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She laughed aloud at the happy thought, then shut her mouth with a snap when footsteps hurried toward her from the dressing room.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Mary said, heading straight for the curtains to throw them wide. “Shall I call for tea?”
“Please. And I should like a bath this morning.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
After she tugged the bellpull to signal for tea, Mary bent down to retrieve something from the floor. Sarah’s thoughts flashed immediately to the packet of books she’d hidden beneath the bed, but Mary rose with evidence even more mortifying than the books. James’s trousers. The maid bent once more and retrieved one of Sarah’s stockings.
The trail of clothing continued to the pile heaped in the middle of the room. Sarah’s corset and shift. He
r drawers. James’s shirt.
Oh, God. Sarah took the easy way out and drew the sheets up to her nose as she closed her eyes and pretended to curl back into sleep for a few more moments. But instead of sleeping, she murmured a silent prayer that Mary was not the type to gossip with the maids next door. Why, they must have gone at it like beasts. And her so proper and missish!
Not that it mattered. Sarah wouldn’t take it back for the world.
Her tea arrived, and then the tub. She heard the metal thud of it being set in place in the dressing room and the first loud swish of water. James had promised they would build a bathing room next year, but Sarah felt thankful for the slow preparation this morning.
“Mary, will you knock when the bath is ready?”
Mary nodded and closed the door to the dressing room.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Sarah set the tea tray aside and jumped—naked!—from the bed to reach beneath it for the books. She wanted to know more, wanted to know everything. She scrambled back beneath the bedcovers and tore open the packaging to pull the second book from the pile. Cup of hot tea in hand, she began to read.
A quarter hour later a knock on the door relieved her from her boredom. This book was nothing like the first. In fact, the author seemed dedicated to writing a whole book on only the most boring topics of marriage. Frugal meal planning. Economic use of servants. The proper way to address one’s spouse in public and private. When he finally got to the bedroom, the writer’s language became so circumspect that Sarah could not begin to puzzle out his meaning.
Happy to be interrupted, she haphazardly retied the books and stowed them under the bed after pulling on the wrap Mary had left.
She sank into the hot bathwater with a deep sigh, noticing every caress of the little waves she created. Her sex stung a bit at the touch of the heat. Perhaps James had used her too roughly. The delightful idea made her chuckle, and the steam jumped and stirred at her breath.
Not until later did she realize that, for the first time in her life, she’d stepped into the tub with not one moment of shame at her nudity.
* * *
She’d dressed carefully again, choosing her clothing with an eye toward the view she’d provide her husband. Then she’d tinkered with next week’s menu a bit, avoiding any of the foods mentioned in that horridly practical book. She hadn’t gone out on any of her usual excursions; instead, she’d waited to see if her husband would join her for luncheon.
In the end, he hadn’t come. She might have sulked, but he’d sent an extravagant bouquet of flowers with an errand boy, as well as a slightly risqué note of apology, so Sarah only pouted for a few minutes before deciding to make the most of it.
“Send a tray to my room!” she called to the maid sweeping the parlor and rushed up the stairs to pull a new book from the pile.
She hadn’t known that James could—or would—take her from behind. She hadn’t known he would put his mouth there and make her shudder and cry. What else must there be? What more could they do together? Her sex felt warm and tight as she pondered the thought.
Waiting for her meal—and squirming a bit on her chair—Sarah flipped idly through the book, hoping to find some interesting pictures. Unfortunately, this author showed more interest in charts than drawings. She crinkled her nose in disappointment as she hid the book in her skirts at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Despite her brief hope that it might be James, it was only Betsy, the kitchen maid, lugging the heavy tray. Sarah had nibbled half a piece of buttered bread by the time the girl stopped pouring tea and puttering around. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Sarah slipped the book onto the table.
Women in Marriage: A Treatise on the Peculiar Health of Wives and Mothers.
Peculiar. Well, that might be the word to describe her. Sarah’s lips were just rising into a smile when she saw the author’s name.
Dr. C. Malcolm Whitcomb.
Her lungs froze, body reacting before her brain could generate a thought. Whitcomb. Brow furrowed, she stared at the name imprinted into the cover in gold ink. The name was familiar, but why did it make her muscles tighten to the point of pain?
“Doctor Whitcomb,” she said aloud, and the words left a bright trail of recognition in their wake. The bread fell from her hand, landing on the carpet with a plop.
Her mother’s doctor. The very man who had treated her mother in the years before her death. He’d been an elegant man, polite and handsome, and very somberly concerned about his patient’s deterioration.
