This was brought about by too much Bedroom Farce.
Almost immediately Isobel joined him under the covers, Richard let out a quiet hiss, obviously keep it under his breath, but not quite succeeding. She distinctly heard the words; "Dear God, woman!" and felt his body tense against hers. She sighed a little. This was not the first time this had happened, though it was the first time she had made out the words he uttered. She could not deny, she was starting to find it more than a little disconcerting.
"Richard, what's wrong?" she asked him.
"Nothing, my love," he answered quickly, too quickly, turning over to look at her, "Nothing at all."
"Richard."
She sighed again.
"Do you think I can't hear you?" she asked him, "I know you think you're hiding it but, my dear man, you're not. So just tell me what's the matter. Am I doing something wrong?"
"No, no my darling," he assured her, reaching out and taking hold of it, holding it to his chest, "You mustn't think that. You're not doing anything wrong."
"Well, what am I supposed to think?" she wanted to know, "It's every time we get into bed-... Well, not every time," she corrected herself, "Whenever we make love it never seems to bother you. Whatever it is. Would you prefer we slept in separate beds when we're not making love?" she asked, reluctance in her voice, but determined to offer the suggestion if that was what he wanted, "It's not like Crawley House is short of rooms," she added bravely.
"No," he replied, with consoling vehemence, lifting her hand swiftly to his lips, planting a firm kiss in her palm, "I did not marry you for us to sleep in separate beds."
"And I didn't marry you to make you unhappy like this," she told him.
"You don't make me unhappy," he replied.
"Then just tell me," she told him, "Because at the moment I'm imagining all sorts."
He took a deep breath, watching her face carefully.
"If I tell you, do you promise not to get upset?"
"Yes," she replied instantly, hoping that her heart would stand up to this promise whatever confession eventually came.
He smiled slightly, as if he knew what she was thinking.
"Alright then," he replied levelly, "Isobel, your feet are like blocks of ice."
"What?" she replied, surprised, "No they're not."
"You have the coldest feet of any woman I have ever known," he replied, "Not that there have been many," he added a little bashfully.
"Women have colder feet than men," Isobel replied, "It's a well known fact."
"I don't disagree," he told her, "But you seem rather to have taken it to extremes."
"Don't I always?" she replied, "You never complained before."
"None of your other eccentricities make me feel like I've walked out in the snow without my boots on. Quite the opposite, in fact."
She smiled warmly at him.
"You never notice my cold feet when we make love," she pointed out, an enquiring little smile on her lips.
"I have other things on my mind then," he told her quietly.
Her grin widened a touch but she swallowed it down a little, looking at him coyly.
"What?" she asked him, more quietly still, "What do you think of then?"
"Oh, I could tell you," he murmured, running his hand gently up the curve of her side, lingering slightly at her hip and her breast, "Parts of you other than your feet."
She sniffed, still smiling. His hand reached her cheek, gently drawing her towards him. He kissed her lips and she responded tenderly. After a moment they pulled apart. She looked at him carefully.
"Do my feet really bother you that much?" she asked in concern.
"They don't bother me," he told her, "Really," he continued when she raised an eyebrow, "I never meant to let you find out. I'm almost used to it, really. And they warm up a bit once you're in bed. Just, tonight they were a bit colder than usual," he told her a little sheepishly, "I got a shock."
"That's probably because I came straight up from the kitchen," she told him, "The floor gets cold at night."
They were quiet for a moment.
"I could wear bedsocks?" she suggested.
"You don't have to," he assured her, "They might be uncomfortable. I find that if I wear socks in bed I have a tendency to overheat. I only do it on very cold nights."
"Yes, but they're your hot manly feet," she reminded him wryly, "As opposed to my freezing womanly ones."
He grinned in spite of himself at her playful tone. The smile faded slowly from her face, and she examined the shoulder of his pyjamas.
"I want you to enjoy being in bed with me," she told him, "In all kinds of ways."
"Oh, darling, I do," he leant forwards, kissing her tenderly on her forehead, "You must know that?"
She nodded slightly, leaning her face against his.
"I just don't want you to freeze to death. Not for my sake."
"I'd do a lot of things for your sake," he told her quietly.
She smiled again.
"I love you," she told him.
"I love you too," he replied gently.
"Cold feet and all?" she asked him.
"Yes," he replied, leaning forwards to kiss her again, "Especially your cold feet."
His lips pressed against hers.
"Perhaps a hot water bottle?" she suggested hopefully, a moment later.
His eyes opened slowly.
"What?" he asked.
"For my feet!" she replied.
"Isobel," he murmured, smiling slightly, "You darling, darling woman."
"What?" she asked him, a little confused.
"There is a way," he told her quietly, "That we have already established to forget about your feet."
Her frown lifted immediately and she smiled too.
"Oh," she replied, "That."
Still smiling, her lips met his again and this time he did not stop kissing her.
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