The Wife (Dirty Little Harlots #5)

The Wife

Itold myself tonight, I would be nothing more than a ghost.

I didn’t set out to haunt my own house, it just happened.

One minute I was lying in the huge, cold bed, my hand on the empty space where Robert might have been had he come to me the way he had every night for the first month of our marriage…

and the next I was floating down the stairs in my dressing gown, candle guttering.

My feet were bare on the chilly marble, but I didn’t feel it. I drifted through the darkened halls of my enormous, silent home, a small circle of light swaying ahead of me, showing me nothing but emptiness.

This is what you wanted. A grand house. A title. A husband who is the envy of every girl you know.

It was. And I wasn’t unhappy. Not precisely; loneliness wasn’t unhappiness. It was just… quiet. So terribly quiet.

My mind wandered as I did, filling the silence with memories. Two Seasons ago, I’d been declared an Incomparable. A Diamond of the first water, with my careful curls and artfully applied cosmetics.

The pleasure of being seen, of being admired—of having a dozen suitors circling me at every ball—had been intoxicating. And Robert Cunningham, the Earl of Marchon, had been the most ardent of them all.

He’d sent flowers every morning.

He’d danced with me at every opportunity, his hand warm at my waist, his eyes never leaving mine.

He’d written poetry. Poetry! I still had the little sheaf of papers tucked in my jewelry box, tied with a blue ribbon.

The proposal had been perfect. My mother had cried in joy to see me catching an earl. The wedding had been the grandest event of the Season. I’d stood at the center of it all, glittering in lace and diamonds, Robert’s new ring heavy on my finger.

I’d loved it. I loved him. Those two things were tangled together in my heart, and I wasn’t ashamed of either.

But now?

I found myself at the library doors without quite deciding to go there.

The room was dark, smelling of old paper, leather, and a faint, lingering trace of Robert’s tobacco.

I drifted towards his shelves, telling myself I just wanted to feel close to him—to touch something of his, to be surrounded by his smell.

I was not above admitting that to myself.

My fingers trailed along the spines of his history books, his volumes on agriculture, his collection of Greek philosophers.

None of these had seemed interesting to me, but perhaps, were I to try reading one, I might draw Robert into conversation?

It had been so long since he’d showed interest in spending time with me, perhaps this might win him back?

I sighed as I paced down the shelves, feeling sorry for myself. It wasn’t that Robert was neglecting me; we still shared meals and he escorted me to all of the proper Ton events, where I preened at being addressed as The Countess of Marchon as I clung to my enviably handsome husband.

I just…missed the time we had together. Alone. In my bed.

I’d been a virgin on my wedding night, of course, and most innocent of the acts between a husband and wife. Robert had been a kind and gentle lover, introducing me to the ways a woman might find pleasure in her husband’s arms.

That hour we spent together each night, before he left to return to his own chamber and I fell asleep in a blissful haze, had been the best part of my day. And I missed that.

Missed him.

My fingers lingered on a book about sheep farming, my lips twitching wryly. I was a countess now, envied by my peers…none of whom suspected I was considering learning about sheep in order to woo my husband back to my bed.

Is that what you are doing?

Well…yes, I rather supposed it was. I wanted Robert to like me again. Like spending time with me again, in order to entice him… Actually, I doubted I’d be bold enough to come right out and say “Darling, I need you to put your penis in me again,” but perhaps I could sort of hint at it?

Cock. He’d called it a cock.

Oh, yes. I remembered how scandalized I’d been when I’d heard that term. He’d placed my hand around his member and showed me how to stroke it, and my mouth had filled with saliva and my breathing had quickened…

It had been two months since our wedding, and four weeks since he’d knocked on my door in the darkness.

I wanted that again. I wanted to know what I’d done to drive him away. Had he found another, a mistress?

Why would he do that, when you could provide him all the entertainment he desires?

Perhaps the mistress would do something more for him than I could?

Frowning, I forced my attention back to the books in front of me.

There’d be no answers here—especially not to the incessant question now beating in the back of my mind—but I could distract myself. Economics, politics, religion, philosophy… My fingers skimmed over the spines of books I barely saw.

But then, at the very back of a lower shelf, I found a cluster of books with no titles on their spines. They were pushed behind the others, as if hiding.

Curious, I pulled one out. The Memoirs of a Lady of Pleasure. I snapped it shut so fast I nearly dropped it, my cheeks burning. I shoved it back and pulled out another. A Gentleman’s Guide to the Art of Love. My heart was thudding against my ribs. I replaced it, my hands trembling.

Oh Heavens.

Robert had an entire collection of wicked books? And it seemed they’d been better read than any of the more academic books in his library. Was…was this the sort of thing he enjoyed? Reading about—even my mind seemed to whisper the words—sexual acts?

Well, I’d come here to find a way to connect with my husband, hadn’t I? And I wanted to share his bed, to win him back from whatever distraction had claimed him. So I took a deep breath and reached for another.

The third book I pulled free was thicker, its spine cracked with use.

A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts.

I clutched it to my chest, the candlelight flickering over the worn leather.

Robert hadn’t come to my bed in weeks. I’d replayed every possible reason in my head—I’d been clumsy, I’d been dull, I was simply not enough—and I always landed on the worst one: a mistress.

I’d heard how these things went. Wives were for breeding, for running households, for representing the family name. Pleasure was found elsewhere.

But I wasn’t going to just accept it. I wasn’t a passive creature, no matter what this empty, echoing house implied. I was going to fix it. I just needed to understand what I was fixing. What was I missing? What did some other woman know, that I did not?

Research, I told myself firmly. This is research.

I took the book to Robert’s favorite armchair—the big leather one by the cold fireplace—and tucked my feet beneath me. The leather smelled like him, like sandalwood and spice and tobacco.

I opened the book.

It was… instructional. Playful, even. The tone was light, scandalous but not crude, seemingly written by some long-ago lady, judging by the archaic language.

I flipped through, my eyes catching on all of the illustrations—line drawings of intertwined bodies, of positions I had never imagined. My face grew hot. My breath shortened.

I found a passage on “posterior pleasures.” The book addressed it with scholarly delicacy and a faint thread of comedy, noting that such practices were “not exclusively the province of either sex.” I read it twice.

Shock pooled in my stomach, a cold, heavy feeling. And then, mortification washed over me as I realized another sensation was coiling beneath the shock. A warmth, low in my belly. A strange, restless ache.

I slammed the book shut, my heart hammering.

I should put this down. I should return to my empty bed and pretend not to have seen it tomorrow when I sit across the table from Robert.

I opened it again.

My breath was lodged in my throat as I continued to read, my core beginning to throb in what I recognized as desire.

A few pages later, I encountered a position called The Burning Bush.

The description was confusing—something about the woman sitting on a table or other flat surface, her legs spread, while the man stood between them.

“Named thusly,” the text read, “because it is said it will make both occupants speak to God.”

The illustration was most illuminating, and the woman’s head was thrown back in an ecstasy I recognized.

I read on. There was a reference to oils—specific preparations for… for easing entry. The book noted that “a gentleman of discernment will keep such things to hand.”

I wondered briefly if Robert had such things, but imagined he did not. The Robert I knew was all gallantry and poetry. He wouldn’t…

But the Robert I knew hadn’t come to my bed in weeks. Maybe I didn’t know him at all.

My body was responding without my mind’s permission.

I was acutely aware that I wore only my robe and dressing gown, and nothing beneath it.

The silk brushed against my skin, and every slight shift sent a shiver through me.

Between my legs, a slick heat was gathering.

I pressed my thighs together, but that only made it worse.

I should absolutely put this down.

I read one more page. And then another. My fingers traced the lines of an illustration; The Supplicant Swan, a woman on her knees before a man, her mouth… Oh, God.

I closed the book with a decisive snap. I did not put it back on the shelf. I tucked it under my arm, holding it tight against my side, next to my pounding heart. Research, I told myself again, my breath coming a little short. I am trying to help my marriage. This is entirely reasonable.

I was also, I noted with a flutter deep inside, more than a little breathless.

I blew out the candle on the table beside the chair and stood.

The dark felt heavier now, more intimate.

I moved through the silent house, my bare feet silent on the cold floors, my thighs slick with arousal, the book a secret weight against my chest. The only sound was the soft rustle of my silk robe and the too-loud beat of my own heart.