How Blest I Am in This

by darkershade

Introducing Colonel and Mrs. Christopher Brandon. Sequel to "A Little Fall of Rain." Note: If you're expecting a proper Regency-era gentleman, a sweet and gentle wedding night, or anything even remotely resembling lying back and thinking of England...you've got the wrong Colonel.

9. My Dove, My Lamb

Chapter 9: "My Dove, My Lamb," by Phosphorescent

Author's note: Sorry it's been a while. Work has been nuts. But I'm not quite finished with the good Colonel yet. Also, guys, this...this is just pure fluff/smut. Yeah.

Christopher dozed fitfully in the carriage as they made their slow way to London, and Marianne watched him.

First he'd tried to stay awake to keep her company-suggesting that she read to him for a while, since he found it difficult to read while riding without feeling ill. But soon his tired eyes drooped off, and his breathing deepened. He startled himself awake when the carriage went over a bump, blinked, and apologized to her for falling asleep, before immediately closing his eyes again and going right back to it.

It was difficult for him, being so tall, to become comfortable. He first stretched out his long legs and perched his feet on the bench opposite him, next to Marianne, and she took his stockinged feet in her hands and caressed them lazily, another part of him she delighted in getting to know. But then, when he woke again, he rubbed his neck at the pain of cramping it up like that. Marianne realized: He wasn't used to riding inside the carriage; he was used to riding alongside it, on horseback. He was, obviously too exhausted from their long evening to ride all day; and, she noted, he was probably staying in the carriage so he could spend more time with her. It was...dear God, it was adorable. The way his mouth fell into a pout when he slept, making him look boyish and innocent; the way his hair, freed of his hat, was lusciously tousled; the way he snuggled up into the warmth of the old army blanket he'd taken from his saddlebag, like a security blanket-these were adorable, too. Most precious of all was when he abandoned the hope of sleeping comfortably on the other bench, rubbed his eyes awake, and shook his head clear of drowsiness-and then noticed that she'd snuck onto his bench, wrapping her arms around him and leaning him down into her lap. He smiled a little, rested his head on her legs, and curled up next to her while she stroked his hair. Sleep once again took him and didn't leave him for a couple of hours, when they broke for luncheon at a village inn with which Brandon was familiar. By this time, she had dozed off too, and was awakened with a start by her husband, who placed kisses against her neck and underneath her ear, whispering to her that they'd be stopping.

Bundled up in all their coats and wraps, Brandon and Marianne emerged from the carriage and said farewell to their driver as he unloaded their luggage. From here to London and beyond, they'd take hired carriages. They'd made the decision to travel servant-less-it was cumbersome to travel with a large party, Brandon had argued, so if Marianne was sure she didn't mind utilizing the maids made available to her at the inns at which they'd stop, they'd do without for a while.

Brandon took his new wife's gloved hand in his arm and guided her into a bustling room warmed by two crackling fireplaces, luckily finding an empty table next to one of them and pulling out her chair for her before going up to the bar to order their luncheon, along with two glasses of mulled wine. Jackson, the barkeep, greeted him as he made his way from behind the door leading to the kitchen. "Colonel! It's not been so very long at all! Didn't you come through just a couple of weeks ago?"

"I did. I stopped here as I rode back from Town. I was making preparations for my wedding."

"Ah. And it went off?"

"Yes; my wife and I are travelling through London en route to our honeymoon on the Continent."

"Bad time of year for travelling."

"She insisted," Brandon grinned.

"She likes adventure?"

"Apparently."

"And cold?"

Brandon laughed. "Apparently."

"But I suppose you'll find plenty of opportunity to keep her warm?"

Brandon cocked an eyebrow and took a sip of the mulled wine that was proffered to him.

Jackson pressed on. "I'll never believe you, of all people, are married. I thought you were holding on to being a bachelor forever. It gave the rest of us old married chaps some hope. Where is she, anyway? You leave her in the carriage?"

"No, my wife…"

Brandon felt a hand against the small of his back. "Is right here," Marianne supplied. She held out her hand and offered a handshake, the kind of frank, modern gesture of friendship across gender lines that made Brandon awed by her openness. "Mrs. Christopher Brandon."

Jackson sputtered, and took her offered hand. "Thomas Jackson. How do you do, Mrs. Brandon?"

Brandon smirked as she took her own drink from his hand, and walked back to their cozy table. The barkeep, he noticed, hadn't really stopped staring at her since she appeared at Brandon's side. At one point, Brandon had to duck his head behind his glass so Jackson wouldn't see him laughing, as the barkeep slopped ale down the front of his apron, distractedly casting glances at Marianne from where he stood.

"What's so diverting?" Marianne asked, as she studied the document containing their itinerary her husband had given her to peruse.

"What must it be like, I have to wonder." His eyes twinkled as he looked at her.

"What must what be like?"

"To be so completely unaware of the effect you have on people. Well, particularly on men."

"Me?" she raised an eyebrow and looked up at him. "Whatever do you mean?"

Word had obviously spread, via Jackson, that Brandon was here with his new exquisite bride. Before he could answer her, two short, brawny men wearing well-made but rather workaday clothes swaggered toward their table. "Colonel Brandon! Fancy seeing you at The Black Hare again, so soon!"

"Mr. Wimble! Mr. Green! How do you do! Dearest, Mr. Wimble is the most prestigious solicitor in the village, and his brother-in-law, Mr. Green, is the corn-factor. Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my wife, Mrs. Brandon, that was Miss Marianne Dashwood?"

And now the real reason for their sliding over to the table was made apparent. Both men stooped over so low it appeared they were bowing before royalty, and seemed to fight for the honor of being the first one to kiss her hand. Brandon's mirth was evident as he met her eyes.

"Never would we have thought that the Colonel would marry, Mrs. Brandon," Green said.

"He's always been such a dedicated bachelor!" replied Wimble. "You must have done a number on him."

"I thought for certain for a while that he would be persuaded to marry my sister," said Green.

"Little did he know that it would be me, with that honor," Wimble chuckled. "I don't suppose you'd like to trade, Colonel?"

At this, Green elbowed Wimble in the ribs, causing Wimble to laugh even louder, and Green laughed too. Marianne, alarmed, glanced at her husband, but was relieved to find him amused, not angered. She snorted.

"I certainly hope my husband will not be trading wives any time soon. I'm not quite finished with him yet."

Marianne's statement, combined with the way she placed a possessive hand on her husband's arm as it lay across the table, caused the two men to dissolve into hysterics that could only be dissipated by the presence of Jackson shooing them away and laying two steaming bowls of stew in front of the newlyweds. The brothers-in-law chortled as they walked away, Wimble shouting, "Congratulations, Colonel, and best of luck!" as he returned to his noontime ale at the bar. Jackson walked away too, walking backwards partway so he could stare wistfully at Marianne.

"Now do you see what I mean?"

Marianne waved a dismissive hand toward the men and tore into her stew. "What care I for what other men think of me, Christopher? My heart is yours."

His breath stilled in his chest. The way she had said those words-not tenderly, not romantically, but matter-of-factly-burst upon him, and he knew them to be true. Knew, beyond any reasonable doubt, that she was his. His mirth was stayed, as was the spoon that had carried a mouthful of stew halfway to his lips, as he paused to wonder at this woman whom he had striven for so arduously, so hopelessly-this woman who had suddenly but no less completely allowed herself to become in love with him.

He felt her feet childishly find his beneath the table, her ankles twining themselves around his own. He ate his stew, a small smile on his face, wordlessly worshipping her.

As they finished, Brandon summoned the smitten Jackson to send for a post chaise, only to find that it would be at least an hour before they could engage one, and wouldn't they find it more comfortable to rest in one of the inn's rooms while they waited? Brandon gave Marianne a questioning look, and she nodded her head, and it was settled, with Brandon handing Jackson some currency in payment, and Jackson handing Brandon a key and promising to knock when the chaise was ready to convey them to London. The two of them ventured up the stairs and towards the room Brandon had hired, where, he told his wife, "perhaps we can take a more productive rest than in the uncomfortable quarters of the carriage." Opening the door, Brandon, full from his meal, took off his coat and boots and immediately lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

Marianne lay next to her husband but found sleep eluding her. She was mesmerized by his face, his hands, his body, as he lay in sleep. She felt the part of her that he had awakened two nights ago stirring with desire. She bit her lip, thinking of how it was with him, his hands against her, inside her-and not just his hands.

Not wanting to awaken her husband-but knowing, somehow, that her own desire would keep her from sleep if unsated-Marianne gently eased her skirts up around her hips under the coverlet and began to stroke herself, slowly at first, but then more quickly, as she reached down to find that she was slick with desire. Her breathing quickened, and she was so enraptured in her own exploration that she didn't notice her husband come to drowsy awareness next to her; it shocked her, therefore, when she saw him raise himself up to his elbow.

"Would you like my assistance with anything, love?" he asked as she gasped, a positively ravenous look on his face.

She felt herself blushing. "I was-I just-" she stuttered. "I'm sorry."

"You were beautiful, and I didn't mean for you to stop. Please continue."

She met his eyes, then, weighing his request against all she knew about decency and humility-bit her lip-and did just what he'd asked her to. This time, knowing she had an audience, she felt a little more self-conscious-but also, in a way, even more excited.

He watched her face, the muscles twitching as she concentrated on her pleasure, and felt his heart constrict as she bit back the moan that signaled her climax, her upper body curling up off the pillow and then relaxing back onto it as she gasped for air. She looked up at him then, where he smiled lovingly down at her.

"You are so very wonderful," he said, placing a light kiss on her temple. "Thank you for letting me see that."

"You enjoyed...just watching me?"

"If you haven't noticed, I'm quite easy to please, where you're concerned." He took one of her curls in his hand and twirled it around his fingers, and then took her own hand from where it rested at the hems of her skirts around her waist and kissed it, touching his lips to the pad of each finger.

"I'm not… I don't know why you'd think that. I'm so very inexperienced."

"It's because I love you. That makes everything...so much more powerful. Every feeling, every sensation...doubled. Tripled."

"Oh." She smiled shyly. "Still, I feel there's so much left to learn. So much you could teach me."

"We'll have to learn together, then."

"Yes, I suppose we will," she replied. The look she gave him was so trusting, so beatific, that he couldn't help himself. His body came to cover hers, and he took his cheek in his big, gentle hand as he bent to kiss her fully and deeply.

The hot strength of his tongue against hers almost overpowered the sensation of his erection pressing against her through the fabric of his trousers-almost. In a flash, she realized that he would never have said anything-that he would have been content to allow her pleasure, without ever seeking his own-and that was unacceptable, so she raised her hips up to meet his, brushing against his length and causing him to whimper into her mouth-

And then, suddenly, they heard a knock at the door. "Colonel Brandon! The chaise is ready and waiting for you and Mrs. Brandon downstairs!"

He swallowed a curse and rolled over to lay by her side again, catching his breath. "Thank you, Jackson. We'll be down presently."

Brandon got to his feet, shrugging his coat back onto his shoulders and replacing his boots. As he walked to the door next to where his wife stood fixing her hair in the mirror, she said, "You know this isn't over-what we started just now?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"I don't want to let you go to sleep tonight without making certain that you've been... satisfied." She gave him a level gaze, and an almost devilish smile.

"That's a strong word you use. Satisfied," he mused, standing still while looking at their reflections together. "And unrealistic. You somehow seem to think that there will come a time when I have had my fill of you."

"Whatever do you mean?"

He grinned. "I will never be satisfied."

He opened the door and she followed him out and down the stairs, where an unfamiliar carriage was being loaded with their belongings, and she got in, the drowsiness caused by her recent climax descending upon her as she warmed her feet against the box of hot coals. It was now her turn to fall asleep against her husband's wakeful body.

For his part, the Colonel spent the remaining hours of their journey trying not to think about their interlude at the inn, his desire for her and her nearness such constant fixtures that he almost went berserk with need-if he'd been a baser man, he'd have awakened her and tried to persuade her to make love to him then and there, close proximity to the carriage driver and the unreliable carriage curtains which let in prying eyes, be damned. And as it was, he seriously considered it. Then he remembered a conversation he'd had with one John Willoughby, in which that man told him some details, hurled out in an attempt to shock him out of dueling with him, about his affair with Eliza. The thought of taking Marianne in the carriage, being no better than her former love-denying her the decency and propriety due to a respectable woman just so he could sate his lust-this thought was insupportable.

Dammit, man, where is your self-control? Three days with this woman as your wife and already you've become wild with longing, he chided himself. But he knew it was hopeless-it turned out that marriage to Marianne and frequent access to her young, smooth, energetic, consenting flesh was enough to drive him to the edge of decency, and well past the edge of reason. He picked up a book from the seat across from him, and tried to read, but was unsuccessful-feeling sick within a few minutes of beginning. As the chaise slowed down at the next post to change horses, Brandon kissed Marianne's forehead to wake her. "I think I'll ride out with the driver for a bit, love. Is that alright with you?"

"Hmm?" she pouted. "You'll be so cold."

"I think I will survive. I'm growing a bit stir crazy, and I'd like to see the scenery-and I know you'd like to sleep."

"Is it simply occupation that you want?"

"Perhaps. I can't really read in the chaise, you know."

"Yes. But actually, I'm quite awake now. Can you play cards? Or can I read to you? I'm eager to start the Kant book."

"I-I suppose we could try."

In the end, he was unable to detach himself from Marianne-despite the fact that each minute in her presence was sweet agony.

As she dealt them a game of piquet and they began to play across the bench, Brandon reflected on how little had really changed in his feelings for this woman-still, after courtship (an admittedly brief one) and the first days of marriage, he was completely enamoured of her. She was vibrant, elegant, sharp, witty, and yet soft-edged, and beautiful in so many different physical ways too, and he felt helpless to resist her. He couldn't control the way he responded to her, any more than a leaf could control its direction or speed as it was blown about by a powerful wind. He was completely defeated by her-from the moment she'd walked into his dressing room two nights ago and laid a hand against his back, even before he turned around and saw her, nearly naked and waiting for him, he was at her mercy, body and soul. As, really, he'd been from the moment he'd first heard her play.

The difference? he reflected as he made an off-hand joke about his victory at cards that caused her to expose her lily-white throat to him in laughter as she gathered up the cards again and shuffled. The difference was that now, unlike three months ago, he believed with a reasonable quantity of faith, buoyed with an even greater amount of hope, that tonight this creature would be in his bed, and that tomorrow would find her once again by his side, moving through the world alongside him as his wife.

He leaned forward in his seat and took advantage of that throat, so bare and vulnerable, placing a kiss in the hollow that caused her skin to prickle visibly. He could see the soft curves of the tops of her breasts as they peeked out from the squared neckline of her gown, and resisted the urge to kiss them, too. God, he wanted to rip her gown off of her and move his hands along every inch of her skin. He settled for taking the deck of cards from her and dealing a second hand.

At his caress, a change seemed to come over her-he saw that he had set her on edge. She took that lower lip between her teeth in concentration-damnable goddess! As he dealt cards, he asked, "What are you thinking about?"

She laughed from her throat. "A lady shouldn't confess such a thing," she purred.

"As you please." He met her eyes, his own crinkled with good humour. "If if makes you feel better, I've been thinking about it since we left the inn."

Another laugh came out in a huff of air then. "Have you?"

"As I said-I can't get enough of you."

"Do you really think you won't tire of me during this journey? We'll be together so very much."

"No-I think not." He paused as he played a card. "I think it much more likely that you will tire of me. I hope...when we are in France...I hope you will not think less of me. My family does not have the best impact upon me. I am… I become different. More guarded. More likely to find fault, and to see the evils of the world. I fear they bring out the worst in me."

"I think that is understandable, given what you've told me about them, and your history. I hope you aren't angry with me for insisting upon this detour."

"No-of course not. You were right-it is only proper for us to see them, since they were not able to be present at the wedding. Though neither of us would have wanted them there, I think."

"And it is only for a few days."

"A few days in which I would much rather have you all to myself, believe me." His eyes were serious, but she crinkled her nose at him.

"Pray, what would you do with me if you had me all to yourself for that long?"

He played along. "A gentleman oughtn't discuss such things in the presence of a lady."

"What about a man in the presence of his wife?"

"It would depend on whether or not the wife was willing."

"Oh, believe me, she is willing. Very willing." This was whispered at the lowest possible register, and the combination of the words she said and the throaty way she declared them had a pronounced influence on the way his trousers fit him. Their card game forgotten, Brandon reached gently across the bench to touch her knee, ease his hand up her thigh over her skirts, and balance his weight on one hand so he could lean over to claim her mouth in a slow, deliberately gentle but firm kiss.

After several minutes of this, he returned to his own spot on the bench, not sated, but secure in the knowledge (given the evidence of her half-lidded eyes and the distracted, frustrated look in them) that she was now just as hot and eager for him as he was for her. There was something so heady in knowing that, though he wouldn't compromise her reputation by acting on his desire just now, he could tap into hers so easily. God, she would drive him mad.

"You are astonishing, husband," she breathed.

He shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. "You are bewitched into thinking so, I fear."

"Then it is you who have bewitched me. I've always been...of a passionate nature. But this...the way you make me feel…I can't stop thinking about your hands on me."

"Then we are well matched, it would appear. For I can't seem to keep my hands off you for longer than a minute or two before I'm aching to touch you again."

"My God, I wish you would," she whispered.

"I promise, when we are in lodgings tonight… when we are fully alone…"

"Yes."

He gulped.

"Until then…" and she reached across the carriage bench and returned his kiss, feverishly, her own hand traveling up his thigh, lightly brushing his hardness and causing him to moan against her mouth, before he grabbed both of her wrists, held them with one hand behind her back, and pushed her back to pin her against the door, arms entwined behind her. The playing cards scattered all over the floor of the carriage as he scrambled to press into her, his teeth scraping against her neck and collarbone and every inch of bare flesh he could find, his free hand grabbing at a handful of her hair and tugging, not hard, but firmly.

She strangled as she attempted to hold back what he assumed would have been a loud, lengthy cry, and he got a hold of himself. Easing back from her, he chuckled as he saw the mess they'd created, and began to pick up cards and stack them neatly once again. "This is utter madness, Marianne."

"I think you are right." She laughed, too. "And to think, I used to believe that you were the most unruffled person I'd ever met."

"Until you came along and ruffled me."

"I can't believe that I could be so powerful."

"I can't believe I could ever cause you to make that noise you just made."

She giggled. They both fell into a fit of laughter, their excitement cooled for the time being, and Brandon dealt another hand. They played several before the carriage finally slowed, and they opened the curtains to see the bustling traffic of carriages and carts descending upon and exiting London. The streets became more and more cramped, the buildings taller and closer together, and soon they arrived in front of a large white edifice-their hotel.

Brandon had decided not to bother his servants with staffing Anders Grove for a single night's rest as a stopover en route to Dover, but still he said, "I do regret that I settled for an impersonal evening at another inn, rather than putting you up in the comfort of my own house. Though, truth be told, I'm thinking of selling Anders Grove now for something in St. James's."

"Whyever would you do that?" she asked, as he handed her down out of the carriage.

"I have a wife now, and I'm sure she'd like to be closer to the fashionable parts of town."

"You certainly can't think that I reflect fondly upon my time in St. James's with anything like a desire to relive it?" she asked wryly.

"No, but...I'm sure that at some point you may wish to come into Town for some shopping, or to see a play or a concert."

"Yes, perhaps. But it does not follow that I need to be in the thick of things all the time. I find that...that after all, I am a retiring sort of person."

"Three days as your husband and I've made you as dull as I am."

"Do you think it's dull if I'd prefer to spend an evening dining with my husband-perhaps playing the pianoforte, or taking a walk around the grounds-than to spend it at a fashionable house, dancing with strange men? I've had my fill of fashion, I find."

"No, you're...not dull at all. At least, the sort of evening you describe is one I'd vastly prefer, as well."

"There, then."

He kissed the nape of her neck as he walked her into the hotel. It was nearly seven, and his stomach, which hadn't had any nourishment than their luncheon, grumbled in protest of this fact. Checking in with the clerk, he asked: "The arrangements I made-are they in order?"

"All is in order, Colonel Brandon, as you've requested in your correspondence."

"What arrangements?" Marianne asked, her hand still slipped inside her husband's arm.

"Oh-I've taken the liberty of having some things delivered here to the hotel that I ordered the last time I was in Town. They'll be in our rooms. Why don't you go up and see what we have, while I have our luggage brought in and order up some supper."

Marianne disengaged herself from her husband, and did as she was asked. She availed herself of the offer of a ladies' maid, who would help her change from her traveling dress to something more presentable for supper. It was a very young girl no more than fourteen named Barbara who accompanied Marianne to the rooms she and her husband had reserved-a small sitting area with an elegant enamel-topped table and chairs, a bedroom with a great bed covered in red and gold brocade, and a dressing room complete with an ebony cheval mirror and an enormous claw-footed tub.

"Barbara, this is too much. Don't you think that all this is too much?" So many months of deprivation made Marianne see how extravagant these quarters were-much more extravagant than Delaford itself.

"Your husband must think very highly of you," the young girl said shyly, as Marianne laid her small bag down in the dressing room and allowed Barbara to begin unpinning her hair, sitting on a bench in front of the mirror.

"He...I believe that he does, yes," Marianne answered. I'm not worth all this, she thought. The younger girl began to pin her hair back up more neatly, but Marianne said, "No-leave it down. He...he likes it down."

"Does he?" Barbara was wide eyed.

"Yes," Marianne found herself blushing.

"Is it nice? Being married, ma'am?"

"Why, yes, it's...it's very nice."

"My mother says it's...it's awfully hard."

Marianne looked at the girl concernedly.

"She says to find a bloke who will do what you want him to do-that if he takes charge, he'll run you around like a dog. Is that true?"

Marianne took the girl's hand. "You ought to find someone who will listen to you, yes-but someone who will treat you as...as an equal. If you can."

"An equal?"

"I believe so." Marianne looked at all her husband's money had purchased for them-the use of these beautiful rooms; the aid of the young girl next to her-and despaired of ever being truly worthy of his love and attention. Real equality would have sprung from being able to provide for her own care, not having to depend on him. Still-and this was crucial-not once since they'd become engaged had he made her feel as if she were contributing less than her fair share, as if he regretted his choice in her, though she'd been penniless and lacked a dowry to provide for her upkeep.

Barbara escaped into the bedroom to find a fresh gown for Marianne, and produced a sound of surprise at something she found there.

"What is it?"

"These parcels from the Colonel, that I was instructed to bring upstairs today-I think they are for you."

Marianne, clad in her stays and chemise, trod into the bedroom to see what the Colonel had sent. Three large parcels wrapped in paper and twine had sat on a table by the bedroom window, unassuming. Marianne pulled at the twine on the top parcel and tore open the paper, to find a bolt of the richest, softest muslin she'd ever touched-no, it was not a bolt, it was a ready-made dress, and she held it up to her body and found that it seemed as if it had been made specially for her. It was cream-coloured and covered in dark blue flowers, with long sleeves and the most beautiful buttons at the bodice, and there was a matching sash and slippers. Hurriedly, she unwrapped the other two parcels to find a stylish dark red gown, with sleeves that would reach her elbows, trimmed in white lace, and a dark green one the colour of oak leaves at the height of summer, simple, elegant, unadorned-perfect. A note was stashed in the bottom of the last parcel in her husband's hand-

"It seemed as if you'd need a few more gowns to complete your trousseau, as your older sister overheard you complaining to Margaret that you didn't want to look like a pauper. As I have said in the past, I know little about style, and perhaps care for it even less; I simply chose fabrics I thought would complement your hair and eyes. These were entrusted to someone I think to be a well-respected dressmaker. I obtained your measurements from your mother and had these ordered for you-I hope they are to your liking, although, of course, you may have them sent back if you dislike them. Say the word and you may have new ones that are of your own choosing. With all my love-CB"

Marianne bit her lip to stay the sob that collected in her throat. So thoughtful; so tender in his regard for her. This was an expensive gift, she knew, like all the things he'd given her; and yet, he'd never alluded to the expense; instead had tried to downplay the generosity of his gifts by suggesting she might possibly find them anything less than gorgeous. She could never repay him-all she could do was love him, which, she realized once again, she did, so completely-and not because of the favours he lavished upon her like a queen, but because he did so with no thought of receiving anything from her in return. How long would he have loved her in silence, she wondered, believing her to be indifferent, if she had not stepped in and insisted that he ask for her hand? How many times would he have lain with her, heaping pleasure upon pleasure on her love-wracked body, his own urgent desire for her merely an afterthought to him?

She remembered that moment in the parlor at Delaford when her love for him fell upon her so heavily and suddenly-he was ignorant of everything going on around him but his desire to make little Charity laugh. His own playing, so flawless, so fluent, so rife with equal parts skill and feeling, was nothing to him but a tool to bring about someone else's joy. This man she had chosen to marry had given away so much love and compassion to his fellow creatures over his seven-and-thirty years that it seemed as if the well would have run dry by now, as he had seen so little love in return to help him replenish it; but even the little thing that was Charity's laughter was enough to bolster his capacity for goodwill even more. And this was nothing next to the gallant, delicate way he had courted her, never really revealing the strength and depth of his feelings but in these near-invisible moments-letters explaining, in a shy and unassuming way, what he was thinking as he purchased something to make his future wife happy; inked declarations of love scrawled across her belly in sleep; a lesson in riding a horse astride because it was something in which she'd expressed a passing fancy; a profession that he treasured the book she'd given him as much as she'd treasured his gift of fine jewels; so many more little ways in which he demonstrated to her that he believed, with every ounce of his being, that he was the lucky one.

No woman had ever been so fortunate in her choice of husband.

"Barbara?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I won't need the stays, tonight. I'm a little tired of wearing them. Would you help me unlace them? And then, I think, the new white gown, don't you?"

"No stays?"

"No-I'm not leaving our chambers this evening. I won't need them."

"Yes, ma'am."

The younger girl unlaced her, buttoned her into the new gown (which fit oddly without the undergarment Marianne was so used to, but she didn't mind), and gave the new bride her privacy. Marianne looked herself up and down in the mirror. He thinks I am beautiful, she smiled to realize. He wants me.

Just then, the door creaked open. "Wife of mine? Are you hungry?"

"Famished," she called, and she emerged into the drawing room doorway, where her husband (bless him) had entered with a servant, the two of them busily laying out a fragrant meal of roast mutton and soup and bread and wine something else-oh, wonder of wonders, it was a pot of warm, sweet chocolate. "Many thanks," the Colonel said, as the other man bowed and left the room. "We will ring if you are needed." Brandon picked up a cup and filled it with wine, raising it to his lips, and turned to see his wife.

A slow, delighted smile spread over his face to see her there, hair down, wearing the frock he'd given her-looking as lovely as he'd ever seen her while clothed. He set down his glass, strode over to where she stood, and took her hand, kissing it. "The gown is not objectionable?" he asked.

"They are all beautiful. And too much for me. You should not have done this."

"If you like them, then of course I should have. It was meant as a Christmas gift."

"I don't know how to thank you."

"Perhaps you could eat something, so I don't have to watch you nearly waste away again? That would be a wonderful way to thank me."

"I suppose that could be arranged," she smiled.

He kissed her cheek before holding out the chair for her, and then sat opposite her. The food was good, made better by the fact that both of them were hungry, and it was plentiful enough to keep them occupied for a while, though both of them were constantly drawn to thinking about how deeply each longed to embrace the other upon the soft, inviting bed. They drank the hot spiced wine, Brandon reminding Marianne about the night she'd become so drunk and had kissed him after Elinor's wedding-and confessing to her about how much it had frightened him, to think that she'd been so close to him, and that he'd been so ready to take even further advantage of their mutual intoxication-how dearly he'd wanted to throw caution to the wind that night. Their second glass of wine each found Marianne telling Brandon about the day she'd realized her attraction to him, pouring over the poems written by Wordsworth and Coleridge and hoping that perhaps he might be as passionate, secretly, as the speakers of those beautiful poems. Midway into their third glass of wine, Marianne had accidentally flung her spoon across the room during a spirited reenactment of something from Lyrical Ballads, causing her husband to dissolve into hearty laughter, and spoonless, she began to dip her finger into the still-warm pot of chocolate and lick sweet, warm, thick helpings of it off of her fingers, which, for some reason, made Brandon clear his throat and cease his laughing.

"Are you worried I'll get chocolate on my new gown?" she asked him coyly. "In which case you ought to help me take it off."

Brandon smirked, and helped her to her feet so he could unbutton her, the gown falling to the floor-and he found that she wore only a chemise underneath. The very chemise that had so entranced him two nights before.

"You like this one, I think?"

Brandon nodded dumbly. This little scrap of cotton and lace, paired with the soft-skinned, generously curved body underneath it, did more for him than could be managed by all of London's finest clothiers combined.

The alcohol was working in his system, making him not quite drunk, but just tipsy enough to feel confident in his abilities as a lover, and he growled hungrily as he spun her around in his arms, kicking the poor new frock to the side, and crushed her into him so he could kiss her thoroughly. He tasted the chocolate on her lips, but it wasn't enough. He dipped two of his own fingers into the pot so close at hand, and felt her mouth close around them as she sucked them clean. She closed her eyes as she did so, purring in satisfaction, and as he watched her he felt...dear God, he couldn't begin to describe what he felt. His heart raced to see her like this-his mind flashing with possibilities and unlikelihoods-and needless to say, he was fully aroused.

In Marianne's case, she was only just beginning to think of the myriad applications for chocolate beyond its intended purpose. She dipped her thumb in and smeared a dollop onto her husband's bottom lip, causing him to exhale in laughter as she leaned in to kiss it off of him, simultaneously untying his cravat and unbuttoning his waistcoat for him. He quickly shrugged out of his clothing as she undid the fastenings, gasping in shocked pleasure as she reached for the buttons of his trousers. She pulled at his garments until he was nearly free, pushing him into the chair and kneeling down in front of him to take off his boots, and then tugging at his open trousers around his hips to slide them off him, too.

"My goodness," the beautiful temptress who knelt at his feet murmured, and Brandon found himself incapable of speech as she took him in her hand and raised up to lean over him, her bare thigh brushing against his. "Am I the cause of this?" she asked, indicating his hardness.

"Are you planning on toying with me all evening, woman?" he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry despite all the wine he'd drunk.

"Hmm. Perhaps." She bit her bottom lip, the wheels turning in her head. Then she slid down into his lap and kissed him again, her fingers once more finding their way into the chocolate pot and tracing a geometric pattern with her sticky fingers onto his throat, lapping it up with tiny flicks of her tongue, finishing by sucking the chocolate slowly off her own fingers before dipping them into the pot again, this time creating a chocolatey smudge around his right nipple. Brandon bit back a howl as her searing tongue explored such a sensitive place, surprised but ultimately delighted at the sensation. But he grabbed her hand before she could do it again.

"What exactly is it you're doing, my love?" he whispered, kissing her chocolatey knuckles.

"Trying something. You said I could try things if I wanted to? If you're not uncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable isn't-exactly-er-that's not the word I would use."

"Think of it as...as an exercise in patience," she whispered, giving him her brightest smile.

"Oh. Oh, fuck," he whispered, biting his lip. This was what he'd both feared and hoped. She was going to torture him the same way he'd tortured her-and it was going to be the most delicious experience of his life. If only he could keep himself from going insane during the process.

"Is this something you want?" she asked, an ounce of shyness creeping into her voice.

He nodded his head and closed his eyes.

"The whole...all of what you did to me? Would you...erm...would you like me to use my mouth to please you?"

His jaw clenched as his hands grasped the armrests of the chair. "It's not necessary."

"That's not what I asked, is it?"

His eyes opened a slit, and he smiled a little through his extreme agitation. "No. No it isn't."

"Do you want me to?"

"Only if...only if you want to," he managed. He knew his voice came out squeaky and nervous, but it was out of his hands. "I haven't ever...erm. That would be new."

She raised her eyebrows. "Really? Is it-is it wrong?"

"No, I just-I never wanted to ask," he replied, and then he felt his whole body come alive against her hand as she began to stroke him gently.

"But you want it."

"I think-I-"

"You're afraid to ask for it because you think I'll find it unpleasant?"

"Or that you'll think less of me," he admitted.

"I won't." She kissed him softly and continued to caress him, and just the thought of her putting her plump, full lips and hot tongue to work in a different way was enough to make him worry he wouldn't last long enough to find out what it would feel like.

"I hope I don't hurt you," she murmured as she pulled away.

"Again, I don't...I don't think that's going to be a problem." Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult-it would be extremely unmanly if he simply fainted.

Marianne smiled at her husband and stood up, taking the chocolate pot in her hand with as much thoughtfulness as she had held the pot of ink the night before. She took her time with him, tasting his skin mingled with the sweet, spicy flavour of the chocolate, nibbling and licking her way down his torso and up his thighs, so that when she came to trace her fingers along the length of his cock, his knuckles gripping the chair were completely white and he hardly dared to move an inch.

"You know," she murmured through her teeth as she bit at the flesh of his lower abdomen, "This is a whole lot of chocolate. I find… I find that I am a bit overwhelmed by chocolate."

In his madness, this was the most amusing thing he'd ever heard. He let out all the air in his lungs and began to cackle, and she raised an eyebrow at him, waited for his laughter to die down just a little before going on the offensive-she took him gently, tentatively, into her mouth, and it winded him, his laugh turning into an outcry.

Marianne was a little clumsy about it at first, but, guided by her husband's murmurs of wonder and bliss, she learned what pleased him fairly quickly. Soon, she felt his right hand come to rest delicately on the back of her head and his fingers lace through her hair, as his hips moved almost imperceptibly in time to her attentions, his left hand holding onto the armrest still as if bracing himself against something painful.

Brandon's eyes, which had, up until now, been closed tightly in appreciation of the things his wife was doing to him, opened with a start. "Love...love, you ought to stop now."

In answer she hummed a negative response, the reverberations making his situation even more dire.

"Marianne-it's-please-you should-oh, dear God...oh!"

She didn't stop.

Catching his breath in the aftermath, he looked down at where she sat at his feet-she'd rested her head on his knee, the sweet angel, and had reached up to take his hand. His arm lay possessively along her shoulders. He leaned forward and tipped her chin up so he could look her in the eye. Her bottom lip was between her teeth, and her eyes questioned him.

"Marianne, that-that was-" he began. All he could do was shake his head in disbelief.

"Was it good?"

"So good. So, so very good."

Once he had recovered, he asked, "You alright?" She nodded. "Good. Wrap your arms around my neck," he responded, and found the strength to stand, bending down to scoop her up into his arms and carry her the twelve or so steps into the bedroom and onto the bed, where he gently deposited her.

She giggled and kicked at the air with her feet as he carried her, asking, "what are you doing?"

"I want to return the favor. And you deserve a soft pillow and mattress beneath you while I do it, for you are a princess."

She squealed as he lay her down and opened herself to him, feeling his hands push the hem of her chemise upward so he could lower his mouth onto her. "Did you want to use the chocolate?" she asked weakly.

"You taste better than chocolate," came his reply, and he didn't say another word until she'd cried out once, and then once more, with release.

He kissed his way back up her body and came to lie next to her, pulling her spent form limply over to him so her head rested against his chest. "I like honeymoons," Marianne murmured sleepily.

"Mmmm," he rumbled in the affirmative. "Marianne?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you like a bath?"

She shivered. "Yes, I think so."

"Shall I ring for some hot water?"

"That would be very welcome," she answered, and she drowsed beneath the blankets as he got up, found his night shirt and his banyan, and called for a servant to bring what he requested.

Wide-eyed little Barbara brought a pitcher of hot water half as large as she was and began to fill the deep claw-footed tub in the dressing room, adding to it the cool water from a pitcher which stood on a stand nearby, and returned a few more times to complete the process. As soon as the young girl left at last, Brandon awakened his wife gently and asked if she were ready. She stripped the delectable garment over her head, giving Brandon a view, finally, of his wife's edibly curved body, and strode over to the tub to sink herself in. "It's big enough for you, too," she said, and Brandon found himself stripping out of his clothes and joining her. She picked up the bar of fine French soap and worked it into a lather, caressing her husband's chest, back, and arms, as she kissed him gently, and soon the soap was forgotten entirely as he felt himself swelling in response to her touch, allowing her to straddle him and pull him into her, the rhythm of their bodies causing water to splash around in waves. His hands holding onto her hips for dear life, he came once again, muffling his exclamation in the soft flesh of her breast.

Marianne disentangled herself from her husband and they began to wash in earnest, feeling true sleep calling out to them. Brandon helped her wash her long hair, careful not to pull, exhausted but still full of wonder at its beauty and richness, and at the fact that it was now his to touch. The miracle of seeing the length to which her wet curls stretched-all the way down her smooth back-arrested his breath. He finished washing himself as she stepped out of the tub to dry off, and he joined her by the fireplace in the bedroom as she toweled at her hair. Eventually they found their way back into the bed, and collapsed into contented sleep.