Thank you Aussie Girl for aussifying this fic!


Lucien fell to the mattress beside Jean, fighting for his breath. She could only giggle with what little energy that she had left. As she rarely giggled, she chalked this up to the release of pent-up tension. Which made her giggle more. His deep chuckles joined her.

One blue eye peeped at her from the depths of his pillow. "Bloody hell, woman, we should have done this ages ago."

She pretended to be perturbed at his use of profanity but was more put out to find that she somehow still had one stocking on. As she struggled to remove it and tried to find her way under the bedcovers, she noticed her brassiere had landed atop the bedside lamp like something from a Hollywood sex romp. When she settled her head on the pillow, a few remaining hairpins poked her skull. She carelessly tossed them onto the bedside table, feeling very decadent.

Lucien joined her under the bedding, hurling a stray sock in the general direction of the laundry basket, and laughed again. He sounded joyful in a way that Jean had never heard before from him.

"Really, Lucien," she said severely, needing to be watchful that he didn't get out of control too soon after their wedding.

He didn't look the least bit contrite.

Tugging the sheet over her bare breasts, she ran her palm along his sweat-sheened shoulder. "It was rather nice, wasn't it," she conceded. She gave his arm a squeeze. Everything had happened so quickly that she really hadn't gotten a good look at her freshly-minted husband in a state of undress and now it seemed too late to ask for a viewing.

Lucien had insisted on carrying her over the threshold, despite her protests that they were too old for this, and it was their long-time home, hardly a honeymoon cottage. A quick kiss once they were inside, she still cradled in his arms, had become an intense, frantic kiss, and then the bedroom was just a turn to the left...

Earlier in the day, she'd set out a bottle of champagne and an ice bucket on the kitchen table, hung her lovely new negligee in the bedroom, and put his new gown and pyjamas in the bathroom for him to change as well. But in truth, the whole script as she read it sounded terrifying. Two people, intimate in all ways but one, to dress in their costumes and take to the stage for the last scene before the final act... Count on Lucien to just cut right to to the chase, as it were.

In the darkness of the bedroom, it was simple to lose her uncertainty—what did he want and expect, what did she need and envision—and just let nature take its course. Clothing roughly shed, until enough skin was exposed to make them both sigh in relief. It was going to be alright...Falling on the bed in a tangle of limbs, mouths finding that skin, giving heat to the chill, suckling away gooseflesh and nervous twitches, grumbles of displease when there was still undergarments in the way. Her leg around his waist, welcoming the invasion, her heel finding the cleft between his flexing haunches, pushing him on, even as the pressure was overwhelming, a bit painful after all these years. And the thought; this man will never simply shut it will he, as he babbled nonsense and endearments, one being the other... And the other thought; it's been so long. For everything; love and pleasure and need and this sort of joy and it's him, it's finally, completely him—

He broke through her silly thoughts by snorting into the pillow. "The first day," he repeated. He pulled her into a deep kiss. Kissing like this was still new and delicious, like his first taste of lychee. When their lips finally eased apart, he returned to the topic: "The very first day we met. Instead of fussing at you, I should have dragged you off to your bedroom—"

Her raised eyebrow stopped him cold.

He quickly amended his statement: "To the registry office, then to your bedroom."

She shook her head and patted his cheek affectionately. "No, dear. I wouldn't have had you." He laughed outright, but she was serious. "This is the right time. We were two different people before."

His grin faded, and he nodded. "Yes, we're the right people now."

He burrowed his nose into the crook of her neck. She smelled so wonderful. He thought he'd had her scent memorised, but now, this close, he identified previously unknown notes. The smell of sex mingled in like lazily wafting smoke rising from a dying fire.

She shifted to nestle their bodies as closely together as pieces of a puzzle. His skin was surprisingly soft...she pressed her lips to the tip of his collarbone and snuggled closer still. She was drifting off when he spoke again. "I still would have had you. I can say this now, since I'm fairly certain that you won't throw me over for being a complete drongo, having just discovered my previously unknown stellar qualities—" he said smugly.

She sighed and forced her eyes open to meet his humour-filled gaze. One spot of lovemaking and he had become truly insufferable.

"—but I was very pleasantly shocked to find my father's devoted housekeeper was in fact, a looker."

That woke her up. "Oh please," she said.

"I'm simply speaking as a man, Jean. Don't hold it against me."

"You thought I was a prude and prig. You had no interest in me, even in that way."

He conceded her point by saying, "I immediately saw you were not some cheeky maid to chase around the kitchen," but added, "doesn't mean that I couldn't admire your pert bum."

That earned him a slap to his own flank. "Ow," he moaned plaintively. He rearranged the blankets to shield himself from future attacks. The truth hurt, after all. "The combination of repression and a tight skirt is damn sexy. Hasn't anyone ever told you that?"

She only grumbled and tugged some blanket back for herself. He waited, but her eyelashes fluttered shut again.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Well, what?" Her eyes remained closed. Although she would not ever compare the first husband to the second out loud, she was finding new appreciation for Christopher's habit of falling right to sleep afterwards. The wedding preparations had taken weeks, and she'd hardly slept at all the night before, then the day had been a complete whirl, capped off by this...she was suddenly exhausted.

He nibbled lazily at her jawline. "Surely I made some sort of first impression."

Her eyes snapped open; her gaze was level when it met his. "You reminded me of a wild dog." All this talk of sweeping her off to bed...He'd been a skittish shadow in the dim halls, only the whites of his eyes glistening at her. As if that would seduce any woman!

He wasn't offended. A slow smile spread on his face. "And you're one to take in strays, aren't you?"

This time he was ready for the blow, and captured her hand, pulling her over on top of him with easy strength. Jean was going to have to get used to that as well. Years spent standing on her own two feet, finding her balance when she stumbled, it was a shock knowing that he could lift her lightly as if she was one of his mother's flakes of gold.

He snapped on the bedside lamp. She'd get her peek now. Arms spread wide, he lay out below her. Selfishly, she kept the sheet clutched to her chest as she rose upright, balanced on his thighs. She took her time, following her gaze with her fingertips, tracing from this throat, over his wide pectorals and lightly down his ribs, careful not to tickle him. He only watched, his fists clenched in tension. She needed to bare herself too, but she didn't release the sheet.

She'd never confessed the very first time that she'd laid eyes upon Lucien. Perhaps this was the right moment. She'd started telling him a dozen time before the wedding and embarrassment overcame her every time. Then it felt too late and not worth the trouble. Now it was exactly the right moment.

"I saw you, when you came to visit your father. Before going off to school in Edinburgh," she whispered.

"That bloody visit," he groaned, rubbing his hand across his brow. "To be that uncomfortable every moment, and knowing I had to deal with Monica before I left, only to take the coward's way out...I'm afraid that I don't remember any lovely girl—"

She laughed, feeling a bit braver. "I was a little runt of a thing. I hadn't hit my growth spurt yet. My mother had hired me out to Dr Blake to make some pocket money for school clothes. He'd wanted everything spick and span for your visit."

The reproach in her voice appeared to go unnoticed by Lucien. He only asked casually, "So you saw me about the house."

She gulped. "In a manner of speaking."

He raised his eyebrows, waiting expectantly.

She was mortified now that the moment of truth was upon her. Rushing about this grand house, both impatient to be done so she could bury her nose in a novel from the doctor's shelves and intrigued by all the fantastic objects in its rooms, so unlike the simple farmhouses that she knew. She'd been told that Lucien Blake would be home at some point this week, and this had been a source of excitement for Dr Blake. In her usual headstrong fashion, she'd darted into the son's bedroom without checking to see if it was occupied.

Someone was. A long, lean male body was draped across the narrow boy's bed, deep in a nap. He wore nothing but a pair of snug white underpants. The window was open to bring in a breeze on the warm summer day. Despite having two older brothers, Jean had never seen anything like him before. His skin was smooth and golden, his limbs sleek as a cat. Honey-coloured curls drooped over his brow. His throat was a lovely arch as his head lolled, and his square jaw and high cheekbones were like a film star to her young imagination.

He had shifted in his sleep and Jean swallowed a squeak. His hand slid along his belly and she couldn't stop watching its course toward the waistband of his shorts. Something was moving under the fabric and he gave a deep sigh. Even as she'd wheeled on her heel and fled, Jean would mark that moment as when she became aware of boys.

"Wait, there was a hired girl named Jeanie, but she couldn't be you—"

Jean was relieved that her confession would go untold. "Why not?"

"She was tiny! This little sprite, dashing around, slowing down barely long enough to run a duster over anything. Truly, you weren't doing much." His grin earned him yet another light swat.

"I told you. I had a growth spurt later."

His hand ran up her long calf, plucking at the edge of the sheet that she clutched. "And I'm forever grateful."

Jean also remembered looming over Mei Lin and feeling clumsy around the much smaller and delicate woman. She sighed.

The next time she'd seen him in a state of undress, he'd only been back in Ballarat a few days. Jean had been in the sunroom, checking the tubers that she had nestled in damp moss. One was leafing out nicely. While potting up the newly sprouted begonia, she heard a thundering axe fall start coming from the backyard. It was not the day that Joe Potter came to do her heavy yard work. Curious, she wiped her hands on her apron and stepped out of the sunroom. Following the sound, she came around the woodshed, and discovered Lucien Blake chopping on a log. And more shockingly, he was stripped down to a sweat-soaked singlet.

She turned her back to him. "Dr Blake, what are you doing?" she asked, addressing the nearest gum tree.

The axe fell silent. "I'd say what does it look like I'm doing, but you aren't watching me."

"We have a man who comes in and splits the logs for firewood. You don't need to do that."

"I want to do it." His petulance was wearing on her nerves.

"Fine. I'll get you some water then. You'll have a thirst in this heat."

She returned shortly with a tray, ice water in a pitcher, and two glasses. She was feeling a bit parched too. This time she forced herself to look upon Lucien. She'd previously noticed that his build was heavier than most men and had assumed it was the usual middle-aged spread. Now she saw it was something else entirely. His limbs were thick with muscle, supported on wide bones. She blinked slowly to keep from fluttering her eyelashes. This was the last thing that she'd expect from a learned physician.

As such, he wasn't particularly good at chopping wood, but he struck the log as if a man possessed.

"Dr Blake." He didn't respond. She was sharper. "Dr Blake!"

He swung the axe high above his head and slammed it into the chopping block. Wiping his hands on his singlet, he approached. Now she forced her eyes to not blink at all. She hadn't noticed his hands until this moment. They weren't like Thomas's, which were soft and always clean. His knuckles were sharp, the backs of his hands corded with thick veins. She dragged her gaze up to his eyes and was immediately worried. His eyes were glazed, as though he wasn't really there.

She held out a filled glass. "Drink slowly now."

He flicked a smile at her. "Thanks." Leaning against the side of the shed, he tucked his free hand under his other arm. This made his bicep bulge and his chest broaden even wider, stretching the damp cotton of his undershirt.

Jean released one shaky breath. "So."

"Yes?"

"As I said, this really isn't necessary—"

"It'll save Dad money for me to chop the wood."

"Joe is working off his bill. His wife had a difficult birth with her last."

"Is there something else he can do around here?"

"He prunes the trees—"

"Good. I don't like to prune."

She frowned. He spoke just like the son of the manor.

"You could hurt yourself doing this," she pointed out.

"It's a risk I'll take."

She tried to explain: "But there's no need—"

"There is. I need to do this."

She couldn't stop herself. "Why?"

He drained his glass with deep gulps. She watched his thick throat work the water down and sipped her own water so rapidly that she nearly choked. She thought he wasn't going to reply but then spoke, low and fast: "When I came out of the camp, I weighed ninety-two pounds. I was able to walk through the gates, because I'd promised myself that I would when we were freed, but I collapsed a dozen yards out. A Pommie soldier had to carry me like a baby to the medics." His voice was flat and unemotional. Jean fought tears. "I swore that I'd never be that weak again. Never."

He put the empty glass down and returned to the axe. The conversation was obviously finished.

Steadying herself by grasping the tree for support, then Jean retrieved his glass, filled it again and left it on a gate post for him. She headed back to the sunroom to finish her planting but couldn't stop seeing the tall, painfully thin man who'd wandered the streets of Ballarat shortly after the war had ended. Everyone had whispered that it was Lucien Blake, but spotting him through the grocer's window, she wouldn't have known him. Only the blue eyes, huge on his gaunt face, gave the stamp of a Blake. His blond hair cropped close, like brittle grass broken short. His beard was as if dust had settled on his cheeks. His hands were much too large for his long arms hanging off wide shoulders.

He'd drifted around town until one day he was just gone. Thomas Blake had let it be known that his son, once his health had returned, had gone walkabout. He'd made it sound like a short absence, but in another couple years, Jean would come to work for the doctor, and more years would pass with no return until now.

In the dim bedroom, Jean continued exploring Lucien's shoulders and chest with a light touch. She was the investigator now. "Perhaps you caught my eye," she conceded. Under her fingerpads, she found ridges and indentations denoting old scars. Barely visible, they were sinking back into his skin. This pleased her. Every day, he was healing. She was also happy to see his body thickening and plumping up. She was feeding him well. The lean wild dog, his ribs showing under that sweaty singlet, was becoming fat and satisfied.

Lucien teased at the hem of the sheet before slipping his hands beneath it and up her legs.

"Surely, you're not—" She gave a quick glance downward. A shadow retained Lucien's modesty but she could still tell...or could she? Perhaps each man's body worked differently and she shouldn't expect Lucien to be like Christopher. Despite having two children, she felt nearly as inexperienced as a virgin bride. One man was so...singular. She suddenly wished that she had friends with more varied backgrounds than her own.

"Not yet," he said easily, as his hands continued their slow journey. "You've wrung me out like one of your tubs of washing."

Truth be told, he was glad to not have the distraction of arousal. He could truly explore his bride and try to regain some control. The evening had not gone as he'd played it out numerous times in his mind leading up to the wedding—and that had made it all the more overwhelming to have been carried away, or rather, find himself carrying her straight into the bedroom.

He'd wanted to learn her body as he was now. The weight of her breasts perfectly balancing in his palms. To test her reactions; her slight gasp as his thumbs rolled her nipples. The vision of her biting her lower lip; her pupils widening. Still she clung to the sheet but he didn't mind. The sense of the forbidden, even with a gold ring on her hand glistening in the dim light.

She was a stranger. Her neat hairstyle now a tangle of curls around her flushed cheeks. Her bright lipstick long since worn off by kisses, the traces in a loose smudge around her mouth. The look in her eyes...gone was the guarded expression which had been their constant mirror image for years. It was now...confidence. She knew what power she'd gained over him.

The corner of his mouth quirked. For years, he'd used others' desires and needs to his advantage to gain necessary information. He'd travelled down dank alleys where men rutted on prostitutes and ignored them. Brothels were convenient places to meet informants. No one remembered faces there. His own passions were something to be suppressed. And he was a married man searching for his wife.

In the mining town, there had been two types of women; the wives, or the prostitutes and loose women in the pubs. Those women were his patients, never to be seen in any other way.

He supposed men like Patrick Tyneman, who only saw women as those sort of objects to be used, would say about Lucien what they'd said about Thomas Blake, that he was led around by his dick. Laughing, he could only think there were worse things in life, and pitied Patrick for not knowing that.

"What?" Jean asked breathlessly, pulling the sheet up to her throat.

In honesty, he said, "I was thinking how happy you've made me."

She did her familiar eyeroll and he decided to try and crack her control. his hands left her breasts and smoothed across her stomach. He circled her belly button with his thumb and watched her carefully for any sign of unease. Instead, she raised her chin and squared her shoulders, a common gesture for her, but now it made his breathing rush. The gauntlet had been tossed down; one of her white calfskin gloves. His hands travelled lower, circling towards the apex of her thighs.

He won and lost the showdown. Just as his fingertips touched damp curls, she grasped his wrist. Flopping over, she snuggled under his chin. He could feel the heat of her blush against his neck. Although he had been pleased to find Jean quite enthusiastic, it seemed that he would still have to introduce her to some of the more adventurous possibilities. Not an unpleasant chore in the least...

"I can make you happy too, Jean. No need for me to play as well."

"I'd rather play together. More fun that way." Drowsy once more, she suggested, "There's always going to sleep."

"Can't."

Breaking her new rule already, she told him, "You know, other men drop right off to sleep afterwards."

He kissed the top of her head. "Have trouble sleeping. And now there's this distraction lying beside me."

"Try."

"You could tell me a bedtime story."

"It's been too long since I had bad little boys. I don't remember any." She pulled the blanket under their chins, trying to give him a hint.

"Tell me the story of how we met when I came back to Ballarat for the last time," he suggested.

"You were there," she pointed out.

"We were two different people, remember?"

She sighed.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

That got her attention. She propped herself up on her elbow. He smirked but didn't speak.

"Well?" she demanded.

~ end Chapter One