Chapter 53
Annabelle
Iawake the next morning with a lurch in my stomach.
I am still half asleep when I run across the room and into the water closet.
After being sick, I lie down on the floor. I hoped that my morning nausea would not worsen—but I have no such luck.
I begin to peel myself off the floor, but before I can move Alfred is beside me. He gently lifts me up.
“Here, my love,” he murmurs.
I never imagined that a man could carry so many contrasts—that he could be gentle and rough at the right times. Last night, I gloried in his insistence on belonging to me and the roughness with which he convinced me of it. But now I need his gentleness just as much.
Of course, while I enjoyed his erotic insistence on my ownership of him, his refusal to negate our marriage articles has done nothing to solve the horrible guilt that mounts in me every day.
I hoped that, if I changed the articles, I wouldn’t feel so guilty about the origins of our relationship—and this pregnancy.
However, my attempt was a spectacular failure.
He helps me to the bed, and it is a miracle I don’t retch again on the journey.
“Matilda gave me ginger tea,” I manage when I am down, my eyes closed. “She said it would help.”
“Wait here. Don’t move. I will arrange everything with Mrs. Swanson.”
I nod and he leaves the room.
Mrs. Swanson is my housekeeper and to hear Alfred tell it, he is about to be much more familiar with her.
Not just for the tea, but because he wants to take a greater hand in our domestic concerns.
While I was mildly offended at first by his characterization of my administration of my households, I can’t truly say that he is wrong.
A home was never something I was concerned with building and I am not of a domestic nature.
Perhaps I could enjoy the domestic if I had someone else to manage and arrange it for me. I am willing to let him try.
If Alfred wants to arrange our home in addition to being a vicar, I see nothing wrong with it.
I would like him, however, to have something else.
Not serving people as a vicar. And not serving me at home.
Something that could be an outlet for all that is inside of him. And that comes out most when he is bedding me. That feral, desirous part of himself that no one but me has ever appreciated but is so core to the man.
My stomach lurches again, and I have to close my eyes.
Five minutes later, Alfred comes back with a pile of nearly burnt toast and the ginger tea that Matilda recommended. I have the distinct impression that he rushed the staff to make these items—and I am grateful, given how I am feeling.
But even after I finish this repast, I am ill. Better than before, yes, but not confident in my ability to get out of bed.
I am also bone-wearyingly tired.
“I need to rest,” I say, closing my eyes.
“Please,” Alfred says.
“Don’t worry,” I say as I drift off. “You don’t need to stay.”
When I awake hours later, I feel better, although still far from normal.
Alfred is seated by the fire. He is positioned so that he can still see me from his armchair and his profile is lit up from the side.
He is a pretty man. I admire the curl of his hair across his strong brow. He is so handsome that at rest he looks weary of his own attractiveness, as if it is tires him to carry it around always. Propping myself up on my elbows, I address him.
“You don’t have to stay. You should go and enjoy London.”
He startles, clearly not expecting the sound of my voice. He stands and advances towards the bed.
“I couldn’t. Annabelle, do you think you are sick because of last night? Did I make it worse?”
“For the love of God, Alfred,” I snap. “Your cock does not have the power to give sickness or health. It is not anything that we did yesterday evening that has caused the problem. No, the evening that caused the problem was some weeks ago.”
I feel a pang of guilt at these words. I remember that night, of course, very well. How I knew the letter would split and how it did and what the result could be.
He grunts and looks away from me.
“So you believe it is merely…your condition?”
“Heavens, yes,” I say. “What time is it?”
“A quarter to noon,” he responds. “How are you feeling?”
“Better—but still ill.”
I move into the water closet then, brushing my teeth with paste and tending to my other needs.
When I emerge and resettle myself back in bed Alfred says, “Can I get you anything?”
“I think so. Some cake and tea. If I feel well enough after that, I may review the ledgers in my study. But I will not be more ambitious for today.”
“Good,” he says, sweeping from the room.
He returns with a new tray, laden with more food than I can eat, but that at least is not repellent to me.
Alfred returns to his armchair. As it turns out, I am hungrier than I imagined. In fact, the cake he brought is extraordinarily good.
“This lemon cake is exquisite,” I say. “I must compliment Mrs. Goddard.”
“You should.”
“Her recipe appears to have markedly improved.” Then a thought occurs to me. “Is this your doing?”
Alfred looks down, appearing almost sheepish.
“Perhaps.”
“It is!”
“I happened to have a very good recipe. From Emily. She is famous in their neighborhood for it. The Archbishop of Canterbury once praised it.”
I cannot conceive of a woman so different from myself than Emily Saintsbury. And it makes me appreciate afresh how broadminded my husband is. Not many men could respect both a woman like me and a woman like Emily. And yet I believe that he does exactly that.
“So have you overtaken all domestic matters, then?”
Alfred shifts in his seat.
“It displeases you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You are affronted.”
“I am not affronted! Only surprised.”
“You find it ill-befitting your husband to stoop to such matters as lemon cake.”
I bite back a smile.
How can I not be weak where he is concerned?
He does stoop to matters such as lemon cake—and it is why I have lost my head over him.
There are men all over England who think the matter of a lemon cake beneath them.
Hell, I think I am above lemon cake. And nevertheless I have found one of the rare men who knows that such concerns can often be the difference between happiness and unhappiness and does not see it as a degradation to attend to it.
“Not in the slightest. I think it suits you quite well.”
“You have so much to manage, Annabelle, and I have so little to do. Let me manage it for you. You have no interest in the household. And I do.”
“I’ve already said yes. Come here.”
He moves off the chair and comes towards me.
I want to ask him to hold me. I want him to comfort me the way he did in the water closet. I just don’t know how to ask for it.
So instead I reach for his hand, pulling him towards the bed.
When he lies down next to me, I turn so that my back is against his chest. I close my eyes. This is what I wanted. And I got it without having to ask.
I begin to drift off to sleep again, making myself comfortable against him, when he begins to shift away.
“Don’t go.”
“I’m not. It’s only…”
I angle myself back to where I was. And then I understand his consternation. He is hard, his cock rigid against my back.
“You aren’t well. I do not expect you to bed me now.”
The truth is for the first time ever in Alfred’s presence, I don’t want to bed him. My desire, which with him is always so sharp, has lost not only its edges but its shape.
“I know,” I say, quietly. “And you’re right—I can’t. Not now.”
But I still want his touch.
“Then I won’t bother you—”
“No, I don’t mind.”
He curls around me again. Perhaps it is selfish of me. But I find at the moment that I am predisposed to be selfish.
I lie there, strangely and deeply at peace.
And then my husband shifts once more, moving his cockstand—which has grown quite large—away from me.
“Are you uncomfortable?”
“No,” he says. His voice, however, is a bit thin.
“I don’t want you to suffer,” I say with a little laugh.
“I am a beast. I should leave you.”
“I don’t want that.”
He aligns himself with me again, obeying my preferences. However, I can feel the extent of his arousal. He is steel against me.
I turn towards him, so that we are face to face.
He looks vexed—with himself, I know—and I want to soothe him.
I reach down to touch his cock.
He stops me, grasping my hand.
“No,” he says. “I know when you want it—and right now you don’t.”
I can’t argue with his conclusion. It is true.
Then an idea unspools across my mind.
While I don’t feel like being touched myself, I am not adverse—no, not at all—to watching him touch himself.
“You could self-pleasure,” I say. “To relieve yourself.”
His brow furrows. “In my own chamber?”
While we have been sharing my bedchamber, Alfred technically has his own on the other side of the wall.
“No. Here.”
“I—I am not sure it is a good idea. You aren’t in the humor.”
“While I don’t care to be involved, I am happy to watch. I’m sure it’s an image I will cherish later.”
“Still. It won’t work.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighs. “I don’t know how.”
“Alfred, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I am being serious.”
“You have never taken yourself in hand?”
“Not in a long time. Not since I was a boy—and I was caught. And I was told what a terrible sin it was. You saw what I did instead.”
I know what he means—the way he rutted himself against his own trousers.
“Who caught you?”
“A maid. And she told my father. And that is when it began—William Acton, and lectures, and books on self-abuse.”
“Poor Alfred. I wish I had known you when we were young. I would have shown you all about pleasure. I wish I had met you at sixteen rather than Frank Holster.”
“Mmm,” he says. “That is a pretty idea.”
It is. I wouldn’t be myself if that had happened. But I linger on the idea for a minute. It would have been wonderful to have my first kiss under the trees be with Alfred. And it would have been even better to have him as my first lover.
“I would have been the bolder of the two of us,” I say. “But you would have been the better lover in the end. Because you are so generous.”
He shakes his head. “I would have been too terrified to touch you. I would have been a coward.”
“Let me teach you then,” I say, a flicker of desire springing up in my chest. “Trust me. Take out your cock.”
“Annabelle…”
“Alfred, you are distressingly hard. Don’t you want to come? And don’t you want me to tell you how to do it?”
He groans and closes his eyes.
“Then take out your cock.”
He obeys, undoing the placket of his trousers and bringing himself forth. My mouth waters at the sight and I am relieved to see I haven’t lost all erotic feeling. As usual, he is large and thick and hot. And terribly, terribly unsated.
“You can start gently,” I say. “Palm yourself. Explore. Discover what feels good to you.”
Tentatively, he follows my directive, moving his hand up and down his shaft.
For a minute, I let him experiment. I don’t want him worrying yet about spending.
“What feels good to you? Show me.”
He loosely wraps his hand around the head of his cock, letting his fingers run over the underside.
“All right. Now indulge yourself. Let yourself revel in the pleasure.”
He moves his hand back and forth. I can see, however, that the movement is awkward.
Just as I think it, he stops and releases himself.
“It’s no use. I am not accustomed to it.”
Despite his frustration, his cock continues to swell, looking painfully aroused.
“You are giving up too quickly,” I softly admonish. “Here, I will help.”
“I won’t accept that, Annabelle. I have already said.”
“I know. I won’t touch your cock.”
Instead, I touch his hand. Then I guide him, helping him find a natural rhythm.
With my encouragement, he lets out a moan.
“There,” I say, removing my hand. “Follow that feeling.”
He stops, foolish man.
“Without you it’s no use.”
Suddenly, I realize what my husband needs to unlock this ability.
I freed him from the restrictions that imprisoned him once, but I do not want to be the keeper of his pleasure, just as his father or William Acton or the church was before me.
Not in that way. I do not want him to exchange one prison for another.
“That’s not true,” I say softly. I guide his hand back to his cock and direct him to resume the rhythm. “You need to know how to please yourself.”
We find the rhythm again and then, once more, I remove my hand.
This time he does not stop.
He continues pumping, his eyes closed. He looks beautiful as he does so. And I am sure if I were in another state, one where I felt in touch with my own desire, I would be unable to stop from touching him.
But perhaps it is good that I can’t. Perhaps it is important that he learns to do this.
So instead, I just enjoy the view, not insensible to its erotic sensuality, but more aware of its aesthetic beauty than I would be otherwise.
He groans.
“Fuck. Annabelle. I think I am—I think I am close.”
“Good.”
His hand moves faster and now there is no possibility of him losing his way.
“Oh God,” he murmurs. “I am—I will—”
“Come, Alfred.”
And he does, spilling on a moan.