Gareth stared at his wife in disbelief. Not the dreadful, nauseating disbelief of waking up in a sickbed and discovering that he no longer had two arms, but something milder, like an unexpected slap across the face. Mild or not, it left him speechless for several seconds. He found his tongue, and said, “Women don’t enjoy physical congress? Who told you that?”

“No one,” Cecily said. “I learned it for myself.”

“But . . .” Gareth said, and then he closed his mouth and thought back to what she’d said earlier: that she and her first husband had only had sex five times. “How old were you and—” What was his name? “—Frederick when you married?”

“I was sixteen, Frederick was nineteen.”

“That’s . . . young.” Younger than he’d realized. Dear God, the pair of them had been little more than children.

“My great-aunt knew she was dying,” Cecily said, matter-of-factly. “She was worried what would happen to me when she was gone, and Frederick was worried, too. He had very little money—he was only an apprentice—but we agreed that marriage was better than the alternatives, so my great-aunt gave permission and we were married.”

Gareth nodded, and thought about those alternatives—going into service, going into the poorhouse—and was glad that Cecily had had people to worry about her. He felt a twinge of regret for the unknown Frederick, doing his best to protect her, and failing only because he’d died.

He wondered how to phrase his next question. There really was no way of asking tactfully, so he went with bluntness: “Cecy . . . do you know whether Frederick had ever lain with a woman before?”

She shook her head. “He hadn’t. He told me. He was a little nervous about it.”

Nervous? Yes, Gareth could well imagine that Frederick had been nervous. He felt sympathy for the man. Boy, he corrected himself. Frederick had been little more than a boy. Nineteen, and a virgin.

He imagined the pair of them on their wedding night, awkward and inexperienced, fumbling their way through an act that neither of them knew anything about. It could have been magical, marvelous, but clearly it hadn’t been, because Cecily thought that women didn’t enjoy sex.

Gareth grimaced inwardly, but perhaps he didn’t hide it as well as he’d thought, because Cecily tilted her head slightly and a tiny crease formed on her brow. “What?”

Gareth wrinkled his own brow while he considered how to answer that simple question. He decided to go with bluntness again. “Physical congress is often pleasurable for women. In fact, where there’s mutual attraction and a certain level of proficiency, I’d go so far as to say it should always be pleasurable.” Although he’d completely failed to prove that tonight, hadn’t he? “Almost always,” he amended, and then he paused and said, very gently, “If your marriage had lasted longer, if you and Frederick had become more skilled at congress, you probably would have discovered that for yourself.”

Cecily bit her lip. She looked as if she didn’t quite believe him. And if she’d never experienced fulfilling sex, why should she believe him?

In that moment, Gareth realized that it was possible to salvage something from this disaster of a wedding night—and there was no denying that it was a disaster, far worse than anything he’d imagined—but even if he wasn’t able to perform tonight, he could at least give Cecily something she’d never had before.

Determination took hold of him. Not just I can do this, but a fierce I will do this. He was not leaving this bedroom until Cecily had experienced sexual pleasure.

Although, given that he had only one arm, it might take a little creativity.

Gareth sat for a moment amid the litter of pillows and thought, and then he took a deep breath. “Cecy, I’d like to show you something.”

She glanced at his groin, where his cock lay quiescent beneath the nightshirt.

Gareth flushed. “No, not that. I mean show as in, uh, demonstrate.” He forced himself to put his humiliation to one side. Tonight is about Cecily, not me. And that was liberating in its way. To not worry about whether he could fire his shot and give her pleasure at the same time, to take himself out of the equation entirely and focus only on Cecily.

He rearranged the pillows behind him with awkward one-handedness and leaned back against them. “Turn around,” he said. “So that you’re facing away from me.”

This request made Cecily frown slightly. “Away?”

“It will be easier for me to touch you the way I want to.”

She eyed him for a moment, her expression faintly dubious, and then did as he’d asked, turning around on his lap, facing away from him, her legs on either side of his.

Gareth gently slid his right arm around her waist. “Lean back against me.”

Cecily obeyed. She was warm and slender and so much smaller than him. Gareth’s heart seemed to swell with love for her. Tenderly, he gathered her even closer, his arm around her waist. Her golden hair tickled his jaw. “Relax,” he whispered, stroking her hip through the nightgown, following the soft curve with his hand. “I’m going to do something that I think you’ll enjoy.”

Cecily’s nightgown had hiked up to her knees. Gareth slid his hand beneath the hem and touched her knee, stroking, tracing a little circle with his fingertips, light and tickling.

Cecily shivered.

Gareth traced another circle. Her skin was smooth, warm, silky. “Is that all right?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she whispered back.

Gareth spent long minutes becoming better acquainted with his wife’s legs, her knees first, then her inner thighs, stroking, stroking, making her tremble and squirm in his lap, making her breath catch. He pushed her nightgown upwards inch by slow inch, his hand sliding higher, higher . . . until a soft thatch of hair tickled his questing fingertips.

Cecily tensed slightly.

“Relax,” he breathed in her ear, and after a moment she did. Gareth took that to mean that she trusted him, and his heart swelled even further. He pressed a kiss to her temple.

He teased the uppermost reaches of her thighs for several minutes with his fingertips, while Cecily’s breath became shallower and more ragged. Tension gathered in her. Anticipation, he thought, not nervousness—and when he finally let his fingers wend their way through that soft nest of hair he was proven correct: she caught her breath in a gasp that was almost a moan.

Gareth smiled to himself, and pressed another kiss to her temple, and gently cupped her quim in his hand, barely touching her. She was warm and soft and plump. “Still all right?” he whispered.

Cecily seemed to struggle to find her voice. “Yes,” she said, after several seconds, and the word held a little, breathless quaver.

Gareth smiled again . . . and set himself to the task of introducing his wife to sexual pleasure, cupping her quim, moving his hand in leisurely circles, kneading gently and rhythmically. No rush. Taking it slowly.

Cecily grew warmer . . . and warmer . . . and warmer. She squirmed slightly on his lap. Her breathing was ragged. A tiny whimper escaped her. Her legs fell more widely open.

Gareth parted her plump outer lips with his fingers and delved gently inside, tracing her folds. Cecily gasped, and then whimpered again.

His own breathing became a little ragged. “Do you like that?” he whispered.

“Mmm.”

Gareth explored slowly. She was hot and deliciously damp. He learned the shape of her inner lips—and then dared to dip one finger inside her.

Cecily stopped breathing for a moment.

“Do you like that?” he asked again.

“Mmm.”

He slid his finger deeper, flexed it slightly—and her whole body trembled.

Gareth withdrew . . . and then did it again: sliding his finger inside, flexing it, hearing her breath catch, feeling her shudder. He wished, quite desperately, that he had two hands. No, three hands. One to delve inside her, one to play with her quim, and one to caress her breasts.

And then he realized that he did have three hands.

Gareth withdrew his finger. “Cecy,” he said. “Put your hand on mine.”

Their bodies were nestled so closely together that he felt her incomprehension—and then her understanding . . . and her embarrassment.

“Put your right hand on mine,” he whispered again.

After a moment, Cecily did.

He cupped her warm, plump mound and squeezed gently and rhythmically. “Do what I’m doing.”

Cecily hesitated, and then obeyed him, her hand on top of his, moving in time with him.

“Good,” Gareth said, after a minute had passed. “Keep doing that.” He slid his hand out from under hers, and now it was she who was pleasuring herself, and he whose hand rested on top.

After another minute, he lifted his hand from hers, and burrowed gently beneath her nightgown, climbing up over her hip, her belly, until he found one of her breasts—smooth, round, taut, perfect.

Gareth stifled a groan. Cecily’s hand faltered on herself. “No, don’t stop,” he said, and when she’d picked up the rhythm again, he skimmed his hand over her breast, teasing and caressing, pinching the nipple lightly, feeling her tremble. Heat began to gather in his loins. “Your left hand,” he said. “Do what I’m doing.”

This time Cecily didn’t hesitate. She fumbled beneath her nightgown and touched her other breast.

Together, they played with her breasts until she was breathless and squirming and very, very warm.

Gareth was getting rather warm himself, in his chest, in his belly, and especially in his groin.

“Perfect,” he said. “Exactly like that.”

He removed his hand and slid it back down her body, between her legs. Cecily faltered.

“No, don’t stop, I’m just going to . . .” He parted those hot, plump, juicy lips and dipped a finger inside her.

Cecily gasped, and froze.

“Keep going,” he told her. “Don’t stop.”

Cecily groaned, deep in her throat. Her back was slightly arched, her head pressed against his right shoulder.

“Keep going,” Gareth repeated.

Cecily huffed out a breath—and did as he’d asked. Her right hand moved on her quim, her left hand moved on her breast . . . and Gareth allowed his finger to slide deeper inside her. God, she was hot. Hot, slick, tight, and utterly perfect.

It didn’t take long, after that. He felt the tension build in her, the eagerness, and he slid a second finger inside her. Cecily shifted breathlessly in his lap—and then every muscle in her body tensed, including the ones around his fingers, and he felt great pulses of pleasure surge through her body.

It was a good orgasm. Granted, he wasn’t experiencing it, but it seemed to go on for a long time. Afterwards, Cecily gave a shaky sigh and relaxed bonelessly against him.

Gareth withdrew his fingers and rested his hand over hers, between her legs, cupping the residual pleasure to her. He laid his cheek on her temple. “Did you like that?”

Cecily sighed again, a little less shakily. “Yes.”

They sat like that for several minutes, and then Gareth removed his hand and smoothed her nightgown down to cover her, and snugged his arm firmly around her waist. He held her tightly to him, enjoying the closeness, the warmth, the intimacy, and most of all, enjoying the knowledge that he’d just given his wife her first experience of sexual pleasure. He couldn’t exactly name the emotion he felt right now. Not smugness. Not pride. Satisfaction? Yes, satisfaction was part of it, but equally there was relief, and as well as that, a tiny seed of confidence. Confidence that he could do it again. That they could do it again. Confidence that their marriage was going to work.

Cecily stirred on his lap, sighed, laced her fingers with his, turned her head so that her lips touched his jaw. “That was . . .”

He waited for her to choose a word.

“Unexpected.”

Gareth laughed. “Unexpected?”

“Yes. I didn’t know that my, um, could feel like that.”

“Your um?”

He couldn’t see her blush, but he knew that she did. “I don’t know what to call it,” she whispered.

Gareth held her closer and pressed a kiss into her hair. “It has quite a few names. I prefer quim, myself.”

“Quim?” Cecily sounded dubious.

“Or you could call it your monosyllable,” Gareth said. “Or . . .” The problem was that most of the words for a woman’s private parts were crude or unflattering. He wracked his memory. “Muff. Tuzzy-muzzy. Miraculous pitcher.”

“Miraculous pitcher?”

“Because it holds water with its mouth downward.”

Cecily gave a tiny snort of amusement, and then was silent for several seconds. “You’re right. Quim is best.” And then, after several more seconds had passed: “I didn’t know my quim could feel like that. Thank you.”

Gareth kissed her hair again. “You’re welcome.”

He supposed he should release her and go back to his own bed now, but he didn’t want to. It felt wonderful to sit like this, Cecily nestled in his lap.

Dimly, he heard a clock striking the hour. Eleven o’clock.

Cecily moved, and for a moment he thought she was climbing off him, but no, she was merely shifting so that she was no longer astride him but was instead curled sideways in his lap. She relaxed against him again . . . and then stiffened slightly. “Gareth, you’re ready.”

He’d been ready for quite a while now, since long before she’d climaxed. There was a warm hum of arousal in his blood, and heat in his loins, but no sense of urgency, no need to seek his own release. Her thigh pressed against his cock, and his cock pressed back, and that was all he needed at this moment.

“Gareth?”

“Ignore it,” he said, but Cecily didn’t. She shifted in his lap until she was facing him, astride him. She slid her arms around his neck and leaned close and kissed him and whispered against his mouth, “Show me how to ride St. George.” Then she sat back slightly, her arms still around his neck, and smiled at him, flushed and starry-eyed and beautiful. His wife, wanting to have sex with him.