Archive of Our Own ^beta

Anthony doesn’t mean to go searching for the rider.

It’s not something he consciously chooses to do. He doesn’t actively think that pursuing strange women on horseback around the parks of London is gentlemanly behaviour. But somehow, he finds himself circling the long way around that line of hedges to look for her anyway.

He can’t rightly say why he is set on looking for her. It’s perhaps simply a matter of instinct, of being drawn to find any woman who rides so confidently and has such a fine figure. Or perhaps it’s a matter of his concern for her, his fear that she might have a mishap if she keeps riding so boldly.

When he does at last find her, it’s his concern which wins out over his attraction to her - just barely. For he finds her standing and leaning against a tree, eyes closed, evidently oblivious to his approach.

She looks every bit as beautiful as he expected she would, and yet rather more vulnerable than he likes a young woman out alone to be. He wouldn’t want his sisters to be in such a situation, he finds.

He hops from his horse and sets to dealing with the situation as a young gentleman should.

“Should you not be enjoying your victory lap?” He asks her, all teasing and robust.

That gets her attention and no mistake. Or - he has her attention, somehow, whether he’s achieved it by leaping from his horse at her side or by asking her that warm question.

She opens her eyes, frowns at him, murmurs something he can’t even begin to understand. It sounds like another language, he thinks - but not the French or Italian his sisters sometimes learn.

“I tell you - I find it surprising that you’re standing here and not riding off into the morning.” He adds, now. “Perhaps you mean to do the decent thing and ensure you haven’t such an ample head-start this time?” He asks, gestures to their two horses as if to suggest that they might keep riding.

Truly - why the devil is she standing here looking sorry for herself, when she ought to be enjoying the day?

“Apologies, sir. I did not mean to cause anyone concern.” She says - and yet says it robustly, not meekly.

Good. That’s better. That’s a certain step in the right direction, he hopes, and away from leaning silently against a tree.

“Does your maid know you have been riding astride?” He asks, perhaps thinking to find out why she’s out here all alone.

“I have no maid.”

“Ah - then you are married?”

She shoots him a sharp look. “I’m a widow, in fact.”

Hmm.

He’s not entirely sure he believes her.

“My condolences.” He tries, eyes narrowed. “I must admit I’m surprised at your answer. I thought I was acquainted with every comely young widow in Mayfair.”

She throws him a look at that, all fire and disdain.

He can’t entirely make sense of her, he finds. He can’t decide whether she’s tired and overwrought, and that’s why she’s leaning against a tree, or whether she’s as attracted to him as he is to her, and that’s why she’s making eyes at him like that.

It’s a damn confusing situation. He’s known plenty of other comely young Mayfair widows, in his time, and they certainly haven’t stirred him up quite like this.

He clears his throat, tries for a modicum of sense.

“Madam -” He manages, and then grinds to a halt.

“Sir.” She matches him, lips twitching.

Ah. She’s definitely making eyes at him, now. That’s definitely what’s occurring here. Indeed - her gaze seems fixed on his mouth, as far as he can tell, and he knows what that means. This isn’t the first time he has met a comely young widow and seen her look at him like this.

And yet - sir. That’s what she called him, not Lord Bridgerton. She doesn’t know who he is.

She doesn’t know who he is.

Of all the young widows he’s fucked in his time, he has never yet had one who didn’t know his name and title. Indeed - this lady must be the first person who has ever liked him without knowing he’s a viscount.

Well, then. That settles it.

He throws himself at her without further ado.

She meets him half way, or perhaps a little more. She’s pressing her lips to his, reaching with her hands to grasp at his hair and pull him close. She kisses like she rides, all spirit and confidence, a touch too brave for his comfort - and he’s surprised to find that he likes it that way.

He’s not typically one to choose a bedmate who’s too brave for his comfort. He believes he likes his whores spirited - or perhaps he likes them with the appearance of spirit. Perhaps he likes a woman who has learnt how to put on just enough display of spirit to keep a man interested.

He’s fast realising that he’s never had a woman who is truly spirited before now, and he’s scrambling to keep up.

She doesn’t wait around for him to make her choices. That’s what strikes him most of all. She’s the one who decides to throw off her cape and riding gloves. She’s the one who offers him her neck to kiss, who invites him down past her collarbone and towards the neckline of her gown.

She’s the one who reaches out a hand, bold as anything, and begins palming at his cock through his breeches.

That’s perhaps a little too much for him. He’s never had a bedmate physically reach out and grab at him in that fashion before now. Or at least - it would be too much for him, were she not kissing him all soft and steady at the same time.

As it is, his arousal wins through. His excitement at the new experience wins out over his apprehension at her tearing up the rulebook, ripping apart his expectations at the seams.

He can’t wait to get inside of her.

Here again, though, she’s taking the lead. She’s lifting her skirts aside, as if daring him to get on with it - perhaps even taunting him for being slow on the uptake. 

He does his best to catch up. He unfastens his breeches, lifts her skirts the rest of the way. He backs her up against the nearest tree and simply sets to it.

Huh. He fucked Siena under similar circumstances, at a similar point last season, and yet this is different as different could be.

He hasn’t a clue who this woman is. She hasn’t a clue who he is, either, of course - and that’s rather the fun of it. She hasn’t a clue about his rank, and only wants him for his own sake, wants the flesh-and-blood man not the title gone walking.

He growls at that thought, ducks to press a fierce kiss to her collarbone. She matches him - of course she does - with her nails raking across his scalp and her other hand clutching at his neck.

His neck. She’s actually grasping at his neck. She’s that bold with him, that sharp and firm and spirited. And she’s not grasping his neck to do anything, not quite. She’s not squeezing or threatening or anything of the sort. But all the same, there’s something about the sensation of her fingers on his throat which is driving him to distraction.

She breaks first. She’s there, moaning out loud as she clenches around his cock. Then he’s pulling out in a hurry, spilling harmlessly over his hand and onto the dirt. He’s not too bothered about such things, frankly. He’s had more than a few fucks in his time.

He’s still thinking a good deal harder about her fingers on his throat than he is about whether anyone will even think to notice a bit of spent seed amongst the leaves of a London park.

He tries to collect himself, when it’s over. He tries to shake aside the ghost of her touch and behave like he might in the wake of any other morning fuck. He drops his hands, leaves go of her skirts, backs away with what he hopes is an easy grin.

“Good morning to you, too.” He tries.

She scoffs, gives him perhaps half a laugh as she raises her brows. “You flatter yourself that you have made this a good morning?”

“Mmm. You seemed to like it well enough.” He says - and in fact, he does think that’s the truth.

She’s tutting at him, now. “I’d call it pleasant but unremarkable.”

Pleasant but unremarkable? Pleasant but unremarkable?

He’s wondering how he might fight that when she makes it even worse.

“I’m sure you don’t need me to point out that we’d do better to pretend this encounter never took place. I’ll go on my way, and you go yours.”

“You have the authority to make that decision for the both of us, do you?” He asks, sharp and angry.

Truly - pleasant but unremarkable? And now she thinks to pretend it never happened? If she were truly a widow, he damn well thinks she’d have been game for a few more rounds of that in the future, thank you very much.

“Very well - I choose that for myself, and you may do as you like.” She offers, now, carefully light.

In fact - too careful.

“You worry about being seen or recognised.” He realises. “You worry about someone knowing we were together.” In fact, he’s increasingly convinced that she’s no widow at all.

“I worry about being caught with strange men in parks at dawn. Can you blame me? Can you hold it against me that I would rather guard my reputation?” She asks, all argumentative and heated.

“Widows are famously protective of their reputations.” He counters, in a tone of great irony.

“Hmm.”

“Do you meet a lot of strange men in parks at dawn?” He dares to press her.

“I shan’t dignify that with an answer.”

Huh.

She’s worried.

He only meant to get a rise out of her - only meant to lash out when she called him unremarkable, or called a morning fuck with him unremarkable - and yet now she looks truly worried as he presses her with questions about her reputation and all the rest. In fact, she’s looking rather drawn and discontent as she did when he first found her leaning against that tree.

That’s a shame. She seemed a bit livelier, there, for a moment. She certainly seemed lively enough while they were in the act.

He grins at her, carefully light, tries to recapture the brighter mood of some five minutes past. “You needn’t worry, madam. The secret of this morning is safe with me. I shan’t tell a soul.”

“How grateful I am.” She says it teasingly, but he hears a core of truth to it.

“Look at me - losing races to such women in strange parks at dawn. I can only imagine the questions I would be asked, if I were to tell the tale of this morning to anyone.”

She even laughs at that, the light restored to her eyes.

And then? Then she even begins a spot of bickering with him, begins to argue brightly about whether or not that was indeed a race. She tolerates his company for another five entire minutes of good-natured teasing, before the two of them mount their horses and go on their ways.

Anthony calls it a morning well spent, in short.

…….

He learns that very same evening that she’s not a widow at all.

Or - he has it confirmed. He already knew it deep in his soul, he thinks. But later that night, at the Danbury ball, he learns once and for all that she’s Miss Kate Sharma.

She learns that he’s a viscount, too. Their acquaintance takes an ironic sort of turn, at that. She was the first person ever to like him without knowing he’s a viscount, this morning - and then tonight she becomes the first person ever to dislike him for the sole reason of his viscountcy. She likes him a good deal less when she learns that he is a viscount, in fact, and very suddenly indeed.

No. He’s being a cynic, perhaps. There are a few more steps than that, a few more factors than only his title. She overhears him saying a few hasty words about the marriage market. She turns out to be a lady who feels much more strongly about her younger sister’s prospects than her own, and who fears that a man like him will break that sister’s heart - things like that.

When all’s said and done, the night comes to a head with him and Miss Sharma standing chest-to-chest in the shadows beyond the terrace and spitting fire at one another.

“I should have known better.” She tells him - and yet tells him nothing more, doesn’t tell him whether she should have known better than to fuck him or better than to believe he was a trustworthy gentleman.

“I for one was correct. I do know every comely widow in Mayfair, and you’re not amongst them.” He taunts her.

It… doesn’t exactly help.

“Ah - so now you’re both a rake and a cad, are you?”

“Glass houses, my dear Miss Sharma. Glass houses. You can ill afford to cast aspersions on anyone’s character with the way you conducted yourself this morning.”

“My conduct? My conduct? So it is acceptable for you to behave in such a fashion, while my character is to be considered flawed?”

“That is the way of the world.” He argues.

“I should have known you’d say that.”

“I thought better of you, for ten minutes, this morning.”

“That makes two of us.” She tells him robustly.

And then, of all things, she kisses him.

It’s not like the kiss this morning. It’s not an eager burst of surprised morning arousal. It’s not a kiss for racing through parks at dawn and taking a liking to a new acquaintance.

This is the angriest kiss he has ever known.

Her teeth are almost as sharp as her tongue, while she kisses him. Almost. And yet still, somehow, she does manage a near-constant stream of cad and cruel and should have known better while she goes.

He matches her, and then some. He kisses her back, curses her out loud, even tugs at her hair like she tugged at his this morning. And now she’s reaching for his neck again - but squeezing, this time. Squeezing not hard enough to give him a fright, but hard enough to sharpen the edge of his arousal a fair bit further.

Within seconds, he’s backing her onto a corner of the terrace, pushing her back so she sprawls there, and throwing her legs wide open.

“Here?” She asks him, sharp.

“Have you a better plan? You’ve a horse to hand, perhaps? You mean to take a leisurely ride and greet the dawn?” He taunts her.

“We might at least find somewhere more private.”

For a moment, he’s torn. He’s genuinely indecisive. He’s furious with her - although he couldn’t rightly articulate exactly why - and he’s all stirred up with arousal, too. He doesn’t want to pause. He doesn’t want to find somewhere more private. He just wants to fuck Miss Kate Sharma into next week.

Then he sees the fear in her eyes.

He’s not torn, then. He’s not indecisive any more at all. For all his flaws, he’s not one to fuck a woman who’s frightened. He can see on her face that she’s truly worried about doing it here - and perhaps about the way he’s handling her, too.

Well, then. That makes two of them. He’s worried about the way he’s handling her, as well. This is frankly not the sort of gentleman his father raised him to be.

He clears his throat, steps back, takes a shaky, shuddering breath.

She only looks up at him, sprawled on the corner of the terrace where he pushed her.

“There’s a shrubbery around the side of the greenhouse. No one goes there and the light is poor. We’d have our privacy.” He offers, clipped and careful.

She nods, eyes wide, still stretched out where he left her.

He clears his throat again. “Or we could leave it. We oughtn’t be doing this, now that I know you are in truth a gently bred young lady. And - ahm - a gentleman ought not touch a lady in anger.”

She nods again, then stands up and flees towards the ballroom.

She runs from him without looking back.

…….

He spends the rest of the season wanting her.

No - it’s worse than that. He spends the rest of the season wanting her and courting her sister.

It’s quite the unholy mess, frankly. Her younger sister, Miss Edwina Sharma, ends up as the diamond of the season. Anthony intended to marry the diamond of the season, before he met Miss Kate Sharma on that morning ride - and he decides that he still intends to marry the diamond of the season after meeting her, too. He decides that a frantic morning fuck can have no bearing on his marriage intentions.

Never in all his time courting the younger does the elder remind him in words that he was hers, first.

Perhaps she truly doesn’t think of it in those terms. Perhaps he’s the only one who thinks of it quite like that. But honestly, he doesn’t understand how the hell else he is supposed to think of her fingers around his throat. What can that be, but a statement of… possession?

Perhaps that’s why he makes such a show of courting the younger, as the weeks stretch to months. Perhaps he’s hoping that sooner or later the elder will crack, and remind him that he’s hers, and reach for him once more. Perhaps he’s hoping to get a rise out of her - just as he was on that first day, too.

He doesn’t recognise himself, frankly. He doesn’t recognise himself just whenever he notices that he might be purposely sowing jealousy, whenever he contemplates courting a woman whose sister he has fucked, whenever he reflects on the way he has acted in this whole entire situation. He recognises himself least of all when he allows himself to acknowledge that the elder Miss Sharma is clearly the better match for him on every front from her love of riding to her experience running a household.

He simply doesn’t recognise himself as that gentlemanly family-minded man who was concerned for a strange young woman leaning exhausted against a tree on the first morning of the season. In fact - the last time he recognised himself was when he checked himself in response to the fear in her eyes, that night at the Danbury ball, when he had her sprawled over the terrace.

His father would be so ashamed of him. He’d hate to see his son acting like this.

Somehow, that makes it even worse. That makes the shame and the fear boil up worse than ever, makes Anthony all the more determined to plough on down a furrow he knows full well is wrong.

So it is that he avoids seeing himself in the mirror and goes on ploughing.

…….

He recognises himself quite abruptly when he falls in the mud playing pall mall and ends up laughing very hard indeed.

It’s an odd business and no mistake. He’s in the midst of a silly, exasperating accident with Miss Sharma - or perhaps rather with Kate. But he feels better than he has felt in months. This is who he wants to be, who his father raised him to be. He’s a gentleman who plays family games with good humour, and who speaks plainly and from his conscience when a difficult situation arises.

That’s what strikes him most of all, as he wipes his hands down on his breeches and asks her a simple question.

“I must take this opportunity to ask you, Miss Sharma - is there anything I might do to win your approval for my courtship of your sister?”

“I don’t withhold my approval out of spite, My Lord. You and she are a poor match. She wishes to marry for love, and you do not.”

Hmm.

Every time he needles her, he does hope that she’ll remember he was hers, first.

No. Enough of that. He’s resolved not to act like that, this morning.

So -

“Thank you for telling me that outright.” He tries.

“Thank you for asking so plainly.”

He doesn’t say he’ll respect her objections, on this occasion. She doesn’t ask him to. He doesn’t know how to undo several long weeks of unrecognisable foolishness.

But all the same, as they walk back up to the house together, he feels lighter than he has in a very long time.

…….

He’s half-asleep in his bed that night when he hears the softest of knocks at the door.

He’s not even confident that the sound is knocking, at first. He waits for it to happen again before he decides for certain sure that he had better open the door and see who’s on the other side.

He fumbles with a candle in the dark, lights it, walks over to open the door.

He finds Kate looking back at him.

“Might I come in and speak with you a moment?” She hisses at him, quiet, while he’s still overcome by his surprise.

He nods, frowns, stands back to let her in. He might as well, he supposes. It won’t be the worst thing the two of them have ever done - nor the best, neither.

He watches her enter, tries not to let his eyes linger too long on her figure, on her long legs left exposed by her night robe. He concentrates instead on lighting a lamp or two - but for the sake of conversation, naturally, not for the sake of watching her more clearly.

“Why are you here?” He asks her now.

“I’m here to beg you not to marry my sister. You know that I am not one to beg a gentleman for anything, but after we spoke of it a little this morning I thought I must at least try coming here and pressing my point. So - please. Please don’t marry her. You would never make her happy, and - and you and I were intimate together. You can’t possibly mean to marry my sister after that.”

He frowns, rubs absently at his jaw. “Hmm. You’re here to beg me not to marry your sister. Funny that you should feel the need to come up to my bedchamber to make that point. I could almost think you wanted us to be intimate again.”

The ghost of a smile. “Not that. I wanted you to recall that we were once intimate, and to think on how abhorrent it would be if you now married my sister, and I thought coming up here might carry that point rather well.”

“Mmm.”

“I perhaps also wanted to see your room and appeal to you in private with your guard down. You’re always at your best when you’re simply yourself, not Lord Bridgerton.”

That’s a dangerous observation, he thinks - very dangerous indeed. He’s not sure what he makes of a woman he’s been wanting for weeks telling him that he’s at his best when he’s simply himself.

How the devil does she even know that? She’s hardly seen him be himself at all, lately. Is this all about a moment of hesitation and then laughter in the mud?

The room suits her, he notices, while he’s pondering on the situation. His bedchamber suits her. She looks confident in the space, half-leaning against his drawers, her robe making a contrast against the panelling even in this weak light.

He gathers himself, tries to repay her brave honesty with a little brave honesty of his own.

“I don’t want to marry her.” He admits, for good and for all. “I want to be married. I want to have it over and done with. I want to be married to the sort of lady I am expected to be married to and get on with doing my duty. But you’re quite correct - I have no personal affection for your sister - and frankly the thought of asking her the question turns my stomach.”

“And yet you are courting her. You did invite her here.” Kate points out, sharp.

He sighs a shaky sigh. “Yes. I know it’s not fair on her - or on you - or on anyone.”

“And yet.” She repeats once more.

“And yet.” He echoes, nodding.

Silence sits a moment. He lets it, simply concentrates a moment on breathing and being, on trying to learn how to recognise himself whilst standing around in the same bedchamber as Kate.

It’s easier than he expected, actually.

She has a way of getting his guard down, and keeping it down. That’s what he notices. It’s not about the space, about her choosing to approach him in his bedchamber. It’s more that she always strips away his mask and leaves him more honest than he is with anyone else.

He wonders if he can manage the most honest words of all, now.

“I would rather marry you.” He mutters, hoarse. “I haven’t a clue whether you’d even consider it, after all I’ve said and done with regard to your sister. I expect it’s much too late now even if you would once have given me the time of day. Besides - perhaps you prefer an independent life as a comely young widow.” He offers, trying gamely to tease - and perhaps to offer her a kind way of refusing.

She laughs softly, at that part about her assumed identity.

And then she looks him right in the eye and asks a simple question.

“You’re in earnest?”

“Entirely serious.”

“Not much too late, I’d say. At least you haven’t actually made my sister any promises.” She points out.

He hears that as a rather optimistic sort of answer, knowing Kate as he does. Why - she’d have simply left the room at once if she wasn’t at all interested in his offer. She’s not one to mince her words or moderate her actions.

So it is that he pushes determinedly onwards. “There’s a difficulty - a very specific difficulty which I would explain to you, if you’ll allow it. I never intended to marry for genuine affection - you’re all too aware of that. I wonder if I might tell you why?”

She nods, short, eyes narrowed.

“My father died here a little over a decade ago now.”

“Yes. Your mother mentioned as much.”

“That’s just it - my mother. She didn’t handle his loss at all well. I suppose none of us did - I’ve hardly been the picture of health and happiness - but she took it very badly. She was heartbroken because theirs was a true love match. And I’ve been left with quite the fear of leaving my wife as - ironically - a young widow.”

“Come now - we’ve already established I’d do fine as a widow.” She offers, perhaps more coating than teasing.

He gives a brief, soft laugh, despite the seriousness of the conversation. She has a way of always bringing out a bit of softness or laughter in him.

She’s pressing on, now, with fire in her eyes. “I think you must be the most vexing person I ever met. You could have simply begun with an overture of courtship.”

“I could?” He asks, for that sounds implausible to say the least.

“Yes. I’ve made it very obvious that I’m not indifferent to you.”

“And the rest of it? The mess I’ve made of courting your sister?”

“Is not ideal.” She agrees, with a firm nod and raised brows. “But it is what it is. Better that we’re having this conversation now than never having it at all.”

He dares to reach for her hands, now, to take them and cling on fast. She’s reaching for him in turn, squeezing his fingers too, as if he’s not the only one who might like something to hold onto, once in a while.

He clears his throat. “So - I might not be entirely unwelcome, if I were to ask you about marriage, once I’ve sorted out this mess of my own making with your sister?”

“Not entirely unwelcome, indeed. But heaven only knows what we’ll say to her.”

He doesn’t miss her use of we. He finds himself smiling at it, in fact, even as he steps a little closer.

She’s the one who closes the distance between them once and for all, who reaches in for an eager kiss.

He laughs against her lips - and kisses her back of course, for he’s not a complete fool. He has been rather foolish in some regards, this season, but he’s not so foolish as that.

And when he has kissed her thoroughly for a few seconds, he pulls away just far enough to pass comment on the situation.

“Are you certain you didn’t come in here so we could be intimate?” He asks, all warm and teasing.

She scoffs at him, all fond and amused. “I’d like to see you do any differently under such circumstances. I came up here thinking to have a rather difficult conversation and you’ve gone and spoken about marriage and - and genuine affection and -”

“Lost for words, Kate, sweetheart?”

She scoffs again, somehow even fonder.

He simply embraces her a moment, holds her close, her head tucked against his neck.

He likes this. He likes kissing her, yes, likes fucking her, likes those fingers of hers around his throat. He likes passion and possession and all the rest.

But he likes peace, too. 

He likes to simply stand here comfortably with her, and enjoy feeling a little less at odds with the world. He likes to hold her warm and solid in his arms, hear her breath come and go, feel her chest rise and fall.

He likes everything about this moment.

That’s why he feels comfortable to ask the question, perhaps.

“Will you lie with me? It’s an honest question and you may answer as you like. I shall produce a ring or some settlement papers from somewhere if a secure marriage matters to you before you do such a thing - but I think it doesn’t, if memory serves.”

She nods against his neck. “It’s not about marriage. I trust you, and I’m comfortable with you tonight, and that’s all that matters to me. Indeed - you mustn’t feel obliged to ask for my hand one day just because I mean to lie with you now.”

“Mmm. I expect to ask for it anyway.” He counters, perhaps with a hint of a tease.

She laughs, presses a kiss to his neck.

He can’t recall ever being so perfectly happy as this.

The night which unfolds now is as different from their first fuck as can be. Indeed - it’s not a fuck at all. Anthony thinks he must insist upon that. Such a night as this can only be called making love. He means to learn to speak of love a good deal more fluently, in all the months and years ahead of them.

That’s for later, though. For now he hopes it’s enough to show her. He reaches for her robe, undresses her as slowly and softly as he can, follows the path of his hands with his lips.

She likes having her shoulders kissed. That’s a fact he intends to note well and remember all the rest of his days.

She’s wearing quite a sensible nightgown under her robe, not a bit of lace in sight. He might call it more of a nightshirt, even, all things considered. He finds that he’s not overly surprised. She’s quite a practical sort. She truly didn’t come in here tonight expecting to lie with him.

She evidently didn’t expect him to petition for her hand in marriage one day, either.

She’s growing bold as usual, now, proving herself just perfectly Kate. She’s pulling his nightshirt over his head firmly, but not quite roughly, and skimming her fingertips over his shoulders as she goes.

And then -

“You’re beautiful.” She tells him, utterly matter of fact.

He huffs out a shocked little laugh. “I’m certain I ought to be the one saying that to you, Kate. Indeed - I object to you beating me to it.”

She’s laughing now, too, all soft and easy and fond, as she presses a line of kisses down his neck towards his shoulder.

He claims her hand again, leads her towards the bed.

“Here. There’s something I would do for you.”

“How intriguing.”

He nudges her to lie on the bed - nudges her, careful, not like that time he threw her down on the terrace - and gets her settled comfortably.

Then he gets his mouth on her at last.

He never did this before, back when they only dabbled in urgent passion and kissing in anger. He never took the time to simply appreciate her and pleasure her. He’s beyond glad to be making up for lost time, now, tonight.

She seems quite glad of it, too. She’s certainly quite an appreciative partner, as she presses her hips up to meet him, as she bucks and writhes against his face.

She’s quiet, as well, and somehow that makes this moment all the more precious. He’s accustomed to hearing her all loud and talkative, full of fire. But here and now, tonight, she’s only moaning softly, whining the occasional whine, simply content to enjoy a quiet moment with him.

She comes quietly, too. She climaxes against his face with a soft, easy sigh - not unlike a sigh of relief, perhaps.

He’s grinning smug as anything when he pulls back from her cunt and moves up the bed to claim a kiss.

“Satisfactory?” He asks her, brows raised to tease, because he knows the answer.

“Hmm. Not sure. We might have to try again - perhaps every night of our married life, when you ask me that question?”

He can’t imagine a more perfect answer than that. He’s nodding, chuckling, kissing her deep. She’s matching him, her hands at his hips, as if trying to ask for something more.

“Shall we?” He asks, just to check, as he has his hips hovering over hers.

She answers him with a nod, and with her hands pressing on his behind, hard.

He grins into the kiss at that. He does enjoy that way she has of claiming what she wants from him.

He rushes to give her what she wants, to slip his cock into place, wondering all the while how long it might take for this to feel just perfectly familiar to him. How long would it take him to learn a love-matched wife, every fibre of her being, every inch of her skin?

He’d like them to find the answer to that together, one day.

In the meantime, he dares to claim what he wants, too. He reaches out for her hand with one of his own, places her fingers against his own throat.

“You like that?” She asks, as if genuinely puzzled by it.

“Mmm. You don’t have to… do anything, if you prefer. Just - hold me. Claim me as yours.” He begs her.

She moans a fascinating moan at that, and presses just a fraction harder at his neck. It’s perfect. Truly - perfect. It’s not a restraining hold, not in the slightest. It’s just firm enough to be possessive, just her bold hands reaching out for what belongs to her.

He groans, and kisses her, and moves his hips a little faster.

He’s already enjoying himself in earnest when she says it.

“I like this better than our first time.” She tells him, a fond whisper in his ear.

He laughs a breathless laugh. “Me too.”

“Mmm.”

A snatch more breathless laughter, and he goes on bucking his hips against hers.

He’s perhaps a little worried he has paced himself wrong, here. He can’t help but notice that he’s close to the edge, while she still seems quietly content rather than moaning and fidgeting on the cusp of release.

Yes - he has most definitely mistimed this. He’s there, pulling out in a rush, spilling on his hastily grabbed nightshirt and trying not to look too self-conscious at the mess.

He’s typically a rather smoother lover than that, he likes to think.

In fact -

“I’m typically a rather smoother lover than that.” He offers, with what he hopes is an endearing little pout.

She laughs, sits up to claim a kiss. “Indeed. I do recall our first time. I still like this better.”

“Can I lend you a hand?” He asks now, reaching down towards her cunt and thinking to make good on his poor timing.

To his surprise, she shakes her head. “No, thank you. I’ve had one. It’d be hard work to earn another.”

“I’m not afraid of a little hard work.”

“But I don’t think it’s necessary.” She argues. “In fact - look at it this way. You can think of owing me one, if you like. Then you’ll have to sort yourself out to ask me that question, and we can spend all the rest of our lives keeping count of pleasure owed. You strike me as a gentleman who would want to keep count and bicker over the score.”

He smiles fondly at that, kisses her more fondly still. “I like that for an idea.” He whispers against her lips.

“I knew you would.”

“Mmm.”

Silence sits a moment - but an easy, comfortable silence. He spends it in cuddling his future wife close, and pressing a few kisses to her neck and cheeks and hair, and wondering how long exactly it might take him to sort out the mess he’s made, how long it might be until the first day of forever with Kate.

It occurs to him that there’s something he had better say.

“Thank you. I’m grateful for your faith in me and your patience with all my mistakes this season.”

“I’m sure I should be thanking you. I know I’m… not easy to love.” She says, all tight and uncomfortable, as if it’s a matter of some concern to her.

He embraces her tighter still, at that. “I find it unfathomable that you would say such a thing. I for one find it very easy.” He even manages to say.

“That makes us well-matched, then - for I find you easy to have faith in.”

“Wonders never cease.”

“Mmm. That’s how I feel about tonight, certainly. Wonders never cease.” She agrees, with feeling.

“Stay a little while? I know you must leave unseen or our situation will be that much more complicated - but I’d ask you to stay just a little while, if you like the idea.”

“I’ll stay a while.” She agrees - but agrees it argumentatively, somehow. She’s using that bold and firm tone even when she’s in agreement with him.

So she should. He likes her that way. He likes everything about the woman, frankly, and certainly everything about this moment spent lying quietly in her arms.

He’s beyond glad that they bumped into one another that morning in the park, even if she’s not so much a comely young widow after all.