Lessons in Pleasure (7 page)

She did not feel hysterical. She hadn’t felt deranged even as he asked those awful questions. And though she wanted to be home, she did not feel as if she might crawl into bed and stay there for days, crying and sleeping and staring at the ceiling as her mother had once done.

The doctor’s hands on her body had felt wrong, wrong, wrong. But when James touched her, it felt real and good.

Was she sick, as Dr. Whitcomb suggested, or was she normal, as the other book seemed to imply?

Sarah moved to wipe a tear from her eye, and realized her cheeks were wet with them. She wanted to talk to James, tell him her worries, but because of her own dishonesty, she could say nothing. He would hate her if she told him. How could he not? At the very least he would watch her always with a wary eye, wondering if she might descend into madness at any moment.

Despite her desperate need to be home, when the carriage stopped, Sarah held her breath. She swiped both hands across her cheeks. She could not pass the servants like this. She needed to calm down.

The door snapped open. “Home, madam.”

She made herself take his gloved hand—
calm, calm
—and stepped heavily to the street. She held herself straight as an arrow as she climbed the steps to her house and opened the door. She maintained her calm facade until she saw that she and Crawford were not alone in the entry. James stood frozen in mid-pace, eyes narrowed at her.

“Sarah, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

“James!”
Oh, no. Oh, God. Why was he home?

“You told no one where you’d gone and didn’t even take a maid with you!”

“I . . .” She stepped back, away from her husband.

He stepped closer. “My God, Sarah. Have you been crying?”

She’d have to tell him the truth: that she’d lied, that she’d endangered him and any future children. That she was a disturbed woman.

Sarah felt the world receding, turning gray and then black at the edges. Lights sparkled in the middle of her vision. She could see James mouthing her name as he rushed forward, but couldn’t hear the sound of it.

Sarah Rose Hood was fainting for the first time in her life, and she was supremely grateful for the opportunity.

* * *

“Sarah!” He held his wife tight to his body in an awkward grasp. “Call for the doctor, Crawford.” She began to slide down, so he scooped her up and hurried into the parlor to lay her on the settee. “Sarah, darling, wake up, please.”

She didn’t stir. Her lips were pale against the alarming white of her face. At least her forehead was cool, though he didn’t like the clammy feel of it. He touched her all over—her shoulders and chest, her arms and belly and legs—as if he could sense any injury just by the feel of her.

When he saw her torn skirt, he stared at it, struck dumb with horror. Surely she hadn’t been attacked?

To make up for the day before, he’d come home in the middle of the day expecting another quiet luncheon with his bride. Instead he’d spent a half hour pacing the hall, trying to figure out where the hell she could have gone without even a maid as an escort. He’d been frightened and angry. And sadly, even suspicious. Just two days before he’d come home and found her gone, and when she’d returned she’d behaved so strangely.

Damn it, what the hell was going on?

“Sarah,” he tried again, and this time her eyelids stirred. “Sarah!”

Her eyes blinked open, brown eyes darker than ever against her pallid skin as they slowly focused on his face.

“Sarah, are you hurt?”

Eyes growing wider still, she shook her head.

“I’ve sent for the doctor. He should be here any moment.”

“No!” She threw her hands to the cushions beneath her and pushed up. “No, please don’t.”

“You’re unwell. You need—”

“I’m fine. I promise. I wasn’t ill, only frightened.”

He rocked back on his heels. “Frightened of
what,
Sarah?”

Her mouth closed, literally snapping shut.

“Of
me
?”

“No, of course not.”

“Did someone hurt you? Your skirt is torn.”

She looked down and brushed at the blackened fabric. She brushed and brushed until he realized she was crying. “No one has hurt me,” she sobbed. “I am fine.”

James collapsed onto the seat beside her and pulled her to his chest. “You must tell me what is wrong before I go mad, Sarah. Please, you’re scaring me.”

Nodding, she sniffed into his jacket. “I’ll tell you. I must. I should never have hidden it from you in the first place. Only call off the doctor, please, and I’ll tell you the truth.”

Reeling at her words—what could they mean?—James nodded and went to speak with Crawford before shutting the parlor door. He stood there for a moment, head bowed, hand pressed to the door, and tried to calm his heart. What had she done? Could there possibly be another man? Some secret love she’d have preferred to marry eight weeks ago?

If so . . . if so, James would murder him and toss his body into the river. Or perhaps just have him pressed into Her Majesty’s navy. Yes, that would be a more reasonable solution. And then he’d convince Sarah that she could love him just as well as this other man.

He heard her rise and walk toward him, and turned to meet her gaze. As he watched, she put her shoulders back and straightened her spine. She would have looked regal if not for her torn skirt and disheveled hair. Instead, she looked even more vulnerable.

“There’s something I should have told you before we married, James.”

Christ.
Whatever terrible thing she was about to say, he wanted to stop her.

She nodded as if he’d spoken. “I should have told you and now I cannot live with it.”

“Go on,” he ground out.

“I . . . My mother was not a well woman.”

James blinked. “Pardon?”

“My mother. She was ill for many years before she died.” She paused to take a deep, shaky breath. “And there’s a possibility I could have inherited her illness.”

He cocked his head, totally confused. “Her illness? Sarah, have you been unwell? Does this have to do with your headaches?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. My mother . . . You must understand, it went on for years. It was quite mild at first. I saw her doctor today, and he says I’m exhibiting some of her symptoms.” Her fingers twisted her skirts.

“I don’t understand. Are you speaking of something other than your mother’s lunacy?”

Sarah drew back as if he’d slapped her. Her face faded to the colorless white it had been only moments before. “What?”

James reached for her elbow. “Why don’t you sit down?” Actually, he needed to sit down himself. This had nothing to do with her loving another man, and his knees wanted him to drop down and say a quick prayer of thanks.

But she didn’t move toward the chair, she only looked down at his hand and then back at his face. “You
knew
?”

“About your mother? Of course.”

“But how?”

“Your father told me when I asked for your hand.”

“You knew she was mad? You knew she took her own life?”

“Yes.” When she only gaped up at him, he touched her cheek, stroking the line of the bone beneath. “And I’m sorry for it. You were so young. It must have broken your heart.”

“But . . . but I thought you didn’t know. I thought I should have told you.”

“Well, I have never revealed how my father died. Apoplexy, by the way.”

“James,” she gasped. “You knew? And you still married me?”

“What in the world have you been thinking? And you still haven’t explained what happened today.”

“As I said, I went to see my mother’s doctor.” She finally headed toward the chairs nearest the fireplace and James followed gratefully. He needed to sit down.

“I’ve been worried,” she continued. “And I found a book written by Doctor Whitcomb. It detailed some of my symptoms—”

“What symptoms?”

Her cheeks flamed to scarlet at the question. “I’ve been recently overcome with . . . feelings and . . . urges.”

“Urges?”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed,” she added in a rush.

“Your urges?” His mind finally latched on to an impossible thought. “Ah, Sarah? Are you speaking of our recent lovemaking?”

“Yes! I don’t wish to speak of it, James, but you have seen the changes. Doctor Whitcomb says it is one of the first signs of hysteria. I don’t want to go mad, James. You have no idea the destruction it brings. He is willing to treat me, but—”

“Sarah, stop! You are not mad. You are the most serene person I know.”

“But I do not feel serene!” she cried. “I feel restless and hot and
hungry,
and it only gets worse every day! Doctor Whitcomb says that treatment will help me to control these thoughts, but—”

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered, finally dropping into a chair, unable to wait a moment longer for her to be seated.

“Oh, James, I never ever meant to—”

“A doctor actually means to treat you for wanting to make love with your husband? Perhaps you
are
mad.”

“James!”

“Did he hurt you?”

Sarah shook her head. “Who?”

“The doctor. Did he hurt you or frighten you or—”

“No!” Sarah interrupted. “I only went to ask him a few questions. There was a quick examination, and . . . but I never should have kept this from you. If I become like my mother . . .”

“Come here.”

She frowned at his firm tone.

“Come here, Sarah.”

“Why?” Though she’d started off so vulnerable, Sarah now looked angry and strong as she took only one step closer to him.

As soon as she was within reach, James snagged her waist. She struggled when he pulled her to his lap, and James’s body appreciated the fight.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “This is serious.”

He wrapped his arms around her to keep her still. “Hush. Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you?”

She glared at him. “No.”

“Have I never told you?”

“No.”

“It was at the Worthings’ party, do you remember? And before I saw you, I was thinking, ‘My God, Beatrice Worthing has a terrifically bad singing voice.’ But when she finished that song,
you
were there, Sarah. My first glimpse of such a lovely stranger. You clapped as you approached Beatrice, smiling as if she’d just performed a beautiful aria. And I heard you ask if she knew your very favorite song in the world. I noticed, because I thought you
were
mad, volunteering your favorite song to be butchered.

“But then she began to sing, and I realized what you had done.”

“What?” Sarah breathed.

He stroked her back. “You had given her a song in a lower key, in her natural voice, and it was almost lovely. You saved her from humiliating herself.”

She shook her head.

“And I watched you smiling over Beatrice as she sang, and something in my heart twisted so hard I thought everyone must have noticed. But the evening went on; everyone else was unchanged, but I was a different man.”

Her face turned up to him, eyes swimming with shock.

“I thought in that one moment that I might love you, Sarah.”

“You did?” When she blinked, two fat tears escaped and slipped down her face.

“I did. But that is very near an insult. I didn’t know you. We had not even been introduced. I knew nothing of your quick mind and sly sense of humor. I had no idea that you were kind not only to your friends but also to strangers, even those beneath your notice. I could not know that your shyness would slowly blossom into this fascinating passion.

“And I could not have known that you held such foolish bravery in your quiet soul. That hint of a feeling I had was a shadow compared to how I feel for you now, love.”

“But . . . the doctor. My mother.”

“Nonsense. You are as steady and lovely as the moon. When your father explained the circumstances, he made a point of saying that you had never shown any of your mother’s tendencies to be melodramatic and overemotional, but I did not need to be told that.”

“But it was so clear when I read the book . . .”

“Come. Let’s see it.” He could see obstinacy creeping back into her face, so he simply stood and set her on her feet. “Where is it?”

Five minutes later, he was staring, slack jawed, at the unbelievable nonsense that had been tormenting his poor wife. “This is ridiculous!”

Sarah stopped her pacing and set her jaw. “How could you know that? I have experienced
everything
listed there. Who are you to say that it doesn’t signify?”

“I . . .” There was no decent way to broach this subject. “I do not wish to offend you.”

She threw her hands in the air. “That is the least of my worries, James!”

Damn.
“All right . . . before I knew you . . . That is . . . I had, um,
experiences.
With other women. Just a few.”

Her expression didn’t budge.

“They all enjoyed themselves. They all experienced pleasure, Sarah. That is rather the point of it. Only the most worthless of men can enjoy himself without regard for his partner.”

Her jaw edged out. She crossed her arms. “But these were harlots, were they not?”

“Um . . .”
Ah, Jesus,
there was no way around this. “I am not a man who feels comfortable paying for the use of a woman’s body.”

“What does that
mean
?”

“They were not harlots. They were normal women. Respectable.”

“They could hardly have been respectable, James!”

“Sarah . . . When a woman’s husband dies or leaves her or . . . her need does not fade away, just as a man’s does not. Your body is designed to feel pleasure, and that would not change if I were to die tomorrow.”