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She had not heard that, nor had she ever asked; she knew only that the erstwhile marquess had died a decade earlier, when William was fifteen. From his tone, however, she gathered that her knowledge wasn’t the point. “Oh?”
“Few know the truth, though my mother made certain my brother and I possessed every detail. I shall spare you most of it, but I would like you to know the most basic. He died in a fire whilst visiting his mistress.”
Eyes widening, she patted his arm in solace, seeing his pain and embarrassment. After a time, she asked why he had shared that with her.
“I had already decided by then not to be like him, and the way he died only strengthened my resolve. I want a life of integrity and service, not only in debating and passing legislation as a lord, but in my family life. I won’t betray our vows, Beatrice. I endeavor to be devoted, not absent. A man of reason, not passion.”
Taking measured steps, they made their way to the window in the music room. A flash of lightning illuminated the otherwise dim room, otherwise she might not have seen her husband’s expression as he brought her as close to the gardens as he could. William looked at once confident of his wishes, yet vulnerable about his revelations.
Ignoring the beauty outside and turning to this compelling man by her side, Beatrice took his hand in hers and met his gaze—as bold an action as she had ever taken with his person. “I know immense gratitude, William, that I have been blessed with you as my husband. I endeavor to be the wife you wish, too.”
His dazzling smile gave her hope that despite his earlier words, he would, at least sometimes, be a man of passion. Later that night, entering her chamber after dark, his visit reassured her again.
“Good evening, William,” she whispered from her bed.
“Good evening, Beatrice.”
It was no longer comfortable for her to recline on her back for long, and she remained on her side, boldly watching him while he approached and placed the candlestick on the bedside table. Only when he turned did she allow her eyes to drop. The glimpse of the outline of his swollen rod, jutting from his hips under his nightshirt, sent a shiver through her, and she rolled to her back to await him.
Though she had tried to stop once she knew she wasenceinte—the behavior did not seem appropriate to a woman experiencing maternity—Bea had taken to touching herself before his visits. Part of her believed the justifications she listed to herself; the secret fondling of her breasts and strokes between her legs readied her for their conjugal duty.
By the time she and William had begun indulging in nightly visits, not weekly, she experimented with the timing of her own climax. Sometimes, if his rutting was of longer duration and he could not hold back from vigorous movement, Bea found herself tantalizingly close to ecstasy. To date, however, she had been left, as ever, to resume her furtive self-pleasure after he returned to his own chamber.
Perhaps tonight it will happen!Her excitement made it nearly impossible for her to lie still when he climbed onto the foot of the bed. Just hearing the bedsheet being lifted sent frissons of anticipation through her.
Staring at the ceiling in an appropriate fashion as he parted her legs, she longed for the moment his urges so gripped him that she, too, could let go and simply watch him. His ardor-glazed eyes issued no judgment against her, and if afterwards, he could recall her boldness or the way her breath hitched when he cried out, he observed the discretion of a gentleman and never brought it to her attention.
Tonight, as had been the case of late, he let out a small moan as soon as he brought his swollen tip to her wetness. She gloried in that approval, which helped her to overcome the not insignificant shame that accompanied her lustful ways when she was alone.
God help her, she even loved the feeling of closeness her pregnancy brought; his flat, muscled belly could not help but press against her own bountiful swell. How much longer they could maintain their conjugal duties—nay, affection—she did not know, but for now, her condition seemed to serve only to bring them closer, not keep them apart.
Though he clearly tried to stifle them, William couldn’t prevent all his guttural sounds as he spent himself in her. He would not think her so ladylike and proper if he knew how viscerally her body responded to his groans and whimpers.
“Thank you, Beatrice,” he said eventually, sliding off the end of the bed. “Good night.”
“Good night,” came her breathless reply.
She waited until he and his candle were departed from her room and the door clicked shut before sliding a finger between her legs, seeking, however obscenely, the hot, sleek seed his body had gifted to hers. Eyes rolling in her head, her drenched finger stroked over the throbbing bit of flesh that unlocked another dimension to her.
Afterwards she lay panting, wearing a tired smile in the dark. “Thank you, William,” she whispered.
