Perhaps that word, generosity, was the impetus for decidedly less room in his trousers.
If the last couple of days had taught him anything, it was that he’d a generous wife. One with a generous mouth, generous curves, and an adventurous spirit. Her appetite for food had returned with a surge and, along with it, other appetites demanded to be indulged.
He had only to reach for her and she was there, her arms winding around him with a tempting smile. She read his need like a sage, intuiting if he felt wild or languorous, deviant or tender. She denied him nothing and brought ideas of her own to their lovemaking that both astonished and thrilled him.
He looked over to where her gloved hands were folded primly in her lap over the placid tones of her skirt.
Last night those hands had been miraculously wicked. She’d insisted upon undressing him in the lamplight of her chamber. Purred with appreciation as she explored every inch of his skin with her elegant, wandering fingers. Her rather innocent delight gave way to illicit desire, and by the time she’d made her way below his waist he’d been nothing but a cauldron of boiling lust, his nerves in absolute anarchy. She’d requested to stroke him to completion, as she was curious about the male sexual experience and couldn’t concentrate on it when she was also being pleasured.
A request he would have been an imbecile to deny.
He’d returned the favor, of course, his sense of gratitude and chivalry not allowing him to stop until she’d shuddered with exhaustion and begged him for mercy.
God, how he’d enjoyed their play, but he hadn’t actually been inside her last night.
He missed her.
He’d missed her when he’d left her bed to prowl her father’s warehouses at the docks. He’d missed her when he’d fallen into his own bed after only removing his jacket and shoes.
He missed her now, even as she sat next to him, her arm rubbing his occasionally, creating sparks between them he was surprised other parishioners couldn’t see.
This was what he’d feared all along.
Attachment. Sentiment. Bloody befuddlement.
Before he’d discovered the truth.
As the organ played the closing hymn and her clear, sweet voice mingled with that of the congregation, Morley sat quietly, chewing on his thoughts. Pondering his misgivings rather than any forms of grace.
At first, when he’d thought her a weakness simply because his body responded to her, the situation still seemed somehow manageable. Now, he didn’t just want her.
He…liked her. Dash it all.
As they stood in the back of the line waiting to file out of the church, she slipped her arm through his and tilted her head to gift him with a winsome smile.
She was like a spring garden against the grey stone. Vibrant and lush. Full of sunlight and sometimes rain. Always inviting, shamelessly flaunting her blossoming beauty, tempting him with pink petals of—
Goddamn and blast, could he not think about her naked for two bloody minutes?
Catching his scowl, she tugged at his arm and said, “Don’t let’s be grumpy, it’s too beautiful a day.”
“I’m not grumpy,” he argued, grimacing at the ironic note of irritation in his voice.
“Hungry, then? I know I’m famished.” She pressed a glove to her stomach, a gesture becoming more familiar the further along she became.
He wasn’t particularly hungry, not for food, at any rate. But it suddenly became imperative that he provide her sustenance.
Over the past fortnight, his cook had given up on satisfying Prudence’s increasingly obscure gastronomic whims. Which was just as well because his wife, being of the upper classes, had never much had the opportunity to sample London’s culinary delights. Ladies were not allowed by some ballocks code of superior conduct to eat in public houses or dine at restaurants or clubs.
The working class, however, rarely shared such compunctions.
Morley found himself often hurrying home from Scotland Yard at the day’s end, eager to garner a report of just what madcap craving would decide their supper. As soon as his carriage pulled into the mews, she’d sweep out in her pelisse and hat, and announce something like, “Your child is demanding salt. And onions, I think. Just mouthfuls of flavor and sauce.”
“Onions, you say?”
“Mmhmm.” She’d nodded rapturously. “And cracking large chunks of succulent meat.”
“My child is an unapologetic carnivore?” he’d asked with a lifted brow.
She’d cocked her head and looked up to the side as if listening, before revealing. “Undetermined…I believe that last requirement is all mine.”