.

want to wait.’

      ‘Then don’t,’ she said.

      He kissed her, plunging his tongue into her mouth and entering her at the same time in one long, deep thrust. She met him, pushing up underneath him, clenching hard around him. He thrust again. Her mouth was hot on his, her kisses wild. She struggled to release her arms. When he held her, she dug her heels into his behind. He thrust again, and she met him with equal force, and he felt her tense, the sudden stillness before the crash that made him contract and sent the blood rushing, and he thrust again, hard, and again, deeper, with her crying out and holding him and digging her heels in and urging him on, to pound deep, deep inside her, so that when she came, pulsing around him, it took every ounce of his resolution to pull away, spilling onto the sand, then falling down onto the blanket, gasping, slick with sweat, panting, pulling her on top of him, the frantic beat of her heart clashing with his.

       Chapter Nine

      Dear Madame Hera,

      I have been married for eighteen months. I love my husband very much, and relations between us have always been most satisfactory, him being a perfect gentleman, if you understand my meaning. Indeed, I had no cause at all to complain, until that fateful tea party with my three closest friends several weeks ago. It was my birthday, and I must confess that along with tea, we did partake of some strong drink. Conversation turned to intimate matters. I was shocked to discover that my husband’s method of ministering to my needs was considered by my friends to be downright old-fashioned. Imagine my astonishment when they revealed the variety of other ways—well, I will draw a veil over that.

      But the problem was that I could not. Draw a veil, that is. For my curiosity was aroused. Alas! Would that I had been content with what I had. When my husband came to my arms as usual on the following Saturday night, I tried to instruct him in one of these variations. It is true, I did fortify myself with a glass or two of his special port beforehand, but I rather think it was my inadequate instructions that were to blame. With hindsight, it is clear that his failure was not a cause for merriment, and that perhaps it was a mistake, after he had expended so much energy, to expect him to renew his efforts in the traditional way.

      Now no amount of reassurance will convince my husband to repeat the attempt, despite the fact that I have obtained more complete instructions from my friends. Worse still, my husband assumes my desire to introduce an element of diversity into the bedchamber is actually implied criticism of his previous efforts, and has accused me of having simulated satisfaction in the past. As a result, my Saturday evenings are utterly bereft of marital comfort. What should I do?

      Mrs J-A

       September, 1840

      Ainsley finished reading the letter aloud and looked enquiringly at Innes, seated at his desk and frowning as usual over the account books. ‘There, I told you I’d find something to distract you. What do you think she means when she said that her husband is a “perfect gentleman”? I’m assuming it is not that he gets to his feet when she enters a room.’

      Innes pushed his papers away and came to join her on the large, overstuffed sofa that sat in front of the hearth. ‘She means that he ensures she is satisfied before he allows himself to complete his own pleasure.’

      ‘Oh.’ Ainsley grimaced, scanning the letter again. ‘I had no idea. I hate to think how many times Madame Hera has quite missed the point of some of her letters.’

      ‘What proportion of her correspondence do these sorts of problems form?’

      ‘That’s a good point.’ Ainsley brightened. ‘It is only since Felicity launched our personal answering service that they have grown. What do you think Madame Hera should advise Mrs J-A? Her poor husband is most likely imagining himself wholly inadequate. She will have to do something to reassure him.’

      ‘Not so long ago, Madame Hera would have been pretty certain that the problem lay with that poor husband.’

      ‘Not so long ago, Madame Hera wouldn’t have had an inkling as to what Mrs J-A meant by variety,’ Ainsley said drily, ‘and she would most certainly never have believed that it was acceptable for a woman to make actual requests. Though perhaps it is not, in general, acceptable at all. I have no idea how other men feel about it. Are you an exception?’

      She looked expectantly at Innes, who laughed. ‘I have no idea, but I doubt it.’

      ‘I do feel it’s a shame that so many women know so little about the variations, as Mrs J-A calls them.’

      ‘Because variety really is the spice of life?’

      He was teasing her. She felt the now-familiar tingle make itself known, but refused to be drawn. ‘Because it seems wrong that only men do,’ Ainsley said.

      ‘Not only men, else...’

      ‘You know what I mean, Innes. Lots of women think it is wrong to enjoy what is perfectly natural, and downright sinful to want to enjoy it any way other than what this woman calls traditional.’

      ‘So we are conspiring to keep our wives ignorant, is that what you’re saying? Because I’d like to point out to you that you’re my wife, and I’ve been doing my very best, to the point of exhaustion, to enlighten you. In fact, if you would care to set that letter aside, I’d be happy to oblige you right now with a—what was it—variation?’

      ‘Really?’ Ainsley bit her lip, trying not to respond to that wicked smile of his. ‘I thought you were exhausted?’

      He pulled her stocking-clad foot onto his lap and began to caress her leg from ankle to knee. ‘I’m also dedicated to providing Madame Hera with the raw material she needs to write the fullest of replies.’

      ‘You have provided Madame Hera with enough material to fill a book.’

      ‘Well, why don’t you?’

      She was somehow lying back on the sofa with both of her feet on his lap. Innes had found his way to the top of her stockings and the absurdly sensitive skin there. Stroking. How did he know that she liked that? ‘Why don’t I what?’ Ainsley asked, distracted.

      ‘Write a book.’

      His fingers traced a smooth line from her knee to her thigh, stroking her through the linen of her pantaloons. Down, then up. Down. Then up. Then higher. Finding the opening in her undergarments. Her flesh. More stroking. ‘What kind of book?’

      Sliding inside her. Stroking. ‘An instruction book.’ Sliding. ‘A guide to health and matrimonial well-being, or something along those lines,’ Innes said. ‘Didn’t you mention to me once that you thought it would be a good idea? Madame could offer copies to her private correspondents. I’m sure your Miss Blair would be more than happy to advertise something of that sort discreetly in her magazine.’

      ‘I’d quite forgotten that conversation. Do you really think such a book would sell?’

      ‘You’re the expert, what do you think?’

      She seemed to have stopped thinking. He was still stroking her. And thrusting now, with his fingers. And she was already tensing around him. Was it faster, her response, because of the experience of these past few weeks? Or was she making up for years of deprivation? Perhaps she was a wanton? Could one be a wanton and not realise it? The stroking stopped. Innes slid onto the floor. She opened her eyes. ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘Making sure your instruction manual covers every eventuality,’ he said, disappearing under her skirts.

      When he licked her she cried out in surprise. Then his mouth possessed her in the most devastating way, and she moaned. Heat twisted inside her, and she began to tense, already teetering on the edge, as he licked and thrust and stroked. She gathered handfuls of her skirts between her fingers, clutching at her gown in an effort to hold on, but it was impossible. Such delight, such unbearable delight as he teased from her, that she tumbled over into her climax, shuddering,