CHAPTER NINE
Constance had been an attentive lover to every woman she'd ever lain with, and she did not intend for Isabel to be the exception.
It was not only for her partner's benefit that she paid such close attention; she'd always found the act of discovering another's pleasure to be the best part of lovemaking, for her.
Mapping their body, cataloging their responses to touch, finding all the things they liked best and devoting herself to them – it thrilled her beyond measure, even beyond any gentle touch they might offer her in return.
The moment she looked into a lover's face and saw bliss there, or heard their voice crack or tremble with an extremity of sensation was the moment she felt truly fulfilled.
And so, paying such close attention as she was, it did not take long to realize that something was amiss with Isabel.
She liked the kissing, that was clear enough: she shuddered and squirmed and whimpered when Constance's lips found the underside of her jaw, or when she nibbled gently on her earlobe, or trailed kisses along her shoulder.
Either she was a far better dissembler than Constance would have thought, or she was genuinely suffused with lust in those moments.
Likewise, Constance had been paying careful attention to the things Isabel didn't like, for it wouldn't do to hurt or frighten her in the course of what was meant to be a pleasurable experience.
She shied away from having the nape of her neck touched; if Constance leaned too much weight on her, pinning her in place, she shuddered in a way that did not speak of pleasure; she was loath to have her hair tugged on.
All these pitfalls were easy enough to avoid, and Constance was happy to do it.
But then there was her reaction to more intimate touches.
That was enough to make Constance worry.
At any sign of being touched below her waist – even something as small as Constance's hand on her thigh – Isabel would stiffen and falter in her movements.
She did not pull away, no matter how many times Constance told her that she was free to object to anything she disliked.
No: she would try to push through, her kisses growing clumsy and her hands jerking spasmodically where she held onto Constance.
Constance was not a fool; she understood perfectly that this reluctance sprung from her experiences in the marriage bed.
But the fact that she would not voice her discomfort – and her insistence on pushing through it, coupled with her denials whenever Constance asked if anything was troubling her – spoke to a far deeper problem than Constance had reckoned for.
Something would have to be done about it: they couldn't go on like this.
She found her occasion to address the matter a few weeks after they first made their arrangement.
Isabel had come by to deliver her latest piece of embroidery (an excuse that would not work for much longer, as Leah's dresses were almost done; Constance did not want to think on that overmuch) and once that task was dispatched, Constance caught her by the hand and tugged.
Isabel's eyes grew soft and warm, as they always did, and she let Constance lead her into the bedroom.
Constance shut the door behind them, then sat on the bed with her back to the wall and beckoned to Isabel. "Come here?"
Isabel sat on the bed, then shifted until she was sitting astride Constance's lap, a knee on either side of her hips. Constance smiled at her, trailing her knuckles up Isabel's spine for the pleasure of watching her shiver. "Hello there," she said, just for the sake of seeing Isabel smile.
"You've said that once to me already today," Isabel said, One of her hands still lay in her lap, but the other was resting lightly on Constance's shoulder, as if she still wasn't entirely sure her touch was permitted.
"So I did," Constance said. "But we're getting better acquainted now than we could in the shop, aren't we?"
"I should hope you don't do this in the shop," Isabel said, and Constance huffed a laugh.
She leaned in and pressed her lips to Isabel's shoulder, enjoying the soft intake of breath her touch drew from Isabel as she worked her way up her neck, to the curve of her jaw, and finally to her mouth.
Isabel fairly melted into her touch, wriggling in her lap to get closer as her breath hitched and her fingers clenched in the fabric of Constance's dress.
This was what made Constance so sure she was right: Isabel did not say much, but her body spoke volumes, and she was not able to hide her responses when Constance touched her.
She did want this. Whatever else troubled her – whatever was keeping her pleasure in check – she wanted this.
Constance stroked Isabel's sides, teasing just below the spot on her breasts where she knew Isabel wanted her.
Isabel whined, her hips hitching as she tried to get at the friction she wanted.
Constance took pity on her and rubbed over her nipples through her dress, taking a moment to savour the way Isabel ducked her head against her shoulder to stifle her moans.
She was tempted to go on like this for the rest of the afternoon and abandon her original plan entirely: they were happy this way, weren't they?
Surely it was better to seek pleasure than to prompt a conversation that would likely be difficult for both of them.
But if she gave into her basest impulses, the same problem would arise over and over, and the argument that would inevitably erupt as a result would be far more painful than having the conversation now.
So – slowly, so as not to frighten Isabel – she took her hand from Isabel's breast and settled it on her thigh.
The effect was immediate, and it made Constance hate herself. Isabel froze, making a noise in the back of her throat that carried none of the pleasure of her earlier gasps and moans. The hands clenched in Constance's dress tightened, her knuckles going white, and her face likewise went pale.
Constance drew back so that Isabel was forced to look her in the face. "What's wrong?"
Isabel swallowed hard, shifting again in her lap. "Nothing," she said. "I'm quite – this is – " She tried to lean in to kiss Constance again, but Constance was too quick for her.
"Something's wrong," she said. "I wish you would tell me." Her point made, she took her hand away from Isabel's thigh. Isabel relaxed infinitesimally, but her posture was as wary as ever.
"It's nothing," she said, in a voice that aimed for carelessness and went wide of the mark. "There's no need." She let go of Constance and shuffled backwards. "If you'd rather not this afternoon, I'll go."
"No, don't." Constance didn't want to grab her – not now that she was upset enough already by Constance's touch – but she did lay a light hand on her arm. "Please. Talk to me. I want to please you and if something I'm doing doesn't please you, I want to know why."
Isabel's throat clicked as she swallowed again.
"You can't - that is, I- " She looked so miserable, it broke Constance's heart.
She smoothed a hand over Isabel's hair and down her back, rubbing in a spot she knew Isabel would find soothing.
"It's nothing you've done or not done. It's my own frailty, my own –" She leaned forward, this time to tuck her head against Constance's shoulder.
When she spoke again, her voice was muffled. "Must we speak of this?"
Constance kissed the side of her head. "Please."
Isabel let out a long, shuddering sigh. She did not take her face away from Constance's shoulder; perhaps she felt it easier to speak so long as she didn't have to look Constance in the eye.
Her voice, when she spoke, was muffled. "I am not – made for pleasure.
I don't know that I ever have been. You try, but I won't – it won't do any good.
" Her face was damp where it pressed against Constance's kirtle.
"God was mistaken when He made me, my husband said – he filled my veins with black bile instead of blood.
It's no use trying. And I fear you may – take offense, if you do try and find yourself unsuccessful.
The fault is mine. And it is . . . better .
. . to please yourself instead of wasting your time with me. "
Not for the first time, Constance thought that, however painful Isabel's husband's death had been, it hadn't been nearly painful enough.
"Your husband said," she repeatedly softly.
"And if I tell you again that whatever he said was spoken out of malice rather than honesty?
His words ought not trouble you any longer. "
"But he was right," Isabel said. She sniffled a little, and Constance redoubled her efforts rubbing her back, wishing desperately that she could soothe all of Isabel's pain and doubt away. "I wasn't – as woman ought to be, when she's taken to bed. I was cold, and dry and hard and –"
"And all of those things were owing to him," Constance said. "Not you."
Isabel sat up then, wiping her face with her sleeve. "Even now," she said, "Even without him, I can't – I can't –" Her mouth trembled. "You said, when we agreed to this – you promised – that we need not, if I didn't want it –"
"We needn't," Constance said. "But if you'll forgive my assumption – you do want something, no?"