Chapter 36
Annabelle
Ever since my father banished me from Trescott, I resolved to never again be reckless.
Instead I sought to always be vigilant. Contained. Calm.
Never, I told myself, would I let a man control me again.
But a madness has descended upon me.
The sprig of tenderness I first felt for Alfred Saintsbury—Alfred de Lacey now—has blossomed into a riot of ivy. I am ensnared. And I can’t even mourn it.
Because I know the marriage will smooth the way. I meant what I said to him. In this life, I want to have first claim to him. I do not want sanctimonious friends and parents to presume to speak for him in my presence. I want no one nearer him than me.
Further, while I still believe that we will tire of one another someday, it is admittedly difficult to imagine a time when I won’t want this man in my bed.
When we returned to Trescott from the church, I left Alfred, retreating to my chamber. I know he is on the other side of the wall. But for some reason I want to be alone.
I undress for bed, donning my nightgown only.
I sit down and compose a letter to the person that I want to inform of my marriage the most.
Dear Evie,
I have done something extreme. I have married the man.
Given the circumstances, I felt it was necessary—the scorn of the world would have been too hard on him otherwise. And I must admit that I wanted to make a claim to him, as irrational as that may be.
I fear I have made a grave mistake. Marriage is very permanent.
Even if my desire for him is strong. Overwhelming, in fact.
You will tell me if I have been too foolish to be forgiven.
Annabelle (Annie, if you must)
I seal the letter, resolving to send it tomorrow.
Evie will laugh when she receives it. When I imagine the easy way she will take the news, it calms me.
And the knowledge that Alfred resides on the other side of my wall beats within me.
I press my knees together.
It is our wedding night.
I want to go to him, but I am finding it difficult to do so.
I turn towards his door and he is already standing on the threshold.
“Writing letters, Mrs. de Lacey?”
The Mrs. surprises me.
During my lifetime there has never been a Mrs. de Lacey in this house.
Well, there was my brother’s wife, but I never knew her.
“Yes,” I say. “To Evie.”
“Will she disapprove?”
I smile. “It is not Evie’s way to disapprove. At least not in personal matters. Politics is another thing altogether.”
“I see. I look forward to meeting your friends.”
I nod, not sure what to make of such a proclamation. I am not sure I look forward to the same given what I saw in his letters.
“What do you want?” I say instead.
His eyebrows rise.
“I have come to bed my wife.”
“Do you truly regard me in that light?”
“In what light?”
“As your wife.”
He moves towards me.
“Yes,” he says. “Of course. I married you before God, Annabelle. Am I not your husband?”
“I suppose you are.”
“No,” he says. “You do not suppose. You know.” He takes my hand and pulls me up from the chair. “But perhaps I need to show you.”
“You are going to show me?”
Alfred has been growing in confidence in the bedchamber of course. But he seems unusually bold now.
He kisses me deeply, drawing me towards him.
I melt into the man. After all, this intimacy is what I have paid for so dearly. At the price of my name and—to a degree—my freedom.
“Do you know,” he says, “that one of my favorite parts of my green book is a marriage night?”
“No, I did not.”
“Yes,” he says solemnly.
“And what happens?”
“The man, the man who the book is about, has just been wed. He has waited to marry his bride for some years and now he finally gets to have her.”
A little shiver goes through me.
“It seems very sentimental.”
“Yes, it is,” he murmurs. “And he very much wants to get a child by her.”
My pulse spikes. A child. An heir. It was my original motivation, besides pleasure, in seducing Alfred Saintsbury. He does not know it, of course. He will never know. There is no point to telling him. It would only upset him.
“He does?”
“Yes,” he says. “He has a particular fantasy of her fat with his babe. And he dreams of filling her with seed and knowing that she has allowed him to try and get her with child.”
My body warms. I press my knees together once more.
“And so how does he bed her?”
“I’ll show you,” he says gently. “Get on the bed. On your hands and knees.”
“On my hands and knees?”
“Yes.”
I obey, glad to not think. I have directed, arranged, and bent the world enough to my will for one day. I must admit—I like that he is the architect of this encounter.
“He tells her that he wants children,” he says. “That he wants to see her carry his child. “
He places his hands on my hips.
“What does she say?” I ask.
“She is moved by his declaration. It pleases her.”
“Most women in England would find it strange. Reproduction is supposed to be the point of marriage. It is all they have ever been taught.”
“She is different. She finds it unusual that he is so ardent on the subject.”
He eases into me. I gasp at the intrusion. I am not quite as prepared as usual—but I find the extra friction pleasurable.
“He asks her if he may fill her with his seed.”
I close my eyes. I pretend that I am in the story. This warm, cozy tale. I am not sure where it ends and my reality with Alfred begins.
“And what does she say?”
“I don’t know, Annabelle—what does she say?”
“You’re the one who has read the book.”
“Let’s pretend I haven’t. What would she say?”
He withdraws from me and then enters again and the sensation makes me pliable. I think I might enjoy pretending I am someone else. On this night, of all nights, when I have crossed this threshold that I thought I never would.
“She would agree. She wants to be with child. With his child.”
He murmurs above me—and I can tell he is pleased.
“Doesn’t this sweet pussy want my seed?” he says, sliding in and out of me. I am wetter now and my muscles have relaxed around him. “Are you going to deny me my release inside of you? When you are my own wife?”
I say nothing, unsure of what I should say, feeling guilty about both an assent or a denial.
“At least tonight,” he says, “On our wedding. Let me fill you. Think of it as your wedding gift to me.”
I whimper at the stark intimacy of his words.
“And what is your gift to me?”
“The very same,” he says. “I suspect you want it. You have urged me to it many times.”
I bite my lip to keep from moaning. He is right. He doesn’t know, in fact, how right. Of course now, it would mean something different now. I imagined getting with his child and discarding him. It will not be so simple now. Especially now that we are married.
He pulls out of me fully.
“I need your assent,” he says, the head of his cock back at my entrance. He opens me just a little.
“Yes,” I gasp, not having any resistance within me. “Yes.”
He plunges back into me and ruts me roughly. It feels so good—as if we were made to do this together.
Just as I have that thought, he stops and withdraws.
“No. Please,” I beg.
His large hands close around my waist. He turns me on my back.
“I want to see your face when I fill you.”
His cock looks nearly as angry and engorged as the first time I saw it. I freed him then from himself. I gave him everything that he was told he wasn’t allowed to have.
He told me then that he wanted a wife and a family. I scoffed at such desires.
He enters me, filling me again to the brink.
“You will make me come quickly,” he says. “Your pussy is so tight and perfect. And the fact that you, Annabelle, are allowing me to fill you with my seed. It is the most arousing thing you could give me.”
I close my eyes and revel in the feel of him and his words. I have never experienced such possessiveness from anyone else, ever, in my entire life.
“Alfred,” I pant. “You’re going to make me—you are going to make me—”
“Oh God,” he says. “My wife, my wife, my wife—"
We come together, tears on both of our cheeks, our breathing ragged.
We lie like that, with him still inside of me, our limbs tangled, until we fall asleep.