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“I beg your pardon,” said Thorne once they were alone. “It was not my intention to interrupt you. You count the number of strokes when you brush your hair?”

“One hundred per day is considered optimal,” replied Jane softly. “But I can do some more tomorrow morning.”

“Would you allow me?” asked Thorne hoarsely.

Noticing the change in his voice, Jane silently handed her husband the brush. Thorne’s first attempts to run the brush through her glossy locks were rather eye-watering, but after Jane instructed him on how to hold the hair near the scalp with the palm of his left hand, he managed well enough and completed the one hundred strokes before kissing the crown of her head. Returning the brush to the dressing table, he extinguished all but two of the candles. Thorne knelt on the back of Jane’s stool and swept her long tresses aside to expose her nape which he preceded to kiss delicately, making a trail with his lips from her neck to her shoulder.

Involuntarily, Jane shivered and tried to still her pattering heart with deeper breaths.

Reaching beneath her armpits, Thorne sought to untie the silk ribbon of the wrap at her waist so that he might slide it off her shoulders. As it fell to her elbows, he sucked his breath in through his teeth. The gown underneath was even sheerer than the over-gown. Exposed in the mirror were Jane’s beautiful breasts with the pink nipples pressing against the fabric, drawing his attention to the large aureoles underneath. Feeling his nascent arousal bloom into something more urgent, Thorne steeled himself to maintain control—this was her first time, and he wanted to take things slowly. Tearing his eyes away, he selected the palm brush from the dressing table and began to trail it down the creamy unblemished flesh of her arms. Jane closed her eyes and sighed. Satisfied that his attempts to set his wife at ease were working, Thorne encouraged Jane to her feet and bunted the dressing stool out of the way with his knee.

As she rose, Jane’s wrap fell to the floor. In the mirror, Thorne glimpsed the front of the nightgown with its single patch of bugle beads centred on Jane’s nether regions, radiating outwards in a starburst to her navel and thighs. Groaning, Thorne buried his head at the juncture between Jane’s neck and shoulder and began to kiss her feverishly, drawing her body back towards his and bringing his hands up to clasp her breasts. Then, wanting to taste her lips, he turned her in his arms and began to pay the same devotion there. Jane submitted to all this meekly, but when she felt his hands descend to clasp her bottom she began to feel dizzy and wavered in his arms.

Thorne drew back. “Are you all right?” he panted.

Jane could not speak but managed a nod.

“Come,” he said, drawing her to the sofa and encouraging her to sit upon it.

It was then Jane noticed that her husband was barefoot. A blush heated her face. Thorne feverishly unbuttoned his waistcoat. He merely intended to drop it to the floor but somehow it sailed from his hands and ended up dangling from the rosewood table halfway across the room. He fell to his knees on the rug and began to rain kisses on Jane’s feet. Soon he had lifted the hem of her gown to lick her shins to the knee, descending with repeated kisses to her ankles. Jane had thrown her head back on the cushions and was clawing at the seat of the sofa, biting her lips to suppress her exclamations.

Thorne stood up to shuck off his shirt. It too went sailing off into the inky blackness. He climbed onto the sofa, kissing Jane’s chin before descending to suckle her breasts through the gauze of her gown. Jane writhed beneath him, trying to suppress her exclamations and not knowing what to do with her hands. Finally, she gave in to instinct, clasping his head to her bosom, digging her fingers into his short straight hair like scythes. Thorne worked his way back up Jane’s chest to claim her lips as her hands slid down his shoulders to his arms. They clung to each other, Thorne balancing himself precariously with one knee on the sofa and the other foot on the floor. When he sucked her earlobe into his mouth, Jane succumbed to temptation. He smelt so wonderful, she could no longer resist. Letting out a sigh, her right hand travelled over his taut chest while her left snaked round to his back. Satisfied with his progress, Thorne drew back.

“Bed?” he asked.

Jane nodded in reply and was about to get up when he stayed her. Sliding his hands underneath her, he picked her up like a child, causing her to gasp—she had not been carried that way for years. A thought flashed through her mind as he stood up that she should admonish him—although she was slim, she was quite tall, certainly no sprite to be carried. But he made it to the bed with her well enough and dropped her onto the mattress from a height of three inches, causing a very unladylike giggle to escape her mouth. She cast her eyes down to check her gown had not ridden up over hips and thus was distracted sufficiently that she was not aware that Thorne had shucked his breeches until the buckle hit the bare boards.

Thorne climbed in beside Jane and began to kiss her more feverishly. Having overcome her shyness sufficiently to touch him, they writhed and rolled about as she explored his back with her hands. He descended her body again, kissing her as he pushed himself backwards along her length. Encountering the hem of her gown somewhere near her knees, he began to ascend her body once more, drawing the hem back up with him as he kissed, licked and nipped his way to her navel. Jane dug her hands into his hair again as his head moved within reach. When he hesitated over her navel to stick his tongue inside, she gasped. But his attempt to kiss his way back down through the thatch of honey blonde pubic hair met with spirited resistance.

“No!” she breathed.

Thorne gave up and continued upwards as that direction was not forbidden to him, until he had finally bared her breasts. He groaned and began suckling them again, pushing his hips rhythmically against her thigh as he did so. She undulated beneath him in response. They continued like this for some minutes with the bed creaking against the wall until he slid his hands between her thighs to find her damp there. Jane felt it too and was mortified, sure that her period must have started two days early. She froze, unsure what to do or say.

“I love you,” said Thorne. “Ready?”

Jane nodded, thinking perhaps he had not noticed. She moved her legs apart to accommodate him. The pain as he pushed into her was mind numbing. She was never sure afterwards if she had fainted—it had felt like that for a moment or two. Then it abated, and all she could think of was the delicious feeling as he pushed repeatedly into her. She was slick like a well-oiled machine. He pumped into her continually like the piston of a steam engine. The bed began to knock loudly against the wall, but she did not care. His breathing was becoming ragged. Jane grabbed his buttocks with both hands, encouraging him to keep going. Soon his breath was coming in great gasps and he shuddered, ramming himself into her one final time as he yelled, “Mercy!”

Thorne collapsed beside her, exhausted. As he recovered his breath, Jane realised she was breathing heavily too. She caressed the side of his head, feeling his brow covered with sweat.

“My love!” Thorne said as he caressed her in return. “Dearest Jane.”

“Benjamin!” Jane essayed, trying his Christian name for the first time.

“Say it again!” Thorne said thickly, running his thumb over her cheek.

“Dearest Benjamin!” repeated Jane dutifully.

For Thorne, it was heaven. He rocked his wife from side to side, whispering endearments to her in several languages. They then fell asleep together in each other’s arms.

Chapter 58: Smell the roses

When Jane awoke in the morning she was momentarily disoriented before realising she was in Bristol in Mr Thorne’s house and Jane Bennet no longer. A tear slipped from her eye as she mourned her maidenhood, surrendered to a man she barely knew. Should Mr Bingley make a belated appearance there would be nothing she could do—he was lost to her forever. All she had were memories of that time when her prince had arrived at Netherfield and she had briefly entertained hopes that she might shortly be its mistress, queen of her realm just a short distance from her dear Lizzy and Mama. But now that was pure fantasy. Not only had Mr Bingley not returned to her, but Papa was gone and Longbourn was theirs no longer. She was on the verge of succumbing to a full-blown fit of tears when a small jerk of the top sheet from behind her made Jane realise that her husband was still in bed beside her. With a quiet sniff she risked a peek over her shoulder and was quite startled by what she saw there.

Stretched out beside her on the mattress, wearing not a stitch—for he had just kicked off the last vestige of the sheet that had partly covered him—was a startlingly attractive man, a picture of well-honed muscle on a spare frame. His form looked more like the youths one saw in the fields in summer than a wealthy thirty-seven-year-old trader—she had caught enough glimpses of her uncle Gardiner in his dressing gown to know that. Jane would have been less surprised if she had seen Thorne at the top of a mast or rolling a barrel up a ramp, shoulder to shoulder with one of his men, but it would be at least a year before she got near enough the docks to discover him in such a pose.

Her husband’s face and hands were the only indicators of his true age, burnt browner than the rest of him and with the lines and callouses of age and hard work. His tanned chest was lightly furred with black hair radiating in an interesting pattern from the centre of his chest across his breast and continuing down his midline over his taut belly to his nether regions. Her eyes quickly skipped to the muscles of his upper thighs, which were only lightly furred. Below his sculpted knees, his calves were more thickly covered with black hair—almost like a shaggy garment. His feet, large but shapely, were a colour midway between the dark tan of his hands and the lighter brown of his chest.

Before she could dwell too long on her husband’s multi-coloured form, Jane remembered with horror that she might have her period. A tentative feel suggested nothing was happening that morning. With some trepidation she carefully lifted her hips to inspect the damage, thinking she might be able to disguise any mess with her handkerchief, which her maid had thoughtfully tucked under her pillow before her husband had entered the room last night, or—heaven forbid!—a pillowcase. To her great relief the sheets were largely clean, with only a pale pink stain that was barely noticeable. It was possible that her gown was marked but it was difficult to check lying down. If she was careful when she got up, Jane reasoned, she was sure she could avoid embarrassing herself.