PART 2: ...however stern and iron

John was nervous.

He had waited for this moment since the beginning of their engagement, nay, if he were being honest, since the night of the Thornton's dinner party, when he had been unable to keep his eyes off her, her dress all teal, and tight and temptation itself as it clung to the prettiest parts of her. It had been one of the rare occasions he had been grateful for Milton's delay in keeping up with London fashions– Fanny had insisted on wearing a dress that covered both her arms and reached to the very top of her neck, as it was currently the very thing in London. But Margaret wore last season's fashion of bare neck, shoulders, and arms. And if there were to be any more such engagements in their future as man and wife, John was determined that he would never have it any other way.

Their engagement had been trying. Though he revelled in the closeness they were allowed, that she allowed him, he was never more conscious of the disparity between them both, and of the real risk that even the slightest misstep on his part might cement his reputation in her eyes as that of a coarse northerner, with no grace or refinement about him. On more than one occasion he had had to draw back in his attentions, physically removing himself from her, in order to better compose himself in his body and also his mind. He found, after much trial and error, that picturing the image of his mill and counting the looms was helpful, as was conjuring an image, any image, of Slickson or Hamper, with their sweating, portly bellies and sour breath.

He knew she was by no means immune to his advances, but a part of himself always resented the soft, round hand that stayed his own when it wandered, as if of its own accord; or pressed gently on his breastbone as a request for space between them. Their stolen moments of intimacy, and the passion behind their embraces did nothing to satisfy his desire. On the contrary, every second he held her in his arms only served to stoke a hunger that at this point, as he paced the small chamber between their two bedrooms, had turned almost feral.

He heard a knock and the faint sound of the door opening and closing. The maid, certainly, come to divest Margaret of her wedding accoutrements. A pang of jealousy thrummed within him at the thought– in his fantasies he had been the one to help her out of her wedding gown, and to enjoy the bounty that he discovered beneath. But it was only proper, he supposed. This night would be surely a greater upheaval for her, than for him.

He took off his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, having already divested himself of his morning coat and cravat. He was barefoot, and padded his way to the wash basin, taking care to be quiet as he stepped, though he was not sure why. Pouring out a portion of water, he puzzled at the small beads of purple that fell into the bowl. Picking one up, he squashed it between his thumb and forefinger, and smiled at the scent that burst from the small ovoid. Lavender! A small gesture from his mother, he was sure of it. Margaret was not so accustomed to the scent of soot and sweat on a working man.

With a washcloth set out for that purpose, he scrubbed himself thoroughly, the cool water a welcome respite from the heat he had felt closing in on him as he paced about the small compartment. Ignoring the towel, he bent down to touch the floor before him, relishing the sharp crack in his lower back. Standing straight up once more, he stretched his arms high above his head, his fingers grazing the dark paintwork of the ceiling. He felt trapped in his body at that moment, restless. Something deep inside him, coursing through his sinews, his muscles, was hungry for release.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror above the wash basin, and for the first time in his life, wondered at what he saw. He, of course, was used to the sight– a stern face, shaded darker in its bottom half with the evening's hint of whiskers; broad muscular shoulders; long, lean arms trimmed with large hands, calloused by years of manual labour; a strong, symmetrical chest, crossed with dips and shadows where muscle met flesh, and divided in two by a smattering of coarse, dark hair that tapered out into a narrow streak down his hard, flat stomach. His legs, still covered with his trousers, were long, but thick with muscle, particularly about the thighs, and his feet, like all of his appendages, were large, and powerful. John had never given his body, particularly his unclothed body, much thought. But now he ached in hope that Margaret would not be too displeased.

His skin had dried by the time he shrugged his shirtsleeves back on, neglecting his undershirt, as the gesture was merely to avoid scaring Margaret by appearing before her gentle countenance half-nude. He didn't dare think of her body beneath her wedding garments, or how he would react to it, lest he lose control of himself before they had even begun. But as he waited, listening for the door to her chamber to open and close once again, he turned his mind once more to the questions he had pondered throughout their betrothal.

He knew Margaret was a passionate woman, there could be no doubt on that score. Her vehemence when defending her opinion, or the plight of others, nobody could deny. But she was, as his mother had not hesitated to point out to him at the very genesis of their acquaintance, a fine lady, raised gently and properly in a world of women and femininity. What could she possibly know of men, and their baser instincts? The daughter of a parson, would she regard their coming together as a mere marital duty, one to be performed for his benefit, and in the hope of children? Or would she, as he had long hoped most fervently, allow herself to become undone in his arms, and in his bed?

And what was he to do with her? To do to her? They had, god-willing, their whole lives ahead of them to acquaint their bodies with one another, but John felt acutely that this, their first coupling, would be crucial to her enthusiasm for their marriage bed in future. He had to please her, that much was sure. To make sure she too, enjoyed their joining in every inch of her body and soul. He knew it was possible, he had learned first-hand (though he was ashamed to think of it now) that a woman's pleasure in intercourse was possible, attainable even, if one knew how to go about it. But how to go about it, without scaring the girl?

He knew how to kiss her, how to gently plunder her mouth, coaxing her to open a little more to him with each caress of his lips. He knew her neck, that column of soft and fragrant skin, caused her to react to even the slightest contact. He had heard that a woman's arms, her belly, her shoulders, and other places that had most assuredly never known a man's touch, were sensitive in the extreme. He dared not think of her breasts, or her thighs. He didn't think he could withstand the thought.

Then there was that skill he had heard tell of from the continent. An unmentionable, tantalising thing the french were rumoured to do with their mouths that he didn't trust himself to think on any longer in his current state of tension. Hands, or rather a careful choreography of fingers, he recalled, could yield the most astonishing results. At his side, the fingers of his right hand began to trace small, gentle circles against the hip of his trousers– testing the memory held inside the muscles there, and indeed, much to his satisfaction, he remembered.

He could barely contain himself at the dull sound of the door opening and closing once again. He lunged at the door, then stepped back, exhaling an expletive at himself for his uncouthness. This would not do! He would have to control himself, an ability he had garnered a reputation for, though at this precise moment had no idea how such a notion had ever come to be associated with his person.

He took a deep breath before glancing once again at his reflection in the looking glass. A thought stole its way through his mind, and he postured taller, a gentle smile ghosting across his otherwise stern features:

'Here is the man who is loved by Margaret Hale.'

Happy once again in every limb, he stepped towards the bedroom, and rapped twice against the wooden door to announce his presence.

"You may come." a gentle voice replied

And so he did.

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What do we think? let me know in the comments! I'm a little out of practice, and need all the encouragement I can get!