning, you snap your journal shut and wander down the hallway to Marcus’s study. You shall retrieve a new book to read, then steal down to the kitchens to cajole Mrs. Stoker into giving you a parcel of snacks to bring outside with you. It won’t be a difficult task; Marcus’s cook is already rather sweet on you, and always sends extra treats up to his study for you after dinner.

No, the most difficult undertaking will be to select your reading material for the afternoon. You’ve gone through so many already; you started with his many science books–being eager to read on an as-of-yet forbidden topic, but today, Marcus’s collection of fiction calls to you.

You walk by the worn leather armchair that your husband often reads in, and the book resting on the side catches your eye. You cock your head to the side to read the words emblazoned on the front:

The Transmission of Life: Counsels on the Nature and Hygiene of the Masculine Function

What on earth? Frowning at your husband’s choice of reading material, you open to the bookmarked page and read the heading a little more than halfway down the page–Of Marital Relations.

Why is he reading such a thing? Both curious and emboldened, you read on. ‘The best mothers, wives, and managers of households know little or nothing of the sexual pleasure. Love of home, children, and domestic duties are the only passions they feel. As a rule, the modest woman submits to her husband, but only to please him; and, but for the desire of maternity, would far rather be relieved from his attentions.’

You can see that the book has quite a lot of notations written in the margins; however next to this passage, there is simply one solitary question mark inscribed in pencil. You understand the sentiment; reading such words causes your heart to pound rapidly in your chest at the implications of the author. Is this true? Are home and children the only thing you are capable of loving? At the present moment, at least, you desire neither.

You flip backwards through the pages with a stormy expression, searching for more answers. A page with a great deal of markings-out catches your eye, and you scan what was, apparently, an offending passage to Marcus: ‘The husband should be aware that while as a rule the first conjugal approaches are painful to the new wife, and therefore that she only submits and cannot enjoy them, this pain should not be excessively severe, nor should it last for any great length of time.

At the mention of marriage consummation, your face heats; you snap the book shut in an instant and back away from the leather armchair as though the tome had burned you.

You don’t know what to make of any of it. First, the fact that Marcus has chosen such a title as reading material; secondly, that the content within the pages should speak about a wife’s role in marriage in such plain and unpleasant-sounding terms. Thirdly, you cannot decipher the meaning of the marginalia. Does it suggest that Marcus is seemingly just as disturbed by the idea of your apparent frigidity as you currently are–backed against his bookshelf, your hand over your mouth as you take in what you’ve just seen? Or do they mean something else entirely?

You cannot come to grips with the words written, in plain ink, on the pages of the book–in direct opposition, it seems, to the feelings that stir within you at times. Are women, as the book suggests, without any passions outside of raising a home and children? In your own experience, sometimes you feel as though you are so overcome with emotion that you may explode–and oftentimes this is what brings you to such ‘unladylike’ ventures as running through the woods, shouting curses at your younger brother when he vexes you, or, most recently, being unable to take your eyes off of your husband as he simply goes about life.

You study his fingers as he turns the pages in his books; you watch his lips move every time he so much as utters a syllable; you analyse his gait out of the corner of your eye when he approaches you. The modest woman submits to her husband, but only to please him. Perhaps this is the issue; you have hardly been considered a ‘modest woman’ at any time in your life, and could not care less about pleasing a husband, especially if it is to your apparent detriment.

Indeed, if your headmistress at finishing school could see you know, she would attribute your immodest behavior to remaining unmarried for so long. Now that you are somebody’s wife, it is quite possible that you may never be the type of woman the author thinks you must be. Is this what Marcus wants? Does he read the book because he is intent on modeling this image of masculinity? And what, if any, is your place in this picture?

After this puzzling revelation, you wish for an escape more than ever. An adventure. You now know exactly which novel you wish to read. Humming to yourself, you grab the copy of Around the World in Eighty Days and quickly flee the study, leaving Marcus’s book–and hopefully the feelings it stirred within you–far behind you.

Mrs. Stoker fills a picnic blanket with nearly more food than you can carry before shooing you out of the kitchens, scolding you in her low, scratchy voice about “unbecoming behaviour for a lady”–but delivered with a fond twinkle in her eye. Arms laden with bread, cheese, and fruit, you make your way across the grounds and into the familiar little garden that you’ve made your own. You’ve tried your best to retain the wild, lush feeling of the setting–planting lots of creeping vines and winding morning glories around the lattices. It feels like escaping into a jungle, or into a secret little world that’s yours and yours alone. As you find a place to settle for the afternoon, you wonder idly if this was the very same place Marcus’ uncle came to escape the world–a world he never felt he belonged to.

Spreading the blanket (and your feast) out around you, you settle on the grass, kick off your shoes, and wiggle your toes contentedly in the sunshine. You pull off a chunk of warm bread and take a bite, humming in satisfaction as you open your book and begin to read.

You lose yourself in Phileas Fogg’s adventures for quite some time, not coming up for air until the shadows have switched places and begun to lengthen in the late afternoon sun. You could stay out here all evening, but your body is beginning to ache, sitting on the ground as you are, and even though nothing remains of your little feast–you threw quite a lot of bread to the birds–you are feeling quite hungry again.

You don’t bother dressing for dinner, and you tell Bridget so when she arrives at your room, dismissing her and telling her to enjoy her own evening. You have a small supper in the parlor, and you’re taken by surprise at how much the silence unsettles you. In so little time, you’ve become accustomed to Marcus’s presence in your life. Just as you now feel perfectly at home in what was once an unfamiliar and forbidding house, you feel at home with the man who inhabits it, as well.

It is almost as if… you miss him.

At any rate, being without him in this large house is strangely unsettling. You find yourself retreating to the study, seeking out the familiarity of habit, and; you must admit to yourself, surrounding yourself with things that remind you of your husband. It smells of him, this room–like leather, paint, and old books, and if you close your eyes, you can detect something underneath–something deeper, muskier, and more masculine.

You settle into the soft settee rather than his armchair–not wishing to acknowledge the book you’d snooped through earlier that day–and open Jules Verne again. You read as the night falls and for quite some time after; and still, Marcus has not yet returned. It is so late that you have to retrieve more oil for the lamp, but you continue to keep your silent vigil rather than retreat to bed. You’ve waited this long, after all, and he surely cannot be much longer…

Not a quarter of an hour later, you hear familiar footsteps approaching down the hall. The sound of passers-by is quite common, with all of the manor’s staff, but these are not the light feet of scullery maids. No, they are heavier, confident–striding with purpose as they reach the door to the study. The door opens, and there, looking at you with surprise, is your husband. Lord Pike.

“The hour is late,” he remarks softly. “I quite expected you to be already asleep.”

“I have been absorbed in a book,” you tell him, “and did not realize the time.” It’s not quite a lie.

Marcus glances at the spine and grins. “Have you circumvented the world in the time it took me to go to London and back?”

“I have indeed; your train must have been delayed,” you tease.

“It was indeed. Twice, in fact,” he laughs. “Next time, perhaps, I shall travel by balloon.”

You snort, rather unladylike, at his playfulness. “I should like to see such a sight.”

His eyes are bright and full of mirth as he responds. “Seeing as you have already done it, I should like you to come along as my navigator.”

“Ha! We shall find ourselves in the middle of the ocean, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps we will just take the train, then.” Your husband smiles warmly and pulls a small parcel out of his coat. “Your new journals and ink will not last forever, after all.”

You gasp softly as he deposits the package in your lap. The ink is the same–just the type you prefer–but the journals are far more ornate: bound in leather, with thick, cream-coloured paper. You examine each one in turn, carefully holding them in your hands to look at the beautiful cover designs, then flipping through the blank pages. At the bottom of the pile is a magazine–a copy of The Strand–which you hold out to him, expecting it to be something he purchased for himself that was mistakenly wrapped together with your journals, but Marcus simply shakes his head and gently pushes it back in your direction.

“The new Holmes story has been published. I read it myself on the train, and… well, I thought of you and how you might enjoy it.” He clears his throat awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he watches the realisation wash over you.

“This is… for me?” you ask, eyes widening.

“But of course.” He smiles softly, extending his hand to you. “But I’d caution against starting it at this hour; it’s one of those stories that you cannot put down again until finished.”

When he escorts you back to your quarters, he seems hesitant to let go of your hand after he kisses it. His eyes search yours; that strange, unfamiliar fire seems to dance within his pupils. Before you can stop yourself, you suddenly throw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder and giving into the urge to breathe him in. His arms are so warm; his chest so strong and broad, and for a moment, you simply allow yourself to melt into his embrace.

Marcus stiffens at first, his sharp intake of breath indicating his surprise at your actions, but after just a moment, you feel his hands press against your back, pulling you closer.

“Good night, Marcus,” you whisper into his suit coat.

“Good night, my darling.”

He releases you and steps back, but his hands still seem to gravitate toward you even as you separate–although they stop short of touching you. You can’t bring yourself to move, even though you’d both already said good-night. Unsure of what to say, you simply stand before him in awkward silence for a few torturous minutes before growing skittish and retreating into your bedroom.

When the door clicks shut, however, you turn and gently place your palm on the wood. Closing your eyes, you imagine the warmth of Marcus’s palm pressing back.

The next day is oppressively hot. Too hot to continue working in the garden, but sitting indoors in the still air seems almost worse. You take your leave of Marcus in his study and retreat to the woods at the back of the property. The shade and the breeze finally makes the heat tolerable, and you smile to yourself as you start to explore. You've always loved wandering through your own woods, and this is your first opportunity to walk through the forest at Pike manor.

As you delve deeper into the trees, you realize that you can hear the faint sound of water. Grinning wider, the sound propels you forward, ducking under branches and stepping around bushes until you find the source: a little stream babbling through the undergrowth.

Seeing the water, you suddenly feel as though you cannot tolerate your shoes a moment longer; you sit down on the ground–likely getting dirt down the back of your canary-yellow dress, but you hardly mind–and start to unlace your boots.

The first step into the cool water causes a giddy laugh to escape from your throat. For the first time since coming here, you feel like yourself again, just for a moment–happy, wild, and free.

Your focus is on the little minnows darting around your toes, and you don't hear the sound of footsteps moving toward you through the leaves.

"What on earth are you doing?"

You startle, turning around at the sound of your husband's voice behind you.

"M-Marcus! I–I'm cooling my feet in the stream I found."

"You've wandered quite far away," he comments, his expression slightly wary.

"Am I not allowed to do so?"

"No! I-I mean yes! Of course you're allowed, I was simply… surprised at how deep in the wilderness you are, Lady wife."

"I won't get lost," you promise. "I used to do this all the time back home."

Marcus is silent for a few moments as he watches you.

"...Is the water quite refreshing?" he asks, looking curious.

"It feels wonderful," you answer.

You study him as several conflicting expressions seem to flicker across his face. Uncertainty, curiosity, wariness, and then–longing.

"Could… could I join you?" he asks quietly.

Your grin must be incandescent as you nod rapidly up and down.

Marcus swings his head around, looking for somewhere to sit. When he finds nothing, to your surprise, he plops down on the ground and starts to untie his shoes.

You watch giddily as he tucks his socks inside his shoes and sets them aside before carefully climbing down the bank.

He lets out a rather undignified yelp at the first touch of water to his bare feet.

"Cold!"

You laugh outright at the shock on your husband's face.

"Does it not feel refreshing?" you ask playfully.

"As refreshing as running barefoot into the snow in January."

"That's quite the overreaction; this water must be twenty degrees cooler than snow, at least."

"It must be the difference in temperature between the outside air and the water that makes it so very shocking," Marcus says with a little chuckle.

"You just need to get used to it," you say with a sly grin.

"How exactly am I supposed to do that?"

Before you can evaluate the wisdom of the idea, you kick your foot through the water, sending a wave of water to splash against his trousers.

Marcus gasps, staring down at the dark stain in shock. You stand frozen to the spot, suddenly worried that you've gone too far.

"I cannot believe you did that," he murmurs, but a small smile is spreading across his face as he talks. "You wild creature."

And he bends down, sticks his hand in the current, and sends a cascade of water back in your direction.

You shriek in surprise and delight, kicking more water at him before taking off, splashing barefoot down the stream with your husband at your heels.

You let out another loud peal of laughter when you feel the cold water hit your bodice from behind.

"You'll wish you hadn't done that!"

"Is that so?" he teases, just as you turn and cup the water again, sending it as high as you can into the air.

It hits him squarely in the chest. He gasps in shock as his white shirt is drenched through, the sopping material plastering to his skin. He looks down at it, then back up at you with a glint in his eye that you've never seen before.

Giggling nervously, you take a few steps backward, but your foot lands on a smooth, flat stone slick with algae, and suddenly your legs are out in front of you as you come down hard into the deepest part of the stream.

For a moment, neither of you move. Your chest heaves from the surprise submersion into the water. You're completely soaked from head to toe; droplets of water drip from your hair, down onto your skin, and into your bodice.

Marcus's expression has turned from playful to horrified. He surges forward, helping you back up to your feet in a panic.

"Oh my goodness," he mutters over and over again, and you start to giggle.

"Your dress is surely ruined," he says regretfully. "They'll never be able to get the mud stains out."

"I can simply wear it whenever I come down here to the stream," you tell him, but he's shaking his head and frowning.

"This… my behaviour has been far from appropriate," he murmurs.

"We were having fun," you say quietly, your face falling as that rigid, formal expression you hate returns.

"It is unbecoming for people of our station," he announces stiffly. "Where are your shoes; I shall bring them to you and help you home."

"But I'm–"

"We've gotten quite wet enough, I believe," Marcus says sternly. "Come along."

You trail after him stormily, feeling more like a scolded dog and less like a wife.

You remember his promise from weeks before, on your wedding night: that the two of you were to be partners–and equals. Right now, you feel nothing but.

"I'm going to bathe before dinner," Marcus announces as he marches through the front doors to the manor. "You should do the same before you catch cold."

"Mar–Husband," you murmur sorrowfully.

"I'm afraid the mud will never come out of this shirt, either," he comments, talking more to himself than to you.

Heart heavy, you climb the stairs after him and head for your chambers. You don't quite understand your husband. At times, he seems to be a warm and playful person; other times, he's cold and forbidding.

It's as though he's two different men at once. One of those men scares you somewhat. The other–well, you aren't quite sure what to call the feeling that stirs in your belly when he looks at you with those mischievous, yet kind eyes.

That man–he's a friend, a companion. He reads with you in the evenings and laughs at your silly jokes. He kisses your hand at the end of every day when he bids you good night, and it's becoming your favorite part of the day. His lips are warm and soft on your skin, and every night you go to bed wondering what they'd feel like on your lips.

You wish you could call up how it had felt when he had kissed you at your wedding. You can barely remember the day, much less the brief moment that his lips had been on yours. Even if it was purely for the ceremony, even if it had no feeling or meaning behind it, even if his face had been contorted into that formal mask that you've grown to despise…

You wish you could feel it again.

"My goodness! What on earth happened to you, my lady?" your maid cries at the sight of you: wet, bedraggled, and covered in mud in your doorway.

"T'is a hot day; I was playing in the stream."

"I fear your dress is ruined, my lady."

"Why is everyone so concerned about my clothing?" you snap, exasperated and grief-stricken. "Is this entire household so very preoccupied with what I do and where I go?"

"I'm sorry, my lady."

"Is anyone allowed to have fun, or is that forbidden as well?"

"Pardon?"

"Your lord is the most frustrating, confusing man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing," you mumble as the wet material of your dress is peeled away from your skin and discarded on the floor with a wet plop.

"Lord Pike is your husband," she points out.

"And who is my husband? I'm afraid I do not know the man I married. He's kind, and then he's cold. He laughs, and then suddenly forgets how to smile. I do not know if he finds me to be a worthy companion or if he simply tolerates my presence."

"My lord has been alone for quite some time," Bridget says quietly. "He does not know how to have a friend, much less a wife."

"Does he even want one?"

"Did you wish to become one?" she asks pointedly, and you fall quiet again.

"Pardon my boldness, Lady, but I have not seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

"What, with disdain?" you snort.

"Your bath is ready," Bridget says quietly.

You slip into the water–blessedly cool, thank goodness–and close your eyes.

"I hear the weather will break tonight," your maid says conversationally, and you can tell she's desperate to change the subject. "We are long overdue for some rain."

"We are," you agree. "My garden needs it sorely."

"As do the crops, of course."

"Of course."

You’re dressed in deep emerald green velvet. Gold brocade is embroidered into the bodice of the dress and on the hem of your velvet skirts, your shoulders exposed to the cool, still air of the manor. It’s quite stunning, and if you weren’t feeling so affronted by your husband this evening, you’d delight in his gaze, in the way his wide eyes always dart back and forth over your form as he reverently breathes “Beautiful” every time he meets you at the top of the stairs for dinner.

You meet Marcus there as always, but when he begins to turn away from the parlor, you make a questioning noise in your throat.

"The evening sun is currently streaming into the parlor," Marcus says by way of explanation. "With today’s heat, it is intolerably warm in that wing of the house, and far cooler in the banquet hall."

"I see," you answer tightly. You allow him to escort you into the dark, stuffy room instead.

He’s quiet as he eats, seemingly not willing, or perhaps able, to make conversation as he has on previous evenings. He stares into the middle distance as he chews, and you can’t tell if he’s lost in thought or simply avoiding eye contact.

“Does a case occupy your thoughts tonight?” you ask, putting as much gentleness into your voice as possible to attempt to guide him back to you.

“Nothing you need to be concerned with,” Marcus says tightly, shaking his head and stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork. Looking down at his plate as he is, he can’t see your resulting ire.

You don’t attempt to engage with him again for the rest of the meal. Afterward, when the footmen start to clear the dishes, you abruptly excuse yourself, walking quickly out of the darkening banquet hall and heading straight for the heavy oak doors at the front entrance to the manor.

It's already beginning to sprinkle as you lift your skirts and run across the lawn toward your garden. It hardly matters; you can tolerate the stuffy house and your equally-stuffy husband not one moment longer.

The droplets cool your forehead and you laugh humorlessly at the notion that you may be scolded for turning up soaking wet twice in one day. It isn't simply the weather making you hot. Anger and some other emotion you cannot begin to name simmers in your blood.

You cannot stand him. You simply cannot stand him and yet—why does the sight of your husband make your heart ache in your chest? Why can you not seem to erase the image in your mind's eye of Marcus standing in the creek shaking with laughter, the planes of his chest showing through his soaked shirt?

But no–that behaviour was unbecoming. For him, or for you? Could he, as your mother warned, not abide by your carefree nature? Did he think himself above simple joys such as splashing one’s bare feet in cool water?

A tear mixes with the rain on your face as you run, but you hardly realise it. In no time at all, you're collapsing on your favorite stone bench in your garden, head in your hands. As you sit, the rain begins to pick up, turning from light sprinkles to a veritable downpour. You straighten, watching the droplets pelt the leaves of the vines climbing up the lattice next to you.

The night is already beginning to fall, but in the twilight, you can still make out the figure of Lord Marcus Pike running in your direction carrying an umbrella, and you sigh loudly in consternation.

"Insistent on catching your death today, are we?" he remarks when he reaches the bench, somewhat out of breath.

"I’m confident that no one has died from a rainstorm in the middle of July."

"Still, to find you sopping wet on not one, but two occasions in the same day suggests a pattern of behaviour."

"Of unbecoming behaviour?" you mutter, turning away from him to stare at the rain. Silence falls. You make no effort to move from your spot on the middle of the bench, nor do you acknowledge the man again until, finally, he speaks.

"Please, tell me what have I done to upset you so?"

"I'm not upset."

"You are sitting in the dark in the rain," Marcus points out.

"I can do what I wish; it is my garden. You said so yourself."

"I did not imagine this particular situation when I said it."

"You should have considered every possible outcome before making promises like that."

"You are being ridiculous."

"I'm not."

You turn to meet his gaze–glaring at him, allowing all the indignance and fury show through in your expression. He glowers back with pursed lips and a clenched jaw, but his eyes are swimming with… some strange, unidentified emotion that makes them black and shining as coals.

"You vex me, you know that?"

"Oh, I vex you?" you retort.

"I don't know what to do or say around you. You're so… beautiful, and I lose all sense of reason whenever I'm near you."

“That is hardly an excuse for being horrid.”

“You think me horrid? All I ever wish for–all I strive to be–is to be a good husband and a good man.”

"Yes, and every time I think I get close to knowing the type of man you truly are, you close yourself off to me, and I'm left wondering if I married a ghost."

"I did not want you to think me improper–"

"Propriety be damned!" you shout, standing up to advance on your husband in a fit of fury. "I'd rather spend my days reading science books and running barefoot through the creek then do another cursed thing that everyone else considers to be 'proper'!"

Marcus is silent for a moment–his expression blank as he regards you, standing an arm’s length away and breathing hard from your paroxysm of hostility. You’re afraid your outburst has angered him past repair–that he’s going to tell you to pack your things and go back to your parents’ house to live out the rest of your days–but when he opens his mouth, it’s not an admonition that spills from his lips, nor is it an order to leave. It is a soft plea, barely audible over the cacophony of the rainstorm.

"I should like to kiss you."

No sooner do the words leave his lips than you find yourself stepping into Marcus’ arms. Your mouths collide in a fit of fervency, his lips hot against your own rain-chilled skin. What feels almost like an electric shock courses through your body. Months of restrained passion–whether it be out of pining for the man you’d married, or because he rankles your nerves so profusely–pours out of your body and into the kiss. You clutch at him, your fists balling into the material of his dampened shirt as you drown in the feel of his lips on yours.

A gasp inadvertently draws itself into your lungs as you pull away, looking up into the eyes of your husband and finally seeing the man you’ve grown to admire–to love–staring back at you in astonishment. He says nothing, but simply shakes his head in utter disbelief, cradles your cheeks in his hands, and pulls you back to him.

When once you’d stiffened at the touch of his lips, you now melt into the feeling of it. After the first tentative kiss, Marcus is emboldened; his hands gently guide your head to one side, and he to the other–slanting your mouths together in a deeper and more tender kiss. Nothing exists outside of this moment–not your families’ arrangement without either of your choosing, nor the expectations thrust upon you as a wife of a high-born aristocrat. Even your husband’s unbearable rigidity is nowhere to be seen as he presses closer and closer still, one of his hands coming to your lower back and bringing your bodies flush together.

No, the only thing you can feel from Marcus is passion. Even the rain pelting on your head is a distant notion–merely a trivial inconvenience–compared to the love and tenderness in his embrace. He holds you as one might a priceless artefact–rare, precious, and utterly cherished.

Your shiver when the wind picks up has less to do with the rapidly falling temperatures and more with the way Marcus is still holding your cheek in his palm as though you'll break, and yet at the same time kissing you like he'll never need air again.

Even so, the action makes him pull back with a little chuckle. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and you can't help but giggle back.

“Let us go inside before we catch our deaths,” he whispers, still smiling. He extends his hand, and, still looking up at him with wide-eyed disbelief, you take it. The wind whips around you as you both run toward the manor. Marcus tries in vain to keep the umbrella over your head, but after just a few minutes, the whole thing turns inside out in a particularly strong gust of wind.

“Leave it,” you laugh as he tries to right it again and cover you from the rain. “I can’t get any wetter.”

The wind finally wrenches it from his grasp, and he joins in your laughter as it sails away into the night. Hand in hand, you run through the storm until you’re crashing through the front entrance, laughing hysterically, out of breath, and drenched from head to toe. The moment you’re safe inside, Marcus reaches for you again, winding his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours.

You respond in kind, the fire in your belly igniting despite the chill in the air. You can’t get enough of the feel of them–they’re soft, warm, and pliant, and they move against you with a passion that causes a soft sound of pleasure to escape your throat. It’s a foreign sound to your ears–one you’ve never heard yourself make before, but Marcus groans softly in response.

“Marcus,” you sigh softly.

“Darling,” he murmurs against your lips, and you shiver again. “You’re shaking. Should I… should I escort you to your chambers so that you may… get dry, and go to bed–if that’s what you wish?”

“No, please,” you shake your head, looking frantic. “Please, I–I need–”

You can’t give voice to what stirs inside of you, but you know you can’t bear to part from your husband for a moment. Marcus seems to understand somewhat; his eyes soften even further, and he takes your hand again, pulling you forward until you're standing at the doors to his own quarters. Rather than enter, though, he turns and palms your cheek, his eyes raking over you in desperation.

“On our wedding night, I made you a promise,” he whispers. “I promised that I’d never share my bed with you unless you wish for it. I need you to tell me—is this what you truly wish?”

“I don’t know,” you admit in a small voice. “I simply know I do not wish to be parted from you at this moment.”

“Then come,” Marcus murmurs softly. “Come in, and let us at least get dry and warm again.”

He takes your hands in his and pulls you gently forward–and all the while, his eyes never once leave yours.

You can't help but think about how different tonight is from the first time you were in this room. He had barely looked at you then; you were terrified and upset and couldn't stand to be near him. Now, you cling to him, seeking the comfort of his lips again as he walks backwards into his bedroom with his arms around you.

When you finally break apart, you make a soft noise of protest, but Marcus holds out his hand placatingly, disappearing for a brief moment before returning with an armful of large Turkish bath towels that he drops onto the settee next to him. He takes one, and, with a playful smile, gently covers your dripping hair and squeezes the water out of the ends.

"Turn around, if you would like," Marcus murmurs, a little quiver in his voice.

You obey with your heart in your throat. This, too, feels much different than your wedding night. He gently moves your damp hair to the side and slowly begins to unfasten the buttons at the back of your dress. One by one, he gently sheds your clothes, casting aside the wet emerald dress and your undergarments. Each layer brings you closer to being bare in front of him for the first time, and when you're down to just your chemise and your drawers, you can feel yourself trembling slightly.

"It's all right," Marcus whispers softly in your ear. "I won't look–not yet."

He helps pull your chemise over your head as you kick your drawers away, and then blindly reaches for another large bath towel and wraps it around you, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder as he does.

His kindness and patience makes something swell within you. You turn to face him, eyes wide as you slowly lift your hand to his cheek. His eyes flutter open again at your touch, and his gaze is dark and longing as he turns slightly to kiss your palm.

Holding your eyes, Marcus's hands come to the buttons of his vest, quickly shedding the outer garment before undoing his shirt. You swallow thickly as each inch of bare skin is revealed to you.

You want this. Oh, God, do you want this. But why? Each touch, each kiss makes you feel as though you're burning from the inside out, but if your mother was right that it would only bring you pain, why does it feel as though you'll die if you stop?

Marcus hastily towels off his hair, making it stand on end, before drying his chest and unbuttoning the front of his trousers. You tear your gaze away and stare at the floor as your heart hammers loudly in your chest. You focus on breathing until you feel him gently take your hand and lead you forward until you’re standing next to his bed. Rather than guide you to lie down, however, he simply steps closer, slowly encircling you with his arms and bringing your bodies close. The large bath towels cover both of your delicate areas, but the feel of his bare arms and chest still causes heat to work its way up your spine.

You sigh softly–you can’t describe how comforting it is to be in Marcus’s arms. Any latent fear about what’s to come is pushed aside as he slowly guides your mouth to his again. And again. And again. Soon, you’re clutching at him, panting softly into every kiss as he makes fire ignite in your chest.

As naked as you are to each other, Marcus’s hands remain chaste. One gently clasps the back of your neck, keeping you just as he wants–against his lips. The other palms your jaw, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth against your cheekbone. You gasp ever so slightly into his kiss, and, as you part your lips, his tongue gently slips inside.

The gasp turns ragged. A surprised noise is trapped in your throat and you all but throw your arms around his shoulders, hardly even realising how your nails are digging into his skin or that your chests are pressed together with the towel trapped between you. You aren’t entirely sure what you’re doing, but you return in kind, parting your lips and cautiously touching your tongue to his.

Marcus groans softly, the grip on your neck tightening imperceptibly as you open to him. It feels wild–you aren’t in control of your own reactions; you can hardly contain your response to his kisses. You’re barely aware of the little whimpers coming from your own throat, let alone being able to stop them from escaping. Yet Marcus only presses closer.

“Come–” he murmurs–shakily, but smiling–against your lips, “–Please, God, before I fall over.”

You giggle breathlessly and allow him to guide you gently down onto the bed. As soon as you’re horizontal, with your husband hovering over you with awe etched into his expression, however; the fear returns. Your mother’s voice returns. When Marcus ducks his head to kiss you again, you know he feels the change in you; he pulls back quickly, eyes raking over your face in confusion and alarm.

“Darling, what troubles you?”

“I am fine,” you answer, but the waver in your voice makes the words hardly convincing.

Marcus studies you, two little creases on his brow as he tries to make sense of the change in mood. His gaze softens; his lips part in worry.

“Are you frightened?” His lips barely move as he speaks.

“I was told that it would be painful,” you answer. You feel as though maybe you should have lied to protect him, but the honesty comes to your lips quickly at the open concern in your husband’s eyes. “And that I will not enjoy it.”

Understanding and horror washes over Marcus’s face.

“No. No. I cannot–I could never—” he stammers. “Darling… I will never hurt you.” The words are thick and rasping with heavy emotion. “I would sooner die.”

But your own mother had said—

“Can you even promise such a thing?” you ask skeptically.

Marcus takes your face in his hands and presses a soft, warm kiss to your forehead. “I can, and I will. It does not need to hurt,” he promises. “It shouldn’t. I can–I can bring you pleasure. If you would trust me–?”

You want to be wary, but all you can see in his eyes is honesty and sincerity. Despite the man’s stiff demeanor, despite his rigidity, despite his awkward, stilted small talk–he’s never been anything but kind to you.

You believe him. Of course you do.

“I trust you,” you answer softly.

Marcus smiles shakily. “I am glad,” he whispers. He kisses you again–urgently, and full of passion. This time, you return his affections.

“I should like to see you,” he confesses quietly. “May I?”

Breathlessly, you nod. Your heart is in your throat as he gently takes hold of the edge of the bath towel and slowly draws it out from where it’s tucked neatly around your chest. He keeps his eyes on yours the entire time instead of looking at the skin that he’s exposing. He doesn’t stop until you’re entirely bare, your nipples pebbling slightly in the cool air of the bedroom.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers–and yet, he hasn’t taken his eyes off of yours. Only when you smile back does Marcus finally drop his gaze. His breath catches as the sight of you, and at the utter longing in his expression, you find yourself feeling… beautiful. Enticing. Like a woman.

“I think it is only fair,” you say with a playful formality, “that you render yourself likewise uncovered, my lord.”

Marcus’s grin is cheeky, full of mischief and affection. “I cannot possibly refuse such a polite request,” he teases.

At your behest, he slowly draws the towel out from around his hips.

You gulp.

“Shhh,” Marcus urges, winding his arm around your waist and pulling you against him. “I do not want for you to be afraid of me.”

“Oh,” you exhale quietly, overcome by the feel of so much skin. He kisses you again, and his hands wander–skimming down your spine, clutching softly at your waist, and–oh, God–moving down to grasp your hip as your bodies slowly move together.

True to his word, it does feel… pleasurable, thus far. The warmth and softness of his skin against yours makes you dizzy with need, and when his lips leave yours to trail a path of kisses down to your neck, you find yourself arching your spine to bring him closer. You can feel the stiffness of his length pressing insistently against your thigh, and you find yourself wondering when he will… well, when he will put it inside.

Instead, however, his hand slowly moves inward from its place at your hip, until his fingers are brushing gently at the little bud between your legs. The light touch is at the same time foreign and perfect. You gasp wantonly at the feel of him touching you in a place so very intimate in nature. His breath is hot against your neck as he pants, open mouthed, while his fingers explore the uncharted territory.

"How I've longed for this–for you," he groans raggedly into your skin. “Oh, my darling wife. Tell me—Tell me that you have desired for this moment.”

“I–oh–” you whimper as his fingers begin to slowly circle around the little bundle of nerves. “I did not know that–M-Marcus–I did not know it could feel–” Sparks of desire–of pleasure–shoot up and down your spine at his touch. “I have… thought of you,” you confess to him. “I have imagined your lips on mine many times, but I did not know–”

“Did not know… what?” Marcus asks gently, pulling back to look into your eyes as… something within you… builds.

“That this could feel… s-so…”

“Yes?” Your husband’s eyes are wild, his voice breathless and rough with pleasure, and as he watches you try to form words, that feeling inside of you reaches a crescendo.

“Wh–oh!” you cry out, your lips parting of their own accord. Your core pulses rhythmically, and all the tension seems to leave your body, somehow pulled out of you by the movement of Marcus’s fingers.

“Oh my,” you gasp, as soon as you regain the ability to speak. “Oh, God.”

Marcus is breathing just as heavily as you are. His eyes are greedy, raking over your face and watching how you writhe on the bed as a result of his actions.

You slump, spent, on the pillows as the strong surge of ecstasy finally abates. “Marcus,” you murmur, staring up at him in utter disbelief.

“I did promise,” he says with a shaky grin.

“I want—oh,” you sigh. “Can you do that again?”

“I will do it as many times as you ask,” Marcus grins, palming your jaw and giving you a gentle–yet somehow still passionate–kiss. “And perhaps a few more besides.”

Holding your gaze, he sucks a finger into his mouth and then brings the hand back down between your legs. This time, his hand explores deeper, past the little bundle of nerves and down to your centre. His touch is light through your folds at first, then grows bolder as the finger slips gently inside of you.

You cry out in pleasure again. The feeling is the same as before, yet somehow different. It causes the same thrill to rise inside of you, but with his finger now inside, that feeling is stronger. Deeper.

“Oh, yes,” Marcus whispers reverently as he pushes the digit even further inside. You can only pant open-mouthed as he buries it to the hilt, sheathed inside your heat. “Oh, my darling, I fear I will never tire of this,” he murmurs, a small smile on his face as he watches your intense reactions. And then… and then… the finger starts to move, thrusting slowly in and out of your channel, and you lose all sense of reason.

“...believe… I… should be the pers–oh! …saying that,” you manage to stammer.

“Yes,” your husband urges, the heel of his hand pressing flush against you as he continues the dizzying movement of his finger inside of you. “Yes, never tire of it either, I beg of you,” he murmurs, kissing your jawline, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead– “Let me have you like this always. In my bed, at my side, just–oh, love, just say you will stay.”

“I will,” you promise, as the coil of heat and tension inside of you tightens, tightens, tightens. “I will, Marcus, I will.”

With a little choked-off gasp, you fall apart around his finger as waves of pleasure crash against you for the second time. Marcus leans forward, his forehead touching yours as your heartbeat gradually begins to slow.

“Tell me,” he whispers roughly. “Tell me I can–oh, please.”

“Yes,” you agree, nodding rapidly up and down. “Yes, Marcus.”

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises again, desperation and longing in his voice. “On my life, I will not.”

“I know.” You nod again.

Slowly, keeping his eyes glued to your reaction, Marcus moves between your parted legs and covers your body with his, keeping most of his weight on his elbows so that he doesn’t cause you any discomfort. He kisses you again–softly, slowly–as one hand reaches in between your bodies.

You feel him notch at your entrance, and you whimper softly–in anticipation or trepidation, you do not know.

“Eyes on me,” Marcus whispers. “Don’t be afraid.”

He pushes forward, and just the tip of him slips inside, but merely that seems already enough to fill you to the brim. He continues until he meets some resistance part of the way in, and stops. His eyes are wide and anxious, those two little creases returning to the center of his brow, and you know, suddenly, what he needs to do.

“Just do it,” you nod, closing your eyes.

He lowers his head, and you feel his lips, warm and gentle on one closed eyelid, just before he swiftly sheathes himself to the hilt, pushing through any barrier that yet remained.

You cry out softly–although more in shock than in pain–and Marcus makes little soothing noises in your ear as he stills again and waits for you to adjust.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, kissing your face over and over again. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m all right,” you assure him. “I am. You didn’t hurt me.”

“I want all that you feel to be pleasure,” Marcus whispers. “Only that. Never pain.”

“I know.”

He flexes his hips experimentally, and you feel the movement deep inside of you.

“Oh–” a ragged, wanton noise tears its way out of your throat.

“Yes?”

“Again,” you demand.

Again, your husband moves, and something stirs in your belly, at the base of your spine. Rhythmically, he undulates against you, his skin sliding against yours and his shaft hitting something you’ve never even dreamed of, bringing you an ecstasy you never knew existed.

Your hands scrabble at Marcus’s shoulders as you desperately seek out his mouth, kissing him messily as the pleasure yet again begins to rise within you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before–God, you never knew such a feeling could occur within you, that your body could be so alight with desire.

Your bodies become slick with perspiration as you move, but it only makes the experience even more sensual. Marcus’s hair is falling forward over his forehead, his eyes dark, burning coals as he takes you over and over again. Feeling your enthusiastic response, he speeds up–hitting something deeper and harder as he does.

You keen for him. With no thoughts left in your head, you babble incoherently as your pleasure builds, and it only seems to spur him on.

“I–oh! I–Marcus, oh, love, it–it feels so—please, never–never stop. Oh, my love, it–ah!”

Something deep within you snaps, and your entire body convulses with ecstasy as you come undone. Marcus groans in response, a broken, pleasure-soaked sound that sends chills down your spine.

“Feels so good,” he moans. “Oh, darling, I’m going to–”

He seems to lose his rhythm; his hips stutter once, twice, and then he stills, burying himself to the hilt and nearly crushing your bodies together in his passion.

Some time passes; although exactly how much, you do not know. All you know is that Marcus is wrapped around you–or you around him, perhaps–and his length is still buried within you. The deep stretch of him abates as you lie there, forgetting all else but the feeling of being held so closely, and so tenderly. After minutes or hours, he stirs–making you groan softly in protest–but he only chuckles deeply and pulls back to look at you with fondness in his eyes.

“Darling,” he murmurs. “My darling wife.”

“Marcus,” you answer back, voice still full of awe and amazement.

“You are so beautiful like this,” he says reverently. “Please–would you stay here with me tonight?”

“If this is what happens when we are in the same bed, I fear I may never return to my own quarters,” you grin.

Marcus chuckles. “And I fear we may lose a little sleep over the coming days if you allow me such privileges.”

Kissing the tip of your nose, he finally slips from within you, eliciting a little hiss of discomfort from you that causes his eyes to widen in alarm.

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “It is not pain, exactly; I am not entirely sure how to describe it. I simply feel… different. As if I’ve just run a great distance, and my legs are burning from overuse, and yet it does not detract from the exhilaration of running in the first place.”

Your husband laughs softly again. “Then I will let you rest for tonight, I think,” he teases. “Let me get these bath towels out of the way, and then I’ll turn out the lights.”

You shift your weight as Marcus draws the towel out from where it’s still resting underneath you and casts it to the side of the room. As you roll to one side, his sharp intake of breath makes you startle slightly, unsure of the cause until you follow his gaze to the sheet below. You exhale softly in surprise at the small smear of blood–barely larger than that which would come from pricking one’s finger–staining the linens just underneath where you had been joined.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Marcus asks quietly.

“I am,” you promise.

“I suppose our families got what they wanted after all,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle.

“And it serves them right that they’re not here to see it,” you say, your voice clipped and short. “I much prefer these matters to be private and on my own schedule, thank you very much.”

“On this, my lady, we agree completely.”

Marcus shoots you a smile–that lovely, crooked, mischievous grin that you adore so much–before getting up and extinguishing the lamps, bathing the room in darkness. You feel the mattress dip as he slides back in beside you, but he seems to hesitate before touching you again.

“Marcus?” you whisper.

“Yes?”

“Will you hold me as you were before?”

Arms immediately wind around you and pull you flush against him, your back to his chest. He holds you tightly and tenderly, burying his face in your skin where your neck and shoulder meet.

“Marcus,” you whisper again, even softer than before.

He makes a soft questioning noise against your skin.

“Don’t be distant to me in the morning,” you plead softly, before you can think better of it. “I can’t bear it.”

“Distant?” Marcus sounds confused.

“You are playful one moment and standoffish the next. You look at me with fondness, but then speak to me with a rigidity that doesn’t fit your expression. You laugh, but then you stop yourself as though you’re afraid to do it. I do not know which type of man is the one I am married to, but I must tell you I detest the man who acts cold and aloof.”

Your husband is quiet for a long time–long enough that you aren’t sure if your outburst has angered him, or if, perhaps, he’s fallen asleep. When he speaks, it nearly startles you, despite the low volume of his voice in your ear.

“I am truly sorry,” he begins, and you can hear the regret in his tone. “I did tell you, I–I do not know how to be a good husband to you. I only know what I’ve been told; I was assured repeatedly that no woman would want an eccentric or unserious husband."

“Oh. Oh,” you say softly, as the realization washes over you. Suddenly, all of your husband’s strange and erratic behavior makes sense as the puzzle pieces fall into place. “You know, I was told no man would want a strong-willed and stubborn wife."

Marcus’s grip tightens at your words. You can feel his mouth open and close, but he stops short of speaking, so you continue.

“I like you this way,” you admit quietly.

“Which way is that?” he rumbles.

“Warm. Smiling. Luminous.”

His sharp, stunned intake of breath cools your skin.

“And I like you wild and barefoot and running through my creek,” Marcus murmurs back. “Although that image does pale in comparison, now that I know how you look in my bed.”

“I quite believed that you didn’t like me at all,” you confess.

“I believed the same, especially when you disagreed with every word upon our first meeting.”

You giggle softly. “I am sorry–I was rather upset by the entire situation.”

“And now?” Marcus’s voice is careful. Vulnerable.

“I did not know you then,” you tell him. “I did not know the shape of your smile, nor the sound of your laugh. I did not know your desk is splattered with paint or that your shelves are covered with books that you read to me in the softest, sweetest voice. I did not know the mischief in your eyes or… or the warmth of your lips,” you say, dropping your volume to a whisper. “Nor the feel of your bare skin against mine just as it is now. All I knew was the rigid, closed-off man I saw before me, but now I know his secret,” you tease.

“And what might that be?”

You wiggle your hips playfully as you settle into Marcus’s arms, your eyes finally starting to feel heavy with sleep.

“That you’re just as wild as me.”

fin

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