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“ A ll this hair was such a lovely surprise,” Isolde murmured.

Her husband’s laugh rumbled against her cheek. His chest was currently her pillow.

She had learned that her hands were magic wands. Dark hair curled across his hard pectorals; a ferny trail of it—which she was following now, with a finger—led down, and down, to the little dark fluff of it nestling his cock, which was stirring again.

They had been married for a few months, and still Isolde felt continually inebriated by the gorgeous textures of Jacob, and of all the ways she could make his body respond to her touch, and the way the very sight of her made his eyes go dark with desire.

The shocking prowess of Jacob’s lovemaking called to mind the first time she’d seen him fencing.

Surely not even Everseas were born knowing how to do those things with his hands and tongue and various other parts.

How to make her cry out in pleasure and beg for more, that sort of thing.

She also doubted they could be learned from a book.

She didn’t for a moment question that he was faithful to her, body and soul.

She was grateful they had yet another language to express their love for each other.

She didn’t need the mystery of his sensual education revealed.

For she had her own secrets.

From the bed where she now lay naked and entwined with her spouse, she could see her ormolu jewelry box.

Safely hidden in its false bottom was a letter smudged with her tears and Isaiah’s fingerprints.

In rare moments she felt a brief, cruel pierce of homesickness for a life she would never lead and a man she could never have, not even as a friend.

And her darkest secret was that however much she loved and desired her husband, the fierce passion of her first kiss echoed in her; now and again, she restlessly yearned.

And she could not entirely vanquish her jealousy of the woman Isaiah married.

She was not proud of any of this; being ashamed changed nothing.

But it did remind her to appreciate her already extraordinary blessings.

Perhaps a secret or two was what gave texture and dimension to love and marriage.

She had accepted that one small part of her heart must remain forever hidden, the way one side of the moon would forever be unknown even to those who looked up at it every night.

The first weeks of Isaiah and Fanchette’s marriage were as warm and pleasant as a balmy trip to Spain, such was the joy and back-slapping approval that greeted the news among the Redmond and Tarbell social circles.

They were showered with gifts and feted with receptions and dinners in London.

Isaiah was introduced to dozens of influential people, in politics, with titles.

He endeavored at once to impress them, and did.

His parents decided to remain in London with Diana most of the time so Isaiah and Fanchette could have the Redmond manor in Pennyroyal Green to themselves.

Fanchette’s trembling nerves on their wedding night aroused Isaiah’s protectiveness, and the initial awkward mechanics of lovemaking evolved into a certain affectionate ease, even passion.

His obvious pleasure in her body excited her; he murmured to her that she was beautiful as his palms glided reverently over her velvety skin.

Like opera and expensive furniture, sex was serendipitously another thing they both enjoyed, which he liked to think boded well for their future.

But sex was a double-edged sword for Isaiah: there was bliss in forgetting but grave danger in the dissolve of defenses.

Because sometimes during that moment of release, that brief, total loss of control, feelings he ruthlessly kept barricaded escaped.

And for a few moments he would lie still in the dark, pinned breathless by grief and disbelief, lonelier than he’d ever felt.

For those few moments, every cell of his body howled confusion and betrayal, knowing its longing for another woman would never be sated.

He had all the ingredients for a happy life. A triumphant life. All of this seemed evidence that he had done the right thing. Inherent in duty was safety, security and prosperity. No doubt this would eventually prove to be the wisest way to love.

But nearly every clear day, just before half past four, he found himself making his way to the room at the top of Redmond House.

And there he would watch the sun paint a gold stripe along the roof edge of Miss Marietta Endicott’s Academy.

~End~