Page 62 of When We Touch

“No more champagne. I think I’ve had quite enough.”

He buried his head against her abdomen, his hands coming around her ankles, sliding up around her calves to her kneecaps and her thighs. She gritted her teeth in misery, remembering that she had chosen this path, that he was a good man, that she had known exactly what being a wife meant.

“I’m not sure I’ve had enough,” she whispered.

“You’re nervous, my dear? When you know that I adore you beyond life itself?”

She nodded. His hands against her flesh felt as dry as his lips.

“One more glass!” she whispered.

Again, he lifted her. This time, his hands against her bare waist. The sheer gown rose, then fell as her feet touched the ground and she scampered across the floor. She was tempted to grab the champagne bottle and drink straight from it.

She retrieved her glass instead. Charles had kept his distance. He was still just staring at her. She realized, with the light of the fire behind her, she might as well be wearing nothing.

A swallow finished off the glass of champagne.

“Come here, my love,” Charles said.

“The lights! The gaslights, the candles . . . I’ll put them out.”

“No,” he told her. “No . . . come here.”

She walked back across the floor to him. She hated herself. She felt as if she were walking to her own execution.

He put up a hand, and she stopped, puzzled.

“Slip from the gown,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Slip it from your shoulders. Untie the little white ribbon at the nape, and let it fall to the floor.”

Maggie inhaled. “I’d actually be far more comfortable if . . .”

“Please, Maggie. I am besotted with your exquisite beauty. Allow me my enjoyment of it.” Then his voice changed, ever so slightly. “Come, Maggie. We both know that you are a woman of some experience. And now, you are my wife.”

Yes, she was his wife, and the reminder was a very firm one.

“Maggie . . . the gown.”

A simple enough request. She had married him. And yet, she suddenly felt more deeply shamed than she had in the whole of her life.

More like a . . .

Whore.

She wasn’t sure that she could have felt worse if she’d been working the filthy, trash-lined streets in the East End.

“Maggie . . . slowly, please. Very slowly. And turn about for me as you do it.”

She swallowed hard and pulled the ribbon, turning about.

“Let it come off your shoulders as you turn back to me. Now . . . let it fall to the ground.”

Mortified, she let the gown fall to the floor. She blinked then, as he gave her another command. Walk . . . across the room, back again. Crawl onto the bed, turn, position herself, do it all slowly . . . slowly, rise again, come to him.

The sound of his voice was suddenly horrible to her. Despite herself, she was nearly in tears. She had been convinced that he would be the kindest man in the world. She was beginning to feel that he was . . . sick! Lecherous as they came . . .