A/N: I don't own these lovely, wonderful, life-ruining characters and no copyright infringement is intended. I write for pleasure: theirs and mine... Soon I will be drawing this story to its natural conclusion: infinite happy times behind closed doors. Thank you so much for all of the reviews and encouragement. It means so much.
Charles has come to enjoy their teasing banter. He likes that Elsie is more comfortable with the physical aspect of their marriage. He'll never forget (he could never forget) that it was she who initiated their first attempt at lovemaking. It was so tender and hesitant, so joyous, and yet he had been afraid, then (and even sometimes now) of hurting her, of frightening her with his desire. He is also embarrassed (ashamed, really) of his wants and desires. He imagines doing all sorts of things with his wife, improper things, shocking things, things he'd only ever heard about in the stables or during his brief time on the stage. He had thought those things repelled him, but now he has a curious fascination for them. Elsie is still shy of him (perhaps even of herself and this is a sobering thought that he tucks away for later) and he will not risk this tender thread between them by introducing anything lewd (or French, one and the same, he thinks darkly) into their marriage bed. It's because what they have is clean, almost holy (and if anything of the body can be holy it is this communion they share). They waited, they were patient, above reproach and now they've been rewarded. And as he looks at his wife, his Els, her face flushed from the heat of the water (and perhaps something else as well) and a curious, almost hungry look in her eyes, he thinks they've been very patient indeed.
"I could," she begins hesitantly, "I could help you wash up a bit Charles," and she reaches for the bit of cloth and soap.
He clears his throat and wills himself to speak normally. He may not be a man of the world, but he hadn't lived in a sack, for heaven's sake. He has some experience with women, and he has been married now for nearly four months. He had given considerable thought to the physical side of his relationship with Elsie in the short weeks before their marriage, but in those fantasies (and he sees now that they were fantasies; dreams that went up in flames when compared against the reality of his wife and their mutual desire) he was the patient instructor and she the willing, albeit demure, pupil. He recognizes now how foolish, how ridiculous those fantasies were. He'd had no idea of her, not really. He had known only a part of her, only the part that she had chosen to reveal to him. She had a wholly separate personality hidden beneath the layers of propriety and servitude. He should have known it, really. Hadn't he seen the difference between her upstairs persona and the downstairs reality of her? How carefully she modulated the tone of her voice when speaking with her Ladyship or the Dowager? How she had schooled her features into a semblance of placid calm when he knew, absolutely, that she was boiling inside? How arrogant to think that she hadn't hidden anything from him all those years. It saddens him to think of it, to think of the "closeness" that he had accepted between them for so long. "Well, yes, if you like." She smiles at him shyly as she soaps the rag. He tries to look anywhere but her breasts, her legs, tries to shift himself to hide his growing arousal. They are so close; the tub wasn't really meant for two people and he's easily two of her, probably more.
She scrubs his shoulders and neck, tentatively at first, then with firmer strokes. She moves to his chest and scrubs in large, smooth circles, careful to avoid the tender spots she's learned about. She is biting her bottom lip in that way she has, that way that drives him mad with desire now, because now he knows how it feels to kiss that lip, to run his tongue across it. He wants to kiss her, but he wants her to continue soaping and stroking his shoulders, his chest. She moves her hands to his abdomen and he inhales sharply. She hesitates for a moment, then continues to scrub his body with hard, firm strokes. He struggles not to groan, not to move toward her. He senses that this is something she wants to do for him, something he must accept from her, a sort of tribute, perhaps. Well, he could certainly return the favor another time and in another way, perhaps. He settles back, relaxes as much as he can into the water, and lets her carry on.
*CE*
In spite of the fortifying shot of whisky and Charles' obvious pleasure, she feels a fool, scrubbing away at him as though he's one of the hall floors. She tries to slow herself down, tries to give pleasure to him through this and tries to take pleasure from it herself. She refuses to make eye contact with him but risks a glance when she feels him relax under her hands. His eyes are closed and a strange, fey smile plays about his lips. She smiles and takes a moment to look at him. She has seen him before, of course she has, but she's never felt comfortable looking at him, looking at all of him. His broad expanse of chest, covered in thick wiry hair, his strong arms and forearms, his hands, large and thick, and yet unexpectedly gentle. She takes a furtive glance further down; she can see that he is responding to her attentions, that he is interested. A sudden desire to hold him, to stroke him takes hold of her and though she tries to ignore it, tries to concentrate merely on washing the dust and grime of travel from his body, her thoughts and her eyes continue to drift. She has touched him before, lightly, experimentally, and she wonders what might happen if she were to grasp hold of him right now. Would he be pleased? Shocked? Come on, Els. You're already in the tub with the man, for heaven's sake! Seems you can do as you like. And she reaches out for him.
*CE*
Later, much later when she is asleep in his arms in their bed, after they've made love (and the slats have been determined adequate) and, he notes with satisfaction, he has persuaded her to leave off the nightgown, he thinks of that moment in the tub. He'd settled himself back, pretending to relax for her sake (he'd known, instinctively, from the first, that he could not watch her, could not allow her to know he was watching her), enjoying the feeling of her rubbing soap into his skin, until the moment she touched him. He jerked suddenly, splashed water over the sides of the tub, and his eyes had flown open. She looked at him, uncertainty written across her face, her teeth worrying that bottom lip. He hadn't known what he should do. He knew what he wanted to do, but he'd sworn to himself he would not frighten her, would allow her to establish the boundaries of their physical relationship. He'd shown her a few things, indeed, but there was a line he'd drawn for himself, and he hadn't crossed it yet. He waited, holding his breath, to see what she might do next.
"Is this," she asked, hesitatingly, awkwardly, "is this alright?"
He nods, unable to speak. She'd held him firmly, a bit too firmly, but not uncomfortably so. He spasmed again in delight, in agitation and he stifled a groan of pleasure.
"Only I want to please you," she had said, in a halting, low voice. "I want to do for you as you've done for me."
And then he'd found his voice at last. "Oh my dear darling girl. Oh my love." His voice was weak, cracked. Something was breaking inside, another wall, perhaps. "You cannot know how much you do please me."
And he'd reached for her and she'd slithered up his body and somehow, miraculously, they'd made it out of the tub and down the hall into their bedroom. He hadn't let go of her, hadn't released her, kissed her as often as he could while still keeping an eye out for corners, doors. They'd left the bathwater, their clothes, the towels, left it all for another time. He felt so young, so strong; she made him feel strong and powerful. He pressed her down into the bedclothes and she pressed a hand against his shoulder, wordlessly asking him to turn over, to lie down on his back, and he complied, happily so.
*CE*
And now they are here again, tangled together in a silent happy heap, her sleeping soundly and he brushing light circles across her shoulder, her back. All that's missing is a disruptive knock at the door. He chuckles lightly to himself. This whole journey could be described as a disruptive knock at his door. But he's glad, more than glad, that he answered the call.