Do I dare open up any more of myself to her? Will she consider it an open invitation to hurt me further?
I turn around and my gaze lands on Grisham. Poor thing had been frightened of carriages, after what had happened to him. Then one day, as I was getting into one, he leaped in after me. After that he was fine and carriages didn’t bother him anymore.
Except I am not a dog and she is not a carriage. My limbs are safe from her, but my heart—
My heart I have always hidden away, and precious little good it has done me.
“We have known each other half our lives. What don’t I know about you?” I hear myself ask in a tone that might almost be described as tender.
She blinks and glances away.
I return to the table with my plate and take a seat. “What are you reading, if I may ask?”
She looks down at the book, as if surprised to find it in her hand. “Baudelaire’s letters. Now, that’s enough licking, Grisham. You’ll ruin my skirt.”
Grisham, at her firm tone, sits down rather sadly next to her chair.
She reaches across the table, takes a piece of bacon from my plate, and gives it to him. “There, there, don’t look so downtrodden. There are better things to eat than broadcloth.”
Watching the two of them, I am more than a little afraid at just how easily she might handle me in the future, with a scratch behind the ears and a piece of bacon. Will I be as easily satisfied as Grisham?
“I have Baudelaire’s complete works, if you are interested.”
She gives Grisham another pat on the head before turning her attention to me. “Do you read them, or do you merely have them about because they have been controversial in their day?”
This time I do not hesitate as long. Telling the truth, like anything else, becomes easier with practice—and as I realize I am in no worse shape today than I was yesterday. “I read them because you admire his works.”
She sets down the book and pulls apart a piece of her toast. “When have you ever cared about my opinions? The first time Baudelaire’s name came up between us you told me I liked him only because he was outrageous.”
“And can you deny that there is some part of you that did like his work better because it infuriated so many?”
A slow smile spreads on her face. “No, I cannot deny that.”
Even sitting down, I feel a little dizzy. A real smile, for me.
Her countenance turns serious again. “But that was not the entire reason, at best a quarter of it.”
“Yes, I know.”
She raises a brow. “And yet you mocked me for it every time we happened to be in the same room for months afterward.”
Bringing her pleasure in bed might make her body yearn for mine. But in the end, our lives will not always be spent making love. There will be many, many hours when we will be out of bed, fully clothed, and not even touching.
And whether I succeed or fail in my endeavor to win her heart, I will succeed or fail here, at this breakfast table, in the light of the day, without those skills as a lover to aid and abet me.
“I have always been a bastard where you are concerned,” I admit, my mouth as dry as a cotton bale.
She raises both her brows. “So you do know that.”
“Yes, I’ve always known that.”
She considers me as she scratches Grisham’s ears. He pants a little. She takes another piece of bacon from my plate and offers it to him. The familiarity of her gesture makes my heart roll over.
“And do you intend to continue to be a bastard to me?”
I swallow. “Would you like me to be different?”
She says nothing.
Of course not.
For her to say anything at all on the matter would be to show an interest in this marriage of ours, an interest in the shape and texture of what happens between us.
She eats the rest of her toast, drinks her tea, and rises, ushering Grisham out with her, leaving me with a brisk, “Good day, Lord Larkspear.”
THE RAIN STOPS MIDMORNING. From my study, where I try my best, given my distracted state of mind, to deal with a stack of papers, I become aware that outside, my bride and my three-legged dog are frolicking on the gravel drive. She throws a stick; he retrieves it. She throws it again, and he, with even greater joy and enthusiasm, goes after it.
Such a simple, mindless pastime. But Grisham does not tire of it. And I do not tire of looking at them: his love of life, her delight in everything that is vibrant and spirited in him.
I should join them. But I stay where I am, behind the curtains of my window, and only watch.
WHEN I ENTER HER ROOM that night, my bride is already naked in her bed, reading, with half a dozen pillows propping up her back, her hair hanging loose, and both her knees raised, giving me an almost unimpeded view of her pudenda.
I hang onto the door handle behind me, forgetting how to walk.
She peers over the top of the book at me. “You are here, Larkspear. As you can see, I have decided to make things a bit easier for you,” she says, setting aside the book.