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Overly romantic.
She did not know how to reconcile the soft romance of books she had read with what seemed to exist between herself and Briggs. Last night he had done things to her that she had not been aware existed. Exactly as he had done to her in the garden here only two days earlier.
He was teaching her, without ever saying so, that there was a dimension of life she was not conversant in, and she desperately wished to be. But he had promised that she would be so. After this.
After tonight.
The thought made her nearly wild with nerves.
It was also somewhat pleasing.
She did wish that Eleanor was here. She would like very much to speak to her. To warn her about the sorts of intimacies that men like to take. Eleanor would be shocked.
For the first time in quite some time, she thought of Penny. Her friend who had been engaged at one time to Hugh.
Had her Highlander done these things to her? That strange group who had carried her off?
Penny, by all accounts, was happy. At least, she had indicated as such in her letters, when she had arranged for them to find help for a young Scottish girl called Mairi. Hugh had generously provided a reference for her to get into a very good school. Even though he was not ever going to forgive Penny for what he viewed as a transgression, he would not pass on any sort of harm to an innocent girl.
And once he had heard of Mairi’s plight, of the violation she had endured that had left her with child...
She sat there, stunned for a moment.
She had been left with child by a man who had... Taken something from her.
She had only vaguely understood these things, and her brother’s fury. But now she understood slightly better. She had wanted everything that Briggs had done to her, and she wanted to get more. One thing that was evident when he held her was his strength. And how greatly it overpowered her own. How easily.
If a man wished to force his attentions on a woman, there would be nothing she could do to stop it. How terrifying. How utterly horrible to have such intimacies taken when you were not desirous of the touch.
Oh, yes, she was discovering new pieces of the world.
She looked out at the pile of pastries, and the great brick of butter on the platter.
She smiled as she thought of Briggs.
He was... He was not gentle. It was what she enjoyed about his touch. It made her feel strong. He did not treat her as if she was breakable. When she was in his arms, she felt like a warrior. Like what she had always longed to feel like. But he was purposeful. Never once did she feel as if he might push her beyond that which she could stand. He seemed a man innately in touch with her limits. She trusted him implicitly.
* * *
When she had finished eating, her maid came into the room and told her that His Grace had requested she have a bath.
There were new scented oils to put in the water, and she luxuriated in them for a long moment, until she emerged soft and smelling like a rose garden. She was perfumed down beneath the first layer of her skin, and there was something about it that thrilled her. Because Briggs was preparing her for his touch. And she wondered... Would he strip her completely bare tonight? Press his body against hers. Would he be...?
She had yet to see him naked, and she wished greatly to do so. She had thought him beautiful all these many years, and to see the promise of all that beauty fulfilled...
It was a prospect that sent a thrill of need straight down between her thighs. She did not enjoy feeling cosseted, not usually. Because she associated it with being put away. Kept cloistered in her childhood bedroom.
This was different. She was being exceedingly pampered, but it was in aid of being presented to him tonight. And so she allowed herself to revel in it in a way she never had.
She took her lunch on the terrace that overlooked the garden, the solitude beginning to press in on her. And she wondered when he would arrive to speak with her.
She did not fully realise when she began to understand. That this too was part of it. This anticipation that he built. The way that he positioned her, so that she spent these many hours wondering when he would appear, and exactly what would happen. The way that she obeyed him, even though nothing was stopping her from going wandering through the house and searching for him.
It was practice. For tonight. For the ways that she would need to obey. Because as he had said earlier, if she could not trust him in these sorts of things, then she would never trust him enough for the two of them to engage in greater intimacies.
She read, and lounged, and found indulgence in the act. Did not feel like a prisoner. Rather, she felt like royalty. She tried to see to her usual tasks. Spent some time with William and coaxed conversation from him about the sights he had liked best so far in London.
And all the while the anticipation built, excitement twisting her stomach, and also firing up that space between her legs.
