Ah. He had meant it, then. He had meant it. She savored the thought. He cared.

“Make love to me first,” she said. “Please make love to me.”

And he did. Without stopping to unclothe them except in essential places. Without any of the tenderness she would have expected if she had paused long enough to expect anything. Without moving back the bedcovers. Without taking his time—or hers.

They were on one side of the bed and then the other, rolled up in their own clothes and sheets and blankets, pushing impatiently at them, kissing with ferocity enough to devour each other, moving urgent hands over each other, frustrated by clothing, twining and untwining legs. He was on top of her, and then she was on top of him. He set his hands behind her knees, drew them up on either side of him until they hugged his hips, bunched up her skirt between them, held her by the hips and lifted her, and brought her down onto himself until she had his whole hard, long length inside. He said something. She said something. But words were meaningless, so she didn’t remember them.

And they rode each other. There was no other word for what happened over the next few minutes. They rode hard onto and into the hot wetness they had created, seeking pleasure, comfort, goodness knew what, reaching and reaching for something that had no word at all. And no thought either. Just reaching. Eyes tightly shut. Muscles clenching tightly and relaxing to the rhythm of their ride. Please, oh please. His hands hard on her buttocks, hers on his shoulders, her fingers curled over them, his neckcloth brushing her chin. Please. Oh please.

And almost unbearable pleasure-pain as muscles clenched and would not unclench, as movement ceased and eyes pressed more tightly together. The ride was solo now as he drove deep into her, withdrew, and drove inward again—and held. And muscles unclenched and pain shattered and was suddenly, incredibly, not pain at all but so far its opposite that pleasure would not encompass it. Someone was sighing out loud with her voice. And then that lovely gush of liquid heat at her core that she remembered from last night.

She was hot. Her hands were slick with sweat. Her bodice and sleeves were clinging to her bosom and arms. His neckcloth and cravat were damp. They were both panting for breath. Wren collapsed down onto him, and he straightened her legs to lie on either side of his and wrapped his arms about her. Strangely, despite the heat and damp and discomfort of tangled fabrics, despite everything, she dozed. But not for long, she guessed when she came back to herself. He was not sleeping. His fingers were combing lightly through her hair. She sighed, but it came out sounding a bit like a moan. He cupped the side of her face with one hand, lifted it with the heel of his hand, and kissed her.

“We need to tidy up,” he said. “Come. I’ll ring for my valet and you must ring for your maid. I’ll have tea brought up afterward for you. We will sit and talk.”

All she wanted to do was close her eyes again and sleep. But he was right. They were too uncomfortable to settle for a night’s sleep. And if she did not talk tonight, she might never talk again. She might become a veiled, reclusive mute. And that was not even a joke. It would be so easy.

He untangled them from the sheets and blankets, and they got off the bed, brushed ineffectually at their clothes in the near darkness, and moved through to her dressing room. He lit a branch of candles for her before going into his dressing room and closing the door between them. It was not quite midnight, she saw when she glanced at the clock. She had thought it much later. She pulled on the bell rope to summon Maude. She wished then she had asked Alexander to unbutton her at the back so that she could at least have removed her dress. Whatever would Maude think? And about her hair?

But she did not much care what Maude thought.

The bed had been made up and then turned down neatly for the night on both sides, Alexander saw when he stepped back into the bedchamber from his dressing room, and the candles had been lit. There was a tray of tea and a decanter of brandy on the table by the hearth with a plate of fruit cake—a part of the wedding cake that had not been iced, he guessed. The servants’ hall was probably buzzing with talk about the lusty progress of his marriage. He was wearing a nightshirt with a light silk dressing gown.

Good God, that woman. She looked grotesque from close up, as Jessica had said. From a distance and in the relatively dim light of the theater, she had looked younger than Wren. Yet she was Wren’s mother. There was something a bit eerie about it. He poured himself a glass of brandy and downed it. It had made his stomach turn over, seeing Wren huddled into a ball in the corner. And her voice when she had spoken, telling him to go away, telling him that that woman was her mother, had been thin and high pitched, like that of a child. He had been afraid he would not be able to bring her back.

Had he brought her back? In one way, what had happened on that bed half an hour or so ago had been the best sex of his life. It had been uninhibited passion on both their parts. But he must not make the mistake of thinking they had been making love. There had been a desperation in her that had sought a sexual outlet since it had been available. And he had given her what she wanted. It had been wild sex devoid of love. No, not that. He had given her what she wanted because he cared. And he cared not just because she was a suffering human being and his wife, but because she was Wren. He had promised liking and respect and the hope of affection, and he had every intention of carrying through on that promise. But there was more. He did not know the how or the where or the when of it, and he was not going to analyze it to death. He was a man, for the love of God. But whatever it was, it was more than just those three solemn aspects of caring he had pledged her when he asked her to marry him.

She came in quietly through his dressing room. She looked neat and pretty in a long, short-sleeved nightgown, her hair brushed smooth and tied loosely at the nape of her neck. Her face was pale, the purple marks on the left side looking darker than usual in contrast. Her eyes were tired and not quite meeting his. He was on the verge of suggesting that they go to bed to sleep, but he held his peace. Let her decide.

“Let me pour you some tea?” he said.

“Thank you.” She came to sit in one of the wing chairs that flanked the fireplace and were hardly ever used since he liked to do his reading downstairs in the drawing room or library and was not a solitary nighttime drinker.

He set her cup and saucer beside her and a plate with a piece of cake. She ignored both and looked at him as he seated himself opposite, though her eyes did not rise above his chin.

“I am sorry, Alexander,” she said, her voice without expression. “I am horribly, horribly damaged. And I do not mean just my face. It goes far deeper. Too deep to be touched or healed. I am sorry.”

He felt chilled to the heart. Some suffering was beyond help. He knew that. But he would not believe it. Not of Wren. Not of the woman who was becoming more precious to him with every passing day. “Tell me,” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders and kept them up. She hugged her arms with her hands, running them up and down the bare flesh as though she were cold, though it was a warm night. He got to his feet, moved the table with her cup and plate a bit away from her chair, grabbed the plaid blanket that was folded over the foot of the bed, half lifted her from the chair to slide in beneath her, and held her. It was not as easy to snuggle her as it would have been with a less tall woman, but he managed it, nestling her head on his shoulder and wrapping the blanket about her before resting his cheek against the top of her head.