Anne spoke of so many things—poetic musings on her garden and the golden shore, her own piquant interpretation of the local Four Winds gossip, her girlhood memories and the plentiful anecdotes she had from her teaching career, lovely, romantic paeans to him and their young marriage, so many things that he could hardly fault her for not speaking at all of certain things. She had been raised by Marilla, a virtual Vestal virgin, and had always had such fine sensibilities, such lofty ideals; Gilbert hadn't been surprised when she said little, if anything, about their intimacy. But he was taken aback to discover that though she would not speak of it, she was well aware of his response to her. She was not a flirt, never had been, and a man could hardly consider his wife a coquette if she glanced at him with her lashes lowered or offered him the ruddy rose from her sash. But she'd made a study of him it would seem, turned all the attention she had scattered before among her friends and students, her letters home and her eager search for kindred spirits, all to him; if she added a few other interests—Captain Jim's rollicking stories, nurturing poor Leslie who was starved for true companionship—it hardly lessened her wifely attention to him.
That was the only way to explain why she had retired a little earlier every night for the past fortnight while he finished an article in the latest issue of Orthopaedia or simply gazed at the driftwood in the hearth, its orange and violet aurora a transient glory before it burned down to embers and why he found her in their room, her hair still artfully dressed but Anne herself wearing only her corset and chemise- why she looked over her shoulder, winsome and unexpectedly provocative, and asked him to help with her laces. The first few weeks they were married he had been overwhelmed by being free to embrace her fully, he could not have said that he preferred any one caress over any other—everything was liberal delight and astonishment. But he had discovered, as she must have as well, that he had a particular…fondness for the sleek shell of her corset and the contrast with her soft skin, the elegant line it imposed on her lovely form, its utter femininity, embroidered with rosebuds, strung with pale blue ribbon, the froth of lace around the edge and the enticing silk laces that his hands wanted always to loosen. To slip his hands beneath the boned silk and feel the lush warmth of her, watch her grey eyes become smoky and all that glorious hair yet to fall…
He couldn't have imagined he would feel so for his Anne-girl but she'd seen it before he had, even if she wouldn't say one word about it other than to ask simply for his help. It occurred to him, later in the night when she was nestled in his arms, the corset shed untidily with all the other underclothes, that she had been wearing stays for years and hadn't had someone to unlace her every night. He'd asked, "How did you…deal with undressing, your corset? Before we married?" and she had laughed, a wonderful, low laugh he felt sure was saved for him and said, "Oh Gil, I managed by myself, all those little hooks, you know…but I'd far rather manage with you. If it's not too much an imposition for my dear, tired man?" and there had been nothing left to say that was not better managed with a kiss to her sweet, teasing mouth while she laced her fingers through his hair, across his shoulders, wherever she could reach.