It was late, the small hours of the morning, and a chilly one. The streets of Ballarat were deserted now, silent except for the sound of the motor.
Jean shivered in his jacket. Cold mostly, an undercurrent of longing anticipation, a wisp of fear. She could do this. She could be the doctor's wife.
The day had been near perfect: autumn sunshine, the joy of friends, her confidence and happiness. Dancing and the softest kiss, music, and the scent of him against her cheek. A hug from Charlie easing the pain she felt for those who were not there.
She sighed in relief as they approached the familiar streets near the house. Their house now. The smallest of smiles played on her lips, but he noticed, and rested his hand on her knee. The warmth through her skirt made her tremble a little, her breath catching as his thumb lazily stroked her leg.
He slowed the car, and glanced sideways, grinning at her as he depressed the clutch. Laughing, she grabbed the gear stick and pushed it into third; she had not done this since her teens, out for a spin with Christopher in his father's ute.
"Did you see Alice and Matthew leaving?" Jean asked. She raised an eyebrow and they chuckled together.
Matthew's attempt to be discreet and stay until the bride and groom had left had been thwarted by Alice. She had been completely oblivious to everything except the man next to her, who had suddenly shifted from friend to something closer in the space of one evening. She'd tugged gently at his elbow, whispered in his ear, and Jean had seen them heading for the cloakroom to retrieve their coats.
"They'll be good for each other," Lucien replied. "Good luck to them."
They drove slowly past darkened houses. Jean ruffled the edge of his beard with the back of her hand, Lucien slid his fingertips up under the satin hem of her dress, trailing on her warm thigh. To his surprise, she shifted her legs apart a little, and he heard her breath hitch again.
He braked, and grinned at her in the gloom as she worked the gear stick for him once more.
"Quite the expert driver, Mrs Blake," he teased her, but he sensed her withdraw from him. He had clearly touched a nerve. He moved his hand into safer territory.
"I'm out of practice," she murmured, "nearly thirty years."
After a silence she continued, "Christopher used to drive me home if I'd been out to his parents' farm. We'd go back the long way round, practising until we could do this without crashing the gears."
The long way round. She thought about the evenings parked under the cover of the trees on the back road, the tick of the engine cooling in the night air, and her straddling Christopher's lap, inexperienced fingers fumbling under clothes, hasty kisses and the heat of the moment...
Better not to think about that now, not on her second wedding night.
"I'm glad we've waited."
Lucien glanced at her curiously. He wouldn't ask, but not for the first time, he wondered about what sort of man Christopher had been. He turned in to the driveway and swallowed down his questions: not the moment for that.
xxxxxxxx
Jean woke, disorientated, just before dawn. She was curved, naked, tight against his bare back, her nose tucked into the crook of his neck, and her hand hung loosely across his belly. She lay and revelled in the warm smell of his skin, so familiar, but with the musky scent of sex now underlying it. No one could frown or disapprove now at her enjoying this closeness.
He was breathing slowly and deeply, and she found she did not want to wake him yet. Pressing her lips to the back of his neck, then drawing her mouth over the tiny curls there, she ghosted her hand over his belly and hip, regretting now that she had not taken the opportunity for a proper exploration earlier.
In the event, there had been no time. Standing in their new bedroom, Lucien had struggled to undo the tiny buttons on the back of her dress. He had kissed behind her ear tenderly as he started: each button slipped through the silk loops earned her a nip to the soft skin on her nape, or a nuzzle in her hair.
Her hat had been discarded on the hall table, pulled hastily free from the hairpins Rose had put in so carefully. The jacket they had shared had been cast off carelessly at the door to the studio, and his tie was tossed on the couch in front of the fireplace.
But those buttons were not so quickly dealt with. His hands had trembled with frustration and eagerness, the air filled with want, and by the time he had eased her dress away from her shoulders, all previous thoughts of going slowly and being gentle were forgotten.
Jean smiled to herself at the memory. A tender, deep kiss becoming frantic. Trying to pull off her stockings and bra whilst also attempting to unbutton Lucien's shirt. Falling laughing against the bed and rolling in together. The breathless tug in her belly as she felt his erection against her bare hip. The painful pleasure as he moved inside her, as she clung on to his back for dear life. The golden stars above their heads. Most of all the elation, crowning in a timeless, white-hot moment that had her thanking God she had made her choice.
Now in the semi-darkness she traced a fingertip over the scars on his back. She had expected them, knew he must have the marks of his captivity on him, but she was more moved than she expected by the silvery lines on his golden skin. In the coming days and weeks she would learn his body by heart, every mark and stripe, until it was as familiar to her as her own body.
She needed to use the bathroom, and a clean-up would not be out of place either. She had nothing to wrap round herself except her wedding dress, which lay too far away in an untidy heap on the floor. Naked, she padded as quietly as she could to their new bathroom, in the side room of what had been the studio.
The old chipped sink splashed with oil paint and splodges of clay had gone now, as had the stacks of old canvases and pots of hardened brushes, replaced by shining tiles and the smell of new paint. Jean considered the brand-new bath and was tempted, but running the water would wake Lucien, and he got little enough sleep as it was.
She settled for a cursory attempt with a wet towel, and then put on Lucien's Chinese dressing-gown, which was hanging on the back of the door. A faint waft of his scent surrounded her: soap and whisky and sweat. She fastened it tightly round her, pulling up the front for a moment to breathe him in.
Her feet were chilled, but she decided to light the fire rather than go straight back to bed. She crouched by the hearth, searching for the matches in the half-light, then struck one and lit the paper twists under the kindling. Leaning in, blowing on the tiny flames, she failed to hear Lucien's footsteps behind her.
His hands on her hips tugged Jean back against him, squealing, until she was sitting in his lap on the hearth rug. He kissed her shoulder through the silk.
"Stealing my clothes, now?" he asked, but as she started to explain, he laughed. "It looks much better on you. Keep it."
She settled her cheek against his, rubbing against his beard absent-mindedly, staring into the flames now catching on the logs. The glow from the fire highlighted the colour of his skin, and she turned in his lap for a closer inspection.
He was completely naked and more beautiful than she had expected. She had felt his solid arms and shoulders through his clothes before, but seeing him like this was startling. Flickering light moved over his chest, and Jean glanced down at his belly, at the only scar she had seen before tonight. Her chest contracted painfully at the memory. Life was so fragile and she must not lose him now.
Almost before she realised it, she had her lips against his chest. His skin was soft, unexpectedly smooth, with just a few light hairs. Her hand stroked circles on his belly, broader now after two years of proper meals and a fondness for her sponge cakes, and she felt a perverse pride in that handful of pliant flesh.
The rest of him was hard muscle and bone, as she continued to explore, digging her fingers into his hips, smoothing over his thighs, her thumb softly stroking the crease between belly and leg. She pushed him gently down and straddled his legs, hand on his breast bone and gaze everywhere. Trying to fix this man in her mind; hers now, and she his.
He watched her, half-smiling, content, in no hurry at all. His hands on her waist, he did not even take off her robe. Why would he rush, when they had all the time in the world now? If it weren't for the twitch of his arousal between them, she might have thought he were sated.
But when she leaned in for a kiss, he moaned deep into her mouth and tugged the tie of the robe loose. His tongue teased her lips as his hands sought out her breasts, feeling for her nipples with his thumbs while his palms slid over the softest skin, humming in delight.
She grinned against his mouth, raking her hands through his hair, then stroking his temples with her fingertips As their kisses deepened, each graze across her breasts sent shocks downward, and she shimmied against his pelvis.
They broke apart, panting, laughing, and he swept the dressing gown off her shoulders.
"You are so beautiful," he said, and in that moment she believed him.
"So you said," she replied, and the firelight glittered in her eyes.
The right time. And he lifted her up a little, trying to find a good angle; an awkward moment of newness, and Jean grasping him suddenly, stroking experimentally, guiding just there, both of them gasping, and then sighs of relief, amusement even, as Lucien buried himself deep inside her again.
And then a pause, breath gone, until he felt her relax around him. Hips jerking up into her, uncontrolled, then a fight to steady himself and go slowly.
At last, they found their way; delicate fingertips seeking, rolling, circling her clit. Soft wetness holding him tight, so every movement was blissful torture, and he was urging her on, trying to hold back.
In her heart something cracked, and she yielded. For so long she had made do with mere release, her own fingers knowing just where to go, how to move, her mind shying away from guilty longings for this man. Now she could let him please her, let him find sensations she had forgotten or never known. Now she could give him all of her, and she gave it freely.
A cascade of bright pleasure rolled slowly across her from the pulse between them, and she distantly heard herself call his name, unrestrained and joyous.
Her cry thrilled him. He had made Jean Beazley - no, Jean Blake - lose control, as she messily ground against him and collapsed. His pride was brief; soon he felt the familiar surge of warmth crown, and then the bliss and sense of loss that followed.
Jean lay across his chest as he softened inside her, and he wrapped his arms around her, stroking his hands down her back, murmuring soothing noises against her ear. Eventually he stirred.
"Jean, my darling. Should we be being more careful?"
She nuzzled into his neck, not wanting to think about that now.
"I was all prepared, and then...twice...we didn't," he continued, "and I don't know what you want."
Jean rolled off him and away.
"I'm cold again," she grumbled. "Let's get back into bed."
She avoided his gaze and any answers until they were lying spooned together with the blankets pulled up high.
"I don't know what I want," she said, eyes closed to shut out the dawn light. "It's probably too late anyway, even if neither of us have needed the pine bark yet." Her attempt to turn this into banter faltered. He had already heard the pain in her voice.
"Would you have liked a daughter, Jean? It may not be too late..." He felt her stiffen in his arms, and his heart sank. She didn't want this.
"I had a daughter, Lucien." Now it was her turn to feel him tense. "She was born too soon, too small. She was the reason Christopher and I got married in a hurry."
All the memories she had fought to keep away for years crowded back in. Pain, and fear, and too much blood, and finally a tiny girl, red-grey and limp, but perfect, filling her two cupped hands.
And then Christopher carrying her to the car, and then, much later, seeing the bloodstain on the wooden boards of the kitchen floor which would never quite scrub out; and if she were honest, Jean didn't want to scrub it out, because that was the only mark her daughter had left for others to see.
She rolled over to face Lucien, her hand on his chest. She was not ready to tell him everything yet, and for once he knew it was better not to speak.
"I don't know what I want," she repeated. She trailed her fingers down his cheek, running them through his beard. "I think I want to have whatever we're given, whether that's each other, or a baby as well."
He nodded, and kissed her cheek gently.
"We've a honeymoon to start to find out," he whispered against her hair, into the loose curls beside her ear, and he pulled her closer in.