The Memory of Your Kiss by Wilma Counts

her.
    “Better?” he asked.
    She nodded. “Much.” She took another sip, not really sure sheliked the taste, though she did appreciate the relaxing warmth the drink offered.
    Henry shifted his position to put his right ankle on his left knee. She noted a small tattoo on the ankle, a pair of crossed swords. He saw her looking at it and explained.
    “Paxton heirs always have this mark.”
    “Why?”
    “Tradition, mostly. Twins are rather common in the family—Amy and Anne, for instance. The first earl of Paxton had identical twin sons. To distinguish the first born from his brother, the earl—a great swordsman, by the way—had him immediately tattooed. Thereafter, we’ve all had it.”
    He finished off his drink, then gathered her into his arms and kissed her. It was a long, deep kiss that tasted of the drink. He moved his mouth to nibble at her earlobe and then trailed kisses down her neck to the swell of her breasts. She drew in a deep breath as his hand caressed her breast and she felt her body relaxing and responding. His lips sought her mouth again and she opened to him. He drew back, breathing hard. Then he stood and extended his hand. As she rose, he stepped back to survey her. She felt naked in the filmy gown and held her breath for his approval.
    He sucked in a long, whistling breath. “My God, you’re beautiful. How did I get to be so lucky?”
    She merely blushed and allowed him to lead her to the bed. She slid under the covers and watched as, loosening his robe, he bent to blow out the bedside lamp. She was disappointed. Other than statues and drawings, she had never seen a completely naked man before, let alone a fully aroused one. She had—wantonly—looked forward to doing so. Nevertheless, light from the fireplace allowed her a peek—a peek that gave her pause. Good heavens! However would her body be able to accommodate that ? As he lay next to her she felt the hardness pressing against her.
    He shoved her nightgown above her waist and stroked the soft flesh between her legs. Again recalling her intent to be a good wife, she tried to adjust to him.
    “Ah, Bella,” he murmured. “This may be painful the first time, but I cannot wait any longer.”
    “I—I—all right …”
    He positioned himself between her legs and pushed slowly, gently into her. She felt searing pain and cried out sharply. He covered her cry in a cognac-flavored kiss. They both lay still for a very long moment, his face buried against her neck.
    He raised his head. “Are you all right now?”
    “I—I think so.” The pain had subsided.
    He began to move inside her, his strokes becoming more and more intense. Then he uttered a long, satisfied moan. Suddenly, it was over. He rolled to her side, held her close, kissed her tenderly, and within seconds, it seemed, he was breathing the deep breaths of dream-filled sleep.
    Sydney lay staring at the underside of the bed canopy. Was that it? That was what married women whispered about and virginal girls could hardly wait to experience? Somehow she had expected more. Much more. She gave herself a mental shake. Ah, well—
    Finally, she, too, slept.
    The next morning she woke to an empty bed. Sometime in the night, Henry had returned to his own room.
    That became the pattern of intimacy in her marriage. In time she achieved a degree of enjoyment and comfort from their couplings, but never the sheer ecstasy of whispers and dreams. The ever-practical Countess of Paxton consigned that notion to the stuff of fantasy, and she went on with her life, determined to ignore any foolish longing for “more.”
    As with most lives, the next few years of Sydney’s vacillated from the ordinary to the extraordinary, with elements of both tragedy and farce, dreams realized and dreams quashed—or altered at least.
    That first year had been a year of learning and loss. In midwinter the new Countess of Paxton traveled with her husband to London for the opening of Parliament and the social season.