Chapter 48
Annabelle
My husband will not fuck me.
That much is clear.
And I have no idea why.
I would assume his ardor has cooled. But he literally came last night just from watching me suck his cum off my fingers. I hadn’t even meant the gesture seriously. It had been, in my mind, a kind of joke.
So it isn’t that he doesn’t want me anymore.
I wonder if he is bashful about something, but I can’t imagine what. And he has seemed so much more confident recently.
Perhaps something about Frank Holster? His resistance began after I told him about Frank.
But he seemed reassured on that score after our conversation on the train.
No matter, I am determined to find out.
I do not want to begin our new life in London with some misunderstanding between us.
During the night, Alfred wound himself around me, so that when I awaken, my arse is up against his cock.
Perfect.
I wiggle against him. He hardens against me—and stirs.
“Wife,” he says in my ear, his hand grasping the curve of my hip. “I never tire of waking like this.”
I believe him. After all, for so long he wanted to be married. I never thought I would be with a man who desired matrimony. I always imagined such a fellow would only want a woman to control. But Alfred is nothing like that.
“I have come to quite enjoy it myself. And I find that I awake with a particular hunger…”
I nestle my backside into him further. He groans.
“What I suggested last night—rutting like this—I want it.”
If he refuses such a direct request, I will know something is very wrong indeed.
For a moment he is quiet.
“Or I could put my mouth on your pussy and make you see stars.”
I must admit it. Those words, low in my ear, cause me to shiver.
But I am intent on my purpose.
“While I would doubtlessly enjoy that, I want you to fuck me.”
He says nothing. But he grows harder against me.
I pull up my nightdress so that nothing separates our bodies.
His cock is at my entrance. There is no reason for him to refuse. I bend so that his cock is poised to enter me.
“Wait—wait—” he says, pulling back.
I knew it. Something is amiss.
I whir around in the bed so that I am facing him.
“Alfred,” I demand. “Why won’t you tup me?”
“I—I—I—will. I—just—”
“This is the third time you have avoided putting your cock in me. Have you suddenly grown tired of the act?”
It can’t be true. Not when his erection strains between us, indecent and so obviously ready to bed me that there is no use denying it.
“Well, it is only…”
“Yes?”
He puts his palms over his eyes and groans.
Now I am concerned. What on earth could be the matter?
“Are you ill?” I ask, reaching for the only thing that makes sense.
“No, you were ill. I do not want to make you worse.”
“I feel perfectly fine.”
Although as I raise my head slightly higher to argue with him, nausea begins to grind in my belly.
“I don’t want to risk your health.”
“You fear I have some ailment that only your cock would make worse?”
I arch my brows at him. His face freezes.
Oh, God. He knows.
But if he knew, why didn’t he say anything? I know why I hadn’t, of course.
But why would he keep silent if he suspects something? I assumed when I was ill yesterday, when he made so little note of it, that he believed me about the grippe. After all, how would a man like him know the symptoms of pregnancy?
“Annabelle,” he says, the set of his mouth very grave. “I don’t want to shock you. But I have been reluctant to bed you because—well, I think you may be with child. And I don’t want to harm the babe.”
He looks so serious as he says these ridiculous words that I am both moved—and moved to laughter.
I can’t help it.
I laugh. And then laugh again, covering my mouth.
“I do not understand,” he says stiffly. “You are not with child?”
I wipe the tears from my eyes. I do not know where to begin. With his assumption that, somehow, I am unaware that I am probably with child…or the fact that he feels his cock might somehow dislodge my pregnancy.
“No,” I say finally, when I feel badly enough for him that I force myself to speak. “I believe I am.”
“You do?” He looks endearingly hopeful. And when he looks like that, I can’t laugh at him any longer.
“Yes. I have suspected for a few days.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“Why did you not tell me you knew? And why did you assume I didn’t know?”
“I didn’t want to alarm you. And when you were unwell, you said you had the grippe—so I assumed that you merely thought you were ill.”
“I only said that because I didn’t want to tell you before I was sure. And—well—miscarriage is common. I did not want you to become too attached to the idea.”
That twinge sounds within me again. It is not the only reason I didn’t tell him, of course. There is the fact that I feel guilty about what I planned for him when we first met. How I wanted to get with his child and then dismiss him from me forever.
“Annabelle,” he chides. “You do not have to protect me. But,” he continues, his brow furrowing, “if you are already with child, it must have happened some time ago.”
My stomach drops at his astuteness. I cannot tell him. I cannot bear it.
“Yes,” I say, looking down at the pattern on the coverlet. “I imagine that it happened that first time. When the French letter broke. I had no idea when we were discovered by Mr. Thompson. Or when we married.”
“It is good we married then.”
“I didn’t know,” I repeat, clinging to this one piece of truth. “It isn’t why I married you. I wouldn’t have married you for that.”
“I know,” he says, raising my fingers to his lips and kissing them.
He is smiling now and soon he is laughing.
“We both thought the other ignorant.”
“You cannot blame me. How do you even know the symptoms of a woman being with child?”
“My stepmother, Emily. I was visiting with her and my father early in her second pregnancy. There was no hiding the, er, symptoms.”
He pauses, laying a hand on my stomach.
“I am very happy to hear it, however, Annabelle. If I may risk saying so. Without appearing too attached.”
I shake my head, even though a sly sliver of delight shimmers through my chest at his gladness.
And guilt. I am happy that he appears so delighted—but the sensation is nearly ruined by the guilt I feel.
“It is early yet,” I warn. “You cannot get your heart set on it.”
“Too late,” he says, smiling and kissing my temple. “But I’ll risk the heartache. After all, I am used to it.”
For a moment, I think of how perfect the moment would be if I told him that I love him.
Do I?
Certainly, he has come closer than any other man ever has. Even Frank Holster.
But the words stick in my throat.