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“I will.” He kissed the pale patch of skin at the top of her pubis, his chin rubbing against the lush, dark hair that grew there. He felt her sharp intake of breath above, knew that she was surprised by his movement but also intrigued. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling gently, encouraging him on.She trusts me,Simon thought.
“But I want to teach you something new first.”
“What is it?” Marion’s voice caught above him, cracking with excitement. Simon moved his face lower, his fingers crawling up her thigh to gently stroke and part the wet flesh of her, hearing her shuddering breath in response. He loved to gently guide and stimulate her.
“A man does not only bring pleasure withthatpart of himself,” he whispered, his fingers following the curve of her nubile flesh to slip softly inside her. “He can bring it to a lady in other ways.”
“Oh…” Marion whispered above him, “Sh-show me…”
Simon needed no other encouragement. He let his lips follow where his fingers had already led, savouring the taste of her, the sensation of her velvety skin and her strong muscles moving with pleasure.He found her rhythm and lost himself in it, feeling as if he was reaching the very core of her, that hot bundle of muscles that held the secrets of life itself.
“My God!”Marion gasped, writhing at his ministrations, unable to stop her moans.“My Lord! My God! Simon!”
Her stream of curses and exclamations were too overwhelming for Simon. He felt her release judder through her and felt his own come too. He grunted against her, his face pressed hotly into her breasts. They lay together, Simon listening as the rapid beat of her heart, faster than a running horse’s, became slow and languid.
“Thank you, Simon,”Marion whispered, kissing the top of his head. “That was a most…informative lesson.”
Simon smiled, kissing the salty flesh of her chest where she had sweated and flushed through her secondpetite mort.
“You are most welcome,” he whispered, sighing as he settled back down.
“Do you not want to move, Simon?” She breathed, lazily twirling her fingers through his hair. He could hear that she was already falling asleep.
“No,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I want to stay right here, with my wife.”
He fell back to sleep, happy and satisfied, listening to the steady beat of his new wife’s heart.
* * *
Simon dreamed he was walking through the woodland of Reading Estate. A thick fog had descended, thicker than he had ever seen. He was wandering shirtless and cold, his feet sticking to wet leaves, and he did not know what he was searching for.
Then, from the depths of the fog, he heard the thundering of hooves. It was Stella—he knew it must be, for who else would be riding her horse at this time of night? He knew he must find her, for she would surely have an accident in such heavy fog.
He began to shout her name, running fast through the trees, but the fog was so thick, it was like custard. He actually had to force it back as if it were spiderwebs. In the distance he could see the horse, silhouetted against the moonlit fog. It was in distress, it was roving this way and that, it was going to rear up and dismount her!
He tried to scream, but his voice made no sound in the fog. With arms outstretched, he saw her fall, a tumble of dark skirts falling impossibly slowly to the hard ground. Only then he could run. He broke through the cobweb fog and ran, ran until he could no longer breathe, but Stella lay face-down in the misty grass, her hood pulled over her head.
When he knelt down beside her and gathered her into his arms, he realised her hair was dark and curling—not light like Stella’s should have been. When he looked into her face he cried out in pain.
The dead woman in his arms was not Stella, but Marion!
Simon jerked awake, gasping painfully, his hands outstretched as if reaching for something. He could hear the twittering of the morning birds beyond the window, see the golden morning sunlight peeking between the curtains, but could not shake his dream.Marion’s dead,he thought wildly,Marion’s dead!
“Simon?”
He swung around, fully expecting to find her lying dead beside him, eyes cold and glassy as Stella’s had been, but she wasn’t. She was tucked under the quilt safe and sound, her dark hair fanned around her like a saint. She looked up at him with owlish, sleeping eyes. He could tell she was barely awake.
“It’s alright,” he whispered hoarsely. “A strange dream. Go back to sleep.”
He kissed her forehead gently and she sighed, her long dark eyelashes fluttering closed and her mouth resting in a soft smile as she drifted back into her dreams. He sat looking at her for a while, trying to let his heart calm down, but it wouldn’t.
All he could see in her place was Stella’s cold face and broken body under the horse. Shaking himself, he rose quietly from the bed, pulled on his breeches and shirt and then wrapped himself in his house robe, stepping into his slippers and walking carefully into the parlour. Marion’s maid, Loretta, was dusting in there and quickly dropped into a curtsey. No doubt she was aware that her mistress had not slept in her bed for the first time, and was trying to make herself available should she need anything.
“Loretta, the Countess is in my bedchamber, asleep,” Simon said curtly. “She may appreciate a warm bath and some breakfast, if you’d be so kind.”
“Yes, My Lord.” Loretta bobbed into another curtsey and disappeared, clearly happy to be given something to do.
Simon crossed to the window of the parlour, grateful to have the girl out of the way and some time to himself. He poured himself a glass of water and drank shakily, unable to stop his mind replaying, over and over again, the image of Stella falling from her horse. Only this time, he saw a great cloud of black hair streaming out behind her rather than light brown.How had reliving the worst moment of his life now turned into prophesying the death of his new wife?
