necklace and thought about how her pink and cream loveliness must provide a terrible contrast with James’s new bride. “I’m sorry for him. I heard she hasn’t any curves. He loved my apple-dumplings, if you know what I mean.”
“She hasn’t,” Rosie confirmed. “I got a good look when she got out of the carriage. She’s as thin as a clothespin, and flat down the front. You know Magis down in the box office? He reckons she is a man, and it’s all a big hoax.”
Bella shook her head. “This emerald says it’s no hoax.”
A t precisely the same time, in a very different part of London, Theo woke the morning after her wedding, feeling confused. The wedding itself was a blur of smiling faces . . . the grave eyes of the bishop . . . the moment she heard James’s strong voice promise to be hers til death do us part , the moment when she herself said I do and saw a lightning-quick smile touch his lips.
Later, after they had returned home, her maid, Amélie, had divested her of the despised puff of lace and silk that her mother had identified as the perfect fairy-tale gown—and which twelve seamstresses had worked on day and night for a month in order to finish—and put her in a sheer pink negligee. With ruffles.
Her new father-in-law had vacated the matrimonial chambers, and she had undressed in the bedchamber belonging to the former duchess, a room so large that it could contain her former bedroom three times over.
And then James had entered from the duke’s—now his—bedchamber next door, looking rather pale and stern around the mouth.
After that the night had been a blur of nervousness and flashes of desire and just plain awkwardness. It wasn’t exactly what she had expected, but what had she expected? When it was over, James had kissed her, very precisely, on her brow. And that was the first time she realized that if she had felt a little dizzy at various points, her new husband appeared to be remarkably collected. Not at all as hungry as he’d been before, at the musicale, when they were merely kissing.
Before she could say a word, he had quietly closed the door between their adjoining rooms.
Of course, his departure was to be expected. She knew that no one but the poor actually slept together in the same bed: it was unhygienic, and led to restless sleep. Not only that, but one of her governesses had briskly told her that men smelled like goats in the morning and that if a woman didn’t put a door between herself and horrors of that nature, she might find herself pressed under an evil-smelling male body.
It didn’t sound nice when she first heard it, and it didn’t sound nice now. Perhaps it was all right, then, that James slept in his own room. But did he have to leave so quickly? While she was still feeling as if she could barely remember the day of the week?
Then it occurred to her that he might well have retired because after he achieved satiety, for want of a better word, the evidence was left on her sheets. Who wants to sleep on soiled sheets? Not she. Maybe in the future she would visit his room and then retire to her own clean bed.
That idea made her smile, even though she was now aware that her body seemed to have some new twinges in place where there had been no twinges before. Luckily, her mother had been thorough in explaining what happened in the marital bed.
It was all the way she had described, more or less. Her mother had said that a husband touches his wife down there, for example, but James hadn’t. And she’d implied—though she didn’t say it directly—that a wife might do the same for her husband. But since James hadn’t . . .
They had kissed for quite a long time, and then he rubbed her breasts, and he braced himself over her (a happy tingle coursed up her legs at the memory), and finally he pushed inside, which wasn’t all that comfortable. After that, it was over quickly.
She did like it, almost all of it, particularly the part where he kissed her so
“She hasn’t,” Rosie confirmed. “I got a good look when she got out of the carriage. She’s as thin as a clothespin, and flat down the front. You know Magis down in the box office? He reckons she is a man, and it’s all a big hoax.”
Bella shook her head. “This emerald says it’s no hoax.”
A t precisely the same time, in a very different part of London, Theo woke the morning after her wedding, feeling confused. The wedding itself was a blur of smiling faces . . . the grave eyes of the bishop . . . the moment she heard James’s strong voice promise to be hers til death do us part , the moment when she herself said I do and saw a lightning-quick smile touch his lips.
Later, after they had returned home, her maid, Amélie, had divested her of the despised puff of lace and silk that her mother had identified as the perfect fairy-tale gown—and which twelve seamstresses had worked on day and night for a month in order to finish—and put her in a sheer pink negligee. With ruffles.
Her new father-in-law had vacated the matrimonial chambers, and she had undressed in the bedchamber belonging to the former duchess, a room so large that it could contain her former bedroom three times over.
And then James had entered from the duke’s—now his—bedchamber next door, looking rather pale and stern around the mouth.
After that the night had been a blur of nervousness and flashes of desire and just plain awkwardness. It wasn’t exactly what she had expected, but what had she expected? When it was over, James had kissed her, very precisely, on her brow. And that was the first time she realized that if she had felt a little dizzy at various points, her new husband appeared to be remarkably collected. Not at all as hungry as he’d been before, at the musicale, when they were merely kissing.
Before she could say a word, he had quietly closed the door between their adjoining rooms.
Of course, his departure was to be expected. She knew that no one but the poor actually slept together in the same bed: it was unhygienic, and led to restless sleep. Not only that, but one of her governesses had briskly told her that men smelled like goats in the morning and that if a woman didn’t put a door between herself and horrors of that nature, she might find herself pressed under an evil-smelling male body.
It didn’t sound nice when she first heard it, and it didn’t sound nice now. Perhaps it was all right, then, that James slept in his own room. But did he have to leave so quickly? While she was still feeling as if she could barely remember the day of the week?
Then it occurred to her that he might well have retired because after he achieved satiety, for want of a better word, the evidence was left on her sheets. Who wants to sleep on soiled sheets? Not she. Maybe in the future she would visit his room and then retire to her own clean bed.
That idea made her smile, even though she was now aware that her body seemed to have some new twinges in place where there had been no twinges before. Luckily, her mother had been thorough in explaining what happened in the marital bed.
It was all the way she had described, more or less. Her mother had said that a husband touches his wife down there, for example, but James hadn’t. And she’d implied—though she didn’t say it directly—that a wife might do the same for her husband. But since James hadn’t . . .
They had kissed for quite a long time, and then he rubbed her breasts, and he braced himself over her (a happy tingle coursed up her legs at the memory), and finally he pushed inside, which wasn’t all that comfortable. After that, it was over quickly.
She did like it, almost all of it, particularly the part where he kissed her so
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