He never undresses to make love to her, afraid of what she'll find beneath the dress suit. He will unbutton his trousers as needed, but they will stay on as much as possible, quickly pulled up again when finished. And if he is in his long nightshirt, he also wraps himself in his dressing gown. His face is quite disgusting enough. He could not bear to see her horror of the rest of him.
She has grown used to his being dressed in their intimate moments. She is long-familiar now with the brush of his trousers against her hips as he kneels over her, the crinkle of his shirt as she claws to get under it, the struggle to kiss his neck and his collarbone with his collar getting in the way. (He dispenses with the cravat only because she pulled it off him the first time, but with that exception he remains in full evening dress. As for the mask, she told him from the outset that she would not permit that.) And she wouldn't mind, not really, because she adores how dashing he looks in evening dress, but just once, just once she would like to feel his skin against hers as he enters her, would like to press herself against him without the barrier of cloth and be able to kiss him and run her hands over him. Such a simple desire, really. Surely every other wife gets to do it, and she cannot be a true living wife until she does so.
He kisses her neck softly, slowly, eyes drooping closed with oncoming sleep. He has shifted his weight so that, sated, he lies on top of her without hurting her, mumbling soft, incomprehensible words against her skin about how beautiful she is, and how marvellous, and how much he loves her. (She knows them because the formula varies little from one time to the next.) Of course, he is already buttoned up again, the sheets pulled up to his shoulders. One hand lies entwined in her curls, stroking them softly between thumb and forefinger.
She understands his fears, has read them in him. She knows how very afraid he is of her rejecting him should she see beneath his clothes. But she is married to him, and she has learned to love him (and loves him very much, now, unwilling to see a life without him, without his touch and without his voice, and, yes without his mood swings and face too) and she will not reject him, whatever scars and distortion she finds. If he could only see that her words truly are sincere, not mere platitudes.
His murmured words fade into silence, sleep overtaking him and she sighs, inclining her head to press a soft kiss to his forehead. Her poor, dear husband. What must she do to make him see?