Page 60 of To Swoon and to Spar
Belatedly, he wondered if deflowering one’s wife against a wall was perhaps not quite how it was done in polite circles. No doubt he should have laid Jane down upon a bed covered in rose petals and solicitously inquired as to her comfort and enjoyment at every turn. But the truth was, Penvale didn’t particularly like the smell of roses, and Jane herself had not seemed to have any complaints about the arrangement.
He frowned. Maybe he ought to ask her, just to be certain. It seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do, even if it was a bit belated.
“Jane,” he said slowly, his gaze fixed on the door; before setting off, Jane had ducked back into the morning room to seize a lamp, whichnow lit their way, but it was still very dark in here, and Penvale wasn’t able to make out much beyond the shallow pool of light that the lamp provided. “Are you… all right?”
“What do you mean?” Jane’s voice was a bit cautious, guarded, and—acting on some instinct that he didn’t entirely understand but which he was oddly certain was the correct one—Penvale carefully did not look at her as he spoke.
“I mean—earlier. What we did in your morning room. Was it… all right?”
“Did I not make that clear enough?” Jane sounded vaguely annoyed, because of course she did. Before Penvale could hasten to reassure her, she added, “Am I expected to wander around in a daze afterward, bumping into furniture with a dreamy faraway look in my eye, so that you are assured of your manly prowess?”
“No,” Penvale said, dangerously close to laughter. He hadn’t intended to irritate her, for once, and yet he could not help but enjoy the result all the same. “I merely meant to ensure that you weren’t uncomfortable, considering we—” Here, he broke off. Paused to consider the polite way to phrase such a thing. Then, unable to think of one, he finished: “—tupped against a wall.”
He glanced sideways in time to see Jane arch a cool brow. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“No,” Penvale said, quite fervently. “It just occurs to me that it perhaps wasn’t the most appropriate spot, since it was your first time.”
Jane placed a firm hand on his arm. He turned to her in the flickering lamplight and saw that she looked impatient. Her brow was faintly furrowed, a crease appearing between her eyes, and he resisted the temptation to reach out with his thumb and smooth away that crease.
“I’ve just told you that I enjoyed it,” she said, a hand on her hips.
“You didn’t, actually,” Penvale felt compelled to point out. “Not in so many words, at least.”
Jane waved an impatient hand. “Fine. I liked it. I can see what all the fuss in the books was about.”
Penvale paused. “You truly read books aboutthat?” He recalled that she had mentioned as much that day in the library, when they’d kissed in the armchair, but he had not stopped to fully consider all the implications.
“Penvale.” Jane’s voice had slid into outright exasperation. “Do you see how much time I spend reading? Don’t you think I would find something else to do if the books weren’t about somethinginteresting?”
“I… I suppose so.” He was familiar enough with the salacious volumes that made their way around the bedchambers of Eton and Oxford, but he hadn’t thought to wonder whether ladies were reading these, too. Though, considering the ladies he was closely acquainted with—none of whom were precisely shrinking violets—he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.
But still—where the devil had she acquired such a thing? It wasn’t as though there were purveyors of pornographic texts out in the middle of the Cornish countryside. He said as much aloud, and his interest was piqued further when Jane looked a bit furtive.
“Well,” she said; in the dim light, Penvale couldn’t quite tell, but he thought her color was a bit high. “It turns out that the library here at Trethwick Abbey is… extensive.”
Penvale regarded her with renewed interest. “There are illicit books in the library?”
Jane rolled her eyes eloquently. “Oh, of coursethiswill be what convinces you to spend more time in the library. But yes… someone, at some point, amassed quite a collection. It was, naturally, hidden rathercleverly behind a row of horribly dull books on bridge-building—” Here, she cast him a narrow look. “The sort of thingyouwould find fascinating, no doubt, but which any other sane person would skip right past. I was making a careful inspection of the entire collection last winter, as I hadn’t much else to do, and I discovered them. And…” Here, she trailed off; Penvale gave her what he hoped was an encouraging look, but that caused her to gaze at him suspiciously. After a moment, she continued.
“Well, there are certain volumes that I am fond of, by an authoress who identifies herself only as ‘A Lady of Ill Repute.’ They’ve proved most illuminating.” Her voice took on a distinctly appreciative tone, and she shook her head as if to clear it. “The point is, I liked what we did. I don’t know much about the act, barring what I’ve read, but I don’t believe there are any rules regarding where, specifically, such activities must take place. So I don’t understand why you’ve gone all prim and scandalized just because we made use of the wall that was so readily available.”
Penvale was near laughter. He wondered what marriage would have been like if he’d married someone else—some sweet, blushing bride who would come quietly to the marital bed in a nightgown of pristine white lace, who would lie beneath him, performing her wifely duty, and in short order proceed to produce a few children as souvenirs of these activities.
The vision held no appeal for him whatsoever—not when compared with the very real memory of Jane’s gasps in his ear as his hand worked between her legs, her arm in a tight grip around his neck. He surreptitiously adjusted his breeches and sternly willed that memory away, as it was not terribly helpful at the moment.
“I was going to say that I thought it might have been moreappropriate to do it in a bed for the first time—foryourfirst time,” he said. “So I might have been assured of your comfort. It’s often not very enjoyable for ladies at first, I understand.”
“We seem to have avoided that difficulty, so you may cease your fretting,” Jane said, making Penvale feel more like an anxious maiden aunt than he would have thought possible. “But if it will soothe you, we can try a bed next time. I suppose a change of scenery might keep things interesting.”
And with that, she turned and took two steps toward the door before reaching out and turning a small bronze doorknob, pushing the door firmly forward.
Which was how, moments later, Penvale found himself standing in his very own study.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know this staircase was here,” he said, feeling vaguely indignant.
“If you had spectacles, perhaps you might have,” Jane said coolly, brushing off her skirts in businesslike fashion.
Penvale ignored this, turning in a slow circle. The entrance from the passage was just wide enough for a person of average build, though high enough that Penvale did not have to duck—and it was part of the bookshelves themselves, he saw. It was no wonder he’d never discovered this entrance as a boy; he certainly would have been punished if he’d been found crawling around the bookcases. His father had always impressed upon him the importance of the work that took place within this room—he’d been very firm on the matter, Penvale recalled. He’d made Penvale understand, from a young age, that the care and keeping of Trethwick Abbey and all its surrounding lands was a heavy responsibility, and one that should not be taken lightly.
