That was the first time he'd thrown himself at her ever since the train, and for the briefest of moments she caught a glimpse of how desperately lonely he must have felt for all those years. She heard the faint click of the door handle and clung on to him ever more tightly; thank goodness she had forgotten to leave it unlocked as she'd promised earlier, and she spared a silent prayer that Potty would leave them alone.
Christopher's breath was coming out in ragged pants, and she tugged him gently towards the bed. His fingers trembled as he pushed the nightdress off her shoulders, his breath catching in his throat when she helped him out of the unbuttoned shirt and slid her hands all over his chest.
It had been so long for both of them, even more so for her husband – a man trapped in his self-imposed parade, unwilling to give up on his gentlemanly behaviour no matter how much that would cost him. Once they were done they lay side by side in the dark, her fingers craving to touch him and yet not daring to; as likely as not he was already regretting the slip in his carefully constructed self-control, and she'd better steel herself for the rejection that would inevitably come.
A sob threatened to escape from her throat, and she pressed the back of her hand on her mouth in order to silence herself. Why did they always have to tear each other to pieces, like moths burning their wings to the flame they were irresistibly attracted to?
"Sylvia," he murmured somewhat hesitantly, and she turned to face away from him.
"I know," she replied with all the dignity she could muster. "Goodnight, Christopher."
He didn't leave as she expected he would, merely shifted closer and draped a tentative arm around her waist. "Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably," she heard him whisper against her neck, and a smile crept to her lips in spite of herself.
The war would be over one day; all she could do was hope that it wouldn't be too late for the two of them.