Lords Of Desire Part 29

James suffered a brief, disorienting thought of the violin he kept on the top shelf of his wardrobe, but then her meaning burst over his mind with startling clarity. He should not have laughed, but he did. Thank G.o.d, Sarah did not seem to mind, though she put her hands over her eyes and peeked through her fingers.

"I'm sorry," he chuckled. "Of course you would wish to view the beast that hunts you every night."

"James!" she scolded, voice full of laughter, then she squeaked when he stood and reached for the b.u.t.tons of his remaining clothing. But when he slipped off his trousers and unfastened his drawers, Sarah's hands fell away, and she watched with not a glimmer of humor in her eyes.

CHAPTER 4.

The next morning Sarah woke very differently than she had the day before. She remembered everything she'd done immediately. Before the room had even come into focus, the night was acting itself out in her mind in vivid colors. Finally, she'd seen his body...nude.

James had blushed a bit. Or perhaps it had only been blood rus.h.i.+ng to his skin, because he'd met her gaze unflinchingly as he'd divested himself of every st.i.tch of clothing.

His boldness had sent s.h.i.+vers through her body. Not just over her skin, but everywhere, into her stomach and her s.e.x, even her soul. That s.h.i.+vering had been nothing to do with modesty, so Sarah had let her hands fall from her face and offered the same honesty he was offering her.

His body was so different from hers. The same structure, perhaps, but a different architecture altogether. Straight planes where her body curved, texture where she was smooth. And, of course, his s.e.x...proudly exposed while hers hid itself in shyness.

Though, as she'd looked him over from head to toe, her s.e.x had felt decidedly less shy than it had in days past. She'd even dared to run a quizzical finger down his shaft...and back up. He had held still, like granite despite the shocking heat that emanated from his flesh. Her courage had seen her through one more touch, a slower slide of her fingers down his length, a quick caress of the tight t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es beneath. Then she'd dropped her hand, nodded, and tossed back the bedsheets to invite him in.

Smiling at the bright morning sunlight that stole over those very sheets, Sarah sighed with joy. A little of the strangeness of her life had washed away during the night. Her husband's body now seemed a mystery to be explored with enthusiasm. And her own body, too. James had shown her just this morning that she had many things to learn about her own flesh as well.

He'd awakened her with strokes and kisses, then entered her body from behind, like a stallion covering a mare. At the very thought of it, Sarah blushed and hid her smile. The shock of it, along with the attention of James's gentle fingers, had pushed her to her climax with scandalous speed.

Sarah Rose Hood was definitely in love with her husband.

She laughed aloud at the happy thought, then shut her mouth with a snap when footsteps hurried toward her from the dressing room.

"Good morning, ma'am," Mary said, heading straight for the curtains to throw them wide. "Shall I call for tea?"

"Please. And I should like a bath this morning."

"Of course, ma'am."

After she tugged the bellpull to signal for tea, Mary bent down to retrieve something from the floor. Sarah's thoughts flashed immediately to the packet of books she'd hidden beneath the bed, but Mary rose with evidence even more mortifying than the books. James's trousers. The maid bent once more and retrieved one of Sarah's stockings.

The trail of clothing continued to the pile heaped in the middle of the room. Sarah's corset and s.h.i.+ft. Her drawers. James's s.h.i.+rt.

Oh, G.o.d. Sarah took the easy way out and drew the sheets up to her nose as she closed her eyes and pretended to curl back into sleep for a few more moments. But instead of sleeping, she murmured a silent prayer that Mary was not the type to gossip with the maids next door. Why, they must have gone at it like beasts. And her so proper and missis.h.!.+

Not that it mattered. Sarah wouldn't take it back for the world.

Her tea arrived, and then the tub. She heard the metal thud of it being set in place in the dressing room and the first loud swish of water. James had promised they would build a bathing room next year, but Sarah felt thankful for the slow preparation this morning.

"Mary, will you knock when the bath is ready?"

Mary nodded and closed the door to the dressing room.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Sarah set the tea tray aside and jumped-naked!-from the bed to reach beneath it for the books. She wanted to know more, wanted to know everything. She scrambled back beneath the bedcovers and tore open the packaging to pull the second book from the pile. Cup of hot tea in hand, she began to read.

A quarter hour later a knock on the door relieved her from her boredom. This book was nothing like the first. In fact, the author seemed dedicated to writing a whole book on only the most boring topics of marriage. Frugal meal planning. Economic use of servants. The proper way to address one's spouse in public and private. When he finally got to the bedroom, the writer's language became so circ.u.mspect that Sarah could not begin to puzzle out his meaning.

Happy to be interrupted, she haphazardly retied the books and stowed them under the bed after pulling on the wrap Mary had left.

She sank into the hot bathwater with a deep sigh, noticing every caress of the little waves she created. Her s.e.x stung a bit at the touch of the heat. Perhaps James had used her too roughly. The delightful idea made her chuckle, and the steam jumped and stirred at her breath.

Not until later did she realize that, for the first time in her life, she'd stepped into the tub with not one moment of shame at her nudity.

She'd dressed carefully again, choosing her clothing with an eye toward the view she'd provide her husband. Then she'd tinkered with next week's menu a bit, avoiding any of the foods mentioned in that horridly practical book. She hadn't gone out on any of her usual excursions; instead, she'd waited to see if her husband would join her for luncheon.

In the end, he hadn't come. She might have sulked, but he'd sent an extravagant bouquet of flowers with an errand boy, as well as a slightly risque note of apology, so Sarah only pouted for a few minutes before deciding to make the most of it.

"Send a tray to my room!" she called to the maid sweeping the parlor and rushed up the stairs to pull a new book from the pile.

She hadn't known that James could-or would-take her from behind. She hadn't known he would put his mouth there and make her shudder and cry. What else must there be? What more could they do together? Her s.e.x felt warm and tight as she pondered the thought.

Waiting for her meal-and squirming a bit on her chair-Sarah flipped idly through the book, hoping to find some interesting pictures. Unfortunately, this author showed more interest in charts than drawings. She crinkled her nose in disappointment as she hid the book in her skirts at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Despite her brief hope that it might be James, it was only Betsy, the kitchen maid, lugging the heavy tray. Sarah had nibbled half a piece of b.u.t.tered bread by the time the girl stopped pouring tea and puttering around. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Sarah slipped the book onto the table.

Women in Marriage: A Treatise on the Peculiar Health of Wives and Mothers.

Peculiar. Well, that might be the word to describe her.

Sarah's lips were just rising into a smile when she saw the author's name.

Dr. C. Malcolm Whitcomb.

Her lungs froze, body reacting before her brain could generate a thought. Whitcomb. Brow furrowed, she stared at the name imprinted into the cover in gold ink. The name was familiar, but why did it make her muscles tighten to the point of pain?

"Doctor Whitcomb," she said aloud, and the words left a bright trail of recognition in their wake. The bread fell from her hand, landing on the carpet with a plop.

Her mother's doctor. The very man who had treated her mother in the years before her death. He'd been an elegant man, polite and handsome, and very somberly concerned about his patient's deterioration.

The antic.i.p.ation with which Sarah had approached her reading vanished like paper tossed into a fire. In the s.p.a.ce of one short day, she'd forgotten her original purpose in acquiring the books. It hadn't been t.i.tillation or curiosity, but true fear that had driven her to that bookshop. That fear was back.

Tray of food forgotten, Sarah rose with the book in her hand and rushed to the door to lock it. This would be far more than idle reading. She curled into the large chair nearest the fireplace and opened the book.

She tried to read slowly, but the words rushed at her. Whitcomb seemed to believe that women's natural modesty often protected them from their own inherent weaknesses. Their sheltered lives provided protection and insulation from the realities of life. He theorized that the very delicacy that so attracted a man to clasp his wife to his bosom also left her susceptible to being traumatized by that attention.

A woman is not a s.e.xual creature. The scabbard is designed only to embrace the sword, not to take action. The wife receives the husband's attentions because she was made to do so, not because she is compelled by desire. But her delicate psyche, previously innocent of all idea of l.u.s.t and copulation, can be damaged by this male a.s.sault. She cannot make sense of it. It holds no meaning for her. And so, if already predisposed to pitiful weakness, her brain may suffer peculiar maladies that lead to mental destruction.

Pitiful weakness? She hoped that wasn't true, but the rest of it...The rest of it made her hands tremble. Marital relations had been strange and startling to her, even frightening in the beginning. She certainly hadn't been compelled by desire.

Sarah glanced at the bellpull, tempted to call for a gla.s.s of sherry to steel her nerves against the rest of it. But she was already putting on an odd show for the servants. They might be inclined to report to her husband if she began drinking wine in the middle of the afternoon.

After taking one long, deep breath, Sarah bent her head back to the book. She read quickly, emotionlessly. Pages and pages of information.

According to Doctor Whitcomb, there were several different manifestations of this mental damage. Paranoia. Hypochondria. Exhaustion. Painful spasms and rictus of the birth ca.n.a.l.

Despite the terrible nature of the afflictions, Sarah began to relax. She was fine. These diseases had nothing to do with her.

But she breathed a sigh of relief too soon.

Nymphomania, the chapter heading screamed in dark script. An ungovernable desire for s.e.xual contact and congress.

Well. It was possible there was a hint of familiarity in that. Though she smiled at the thought, her amus.e.m.e.nt faded as her eyes crept over the page.

Nymphomania, sometimes known as erotomania, is the most insidious of all the feminine disorders. It begins with restlessness and creeping warmth. Insomnia. Confusion. Then the building desire for physical stimulation which becomes a preoccupation with thoughts of marital relations.

"Oh, no," Sarah breathed. "Oh, my Lord." She pressed her fingertips to her lips, hard. Nymphomania? Was that the strangeness that had been crawling under her skin for days?

Though marital relations may occasionally occur more often than once a week in a healthy relations.h.i.+p, a nymphomaniac may encourage s.e.xual congress every night, perhaps even multiple times in the same twenty-four-hour period. Morning or midnight, it makes no difference to this pitiful creature. Her obsession has nothing to do with duty or even procreation, and her affliction endangers the husband's health as well. Without the natural damper of expected wifely modesty, a man will succ.u.mb to his basest l.u.s.ts. Her insatiable demands force him to engage in unnatural acts involving alternative stimulation of the genitals as he cannot otherwise satisfy her urges.

She dropped the book, threw it, almost, so that it bounced off the wall before landing back at her feet. Despite that she could see it lying on the rug, the feel of it lingered on her fingers. Sarah rubbed her hand against her skirts, desperate to remove the phantom stain.

Unnatural acts. Yes, she had done that, had tempted her husband into it. Not only that, but she had reached her climax three times in the s.p.a.ce of a few short hours. She was insatiable. What had seemed so pleasurable now seemed fraught with danger.

What did it mean? If this was her illness, could it be cured? Would it worsen?

Heart pounding, she stared at the blue cover as if the cloth had suddenly begun to ripple with dark life. Her symptoms were laid out so clearly, so vividly. Whatever else she would read seemed certain to be just as true. The very reason she needed to read more, and yet her hand would not obey the order to reach down and grasp the book.

"Do not be so cowardly," Sarah whispered to herself. But it seemed as if her marriage-indeed her whole life-might hang in the balance, teetering on the delicate edge of one page in a book. "Coward," she said again but still could not lean down. Instead, she leapt to her feet and began to pace.

There was no reason to think this particular physician was right where others were wrong. Hadn't she just read a book a.s.serting that women should feel pleasure and desire? Indeed, that author claimed that female climax was necessary for conception and marital harmony. She'd stopped feeling ill about her desires after that. In fact, just moments ago she'd been happy.

Sarah scrubbed her hands over her face, hoping the pressure would rub away her confusion, but nothing changed. Nothing but the s.h.i.+fting view of the rug as she paced back and forth.

Yes, this doctor had treated her mother, and perhaps that lent his words a certain weight, but her mother hadn't improved. She'd declined. Dr. Whitcomb was no demiG.o.d.

Sarah stopped and turned slowly toward the book. She stared it down.

She'd deceived James into this marriage. She owed him at least the courage to discover if her deception had been harmless...or horrendous.

CHAPTER 5.

Figures rushed past her, dark ma.s.ses in the gloomy light. The fog thickened around her, viscous, putrid-gray as cold porridge. Sarah pushed through it, nearly running, darting through the packs of people making their way toward home or market or their favorite tavern. Her maid called out in alarm, and Sarah slowed her pace to allow the girl to catch up.

"Ma'am," Betsy panted. "Is something wrong?"

There was nothing about this trip that called for an illiterate companion, but Sarah felt secure with Betsy now, as if the maid were part of keeping this secret safe.

She didn't bother answering the question, just waved at her to move faster.

Sarah's father and stepmother lived nearly a mile from her new home, but despite the weather, Sarah had been determined to walk. The idea of being shut in a hack in creeping traffic had made her hands tremble.

Too many words were crawling through her, too many terrors. The condition is most often hereditary.... Weakness leading to hysteria...slow descent into lunacy...confinement to an inst.i.tution...

Sarah pressed her handkerchief to her mouth to cover her quiet sob. If she had inherited her mother's disease, then she'd cursed James to misery. Her father had lived through it, but had lost so much of himself in the process. She could remember him in her early childhood, still garrulous and cheerful. But each month had added a new crease to his once-smooth brow. Each year had darkened his eyes. In the end...in the end, his grief had been more like hatred for his wife.

They had never once spoken of Sarah's mother after her death. She did not expect he would speak of it now, but perhaps he had talked with his new wife about it. Not likely, but perhaps.

Finally, she reached her old street. She started to turn the corner, but made herself pause and wait for Betsy to catch up again. Without giving the girl time to slow her breath, Sarah rushed on. "You may rest in the kitchen while I take tea with my stepmother," she said over her shoulder. The girl's red cheeks wobbled when she nodded.

"Wait!" she cried when Sarah put her foot on the first step.

Sarah was so startled that she actually stopped, providing Betsy the time to rush past her and clank the knocker herself. Here was a girl with ambitions and the determination to do things right. Before her descent into madness, Sarah would have to remember to recommend her for promotion.

She actually managed a smile for that morbid thought just before the door swung open.

"Mrs. Hood!" the butler cried with far too much unseemly fondness when he spied her. But Sarah was supremely grateful for the show of affection.

"MacNeal, it is so good to see you. Is my stepmother in? I am sorry for not sending word, but I was in the neighborhood, you see, and..."

"Let's just see if she's receiving," he offered with a wink as he waved them in. But he didn't have to check after all, as Lorelei rushed out of the drawing room at just that moment.

"Oh, Sarah! What a lovely surprise. I've just poured myself a cup of tea. Will you join me?"

"I'm not intruding?"

"Of course not," her stepmother laughed, motioning her forward.

It was still strange to think of her as a mother. Lorelei was only seven years older than Sarah and had been married to Sarah's father for a mere five months.

Still, Sarah liked Lorelei. How could she not? Her warm smile bloomed with an ease that bespoke her kindness. Her eyes shone with calm joy. There was no doubt in Sarah's mind why her father had chosen this new bride after so many years. Sarah couldn't imagine anyone less inclined to melancholia or instability.

"We must have you and James over for dinner soon," Lorelei chattered as she took a seat. "I daresay it's been two weeks since we've seen you."

"It's my fault, of course. I keep meaning to have a small dinner party. I promise to speak with Cook as soon as I get home."

Lorelei handed her a cup of tea, already sweetened with two lumps of sugar just as Sarah liked it. "Forgetful? Why, don't tell me you're feeling ill in the mornings as well?" Her eyes darted quickly to Sarah's middle.

"Oh, no!" she protested. "Not at all."

A moment pa.s.sed. Lorelei's smile blossomed. Her cheeks went pink. "I am!" she suddenly blurted out. "I mean...that is to say that I am feeling unwell in the mornings!"