Eleanor thought she might faint if he didn’t stop but he didn’t stop and she didn’t faint. But her breathing was fast and heavy. She felt she was drowning in sensation, it was all happening so quickly. She wanted to tell Søren to slow down, let her catch her breath, but she didn’t have the breath to say it. And he did not slow down.

  He rose up and captured her mouth, forcing his tongue inside for another brutal kiss. She’d lived under his roof—ate every meal with him, spent every evening with him, walked and talked every day with him—that perfect year before he’d left her. Never once had she seen him speak too sharply to a servant, lose his temper with his sister, drink too much or lose control of himself in any way. He’d always been temperate, restrained, and in total command of himself.

  Until now.

  Without a word—of tenderness or affection, of lust or warning—he lifted her off her feet and put her on her back onto the edge of it bed. He pushed her gown up to her waist and instinctively she tried to push it down again.

  “Don’t deny me,” he said and it wasn’t a request but an order. She obeyed it because she didn’t want to deny him, not now or ever.

  His hands were under her gown at her hips and he pulled her to the very edge of the bed. He pressed her legs open and roughly drew them around his waist. He cupped her between her legs, and his fingers rubbed along the seam of her body, pushing and opening her until he found what he was looking for. Eleanor cried out as he worked a finger inside her. Although at night, alone in bed, she had touched herself there a thousand times, it hadn’t prepared her at all for what it felt like when it was his finger inside that tight and aching place.

  He turned his hand and pushed his thumb in, and Eleanor whimpered in pain. The sound seemed to do something to Søren. His head fell back and his eyelashes fluttered. She’d never seen him like this before. Before she had thought she’d wanted him, and knew what it meant to want him, but not until then did she feel an almost animal need to take him into her body as deep as he could go.

  Søren seemed to share the need. He took his hand from her and he opened his trousers. Though she’d wondered about it, dreamed about it, she’d never seen his cock until then. It was larger than she’d expected, long and thick and she ached at the sight of it. She’d heard of women fainting on their wedding nights at the first sight of their husband’s organ…Eleanor thought she could, but faint from the wanting of it, not the terror of it.

  She wanted to tell him what she thought of it but didn’t have the chance. He took it in hand, guided it to the entrance of her body and pushed.

  Eleanor flinched as the thick tip of it found resistance. She didn’t want to resist it. She wanted all of it, all of him, inside her. But her body had other ideas. Søren held her by the hips, pushed again, and the barrier gave way, and he was inside her.

  The agony was acute, overpowering all her other senses. Desire fled. Pleasure fled. Even her love for him was forgotten in that terrible moment when he wrenched her open. It was too much, too hard, too solid, too thick and too deep. It burned. It burned and it scared her.

  “Søren, it hurts,” she said and her voice sounded small and young to her own ears. “It hurts.”

  She clutched at the sheets, and moved her hips, trying to find a way to accommodate so much of him inside of her. When she moved, though, his eyes fluttered again, and he thrust into her, then again. If he’d only stop moving, she could breathe, ease into it, take it, enjoy it, but he seemed like a man lost to the world.

  She needed to touch him to bring him back to her, back to himself, but she couldn’t reach him. His head had fallen back and his eyes were closed as he worked her on his cock.

  Eleanor slipped her hand between her legs and touched herself where he impaled her. She felt her own tender flesh, wet with desire or blood or both. She touched the organ that split her, sliding her fingertips over it as it penetrated her. Søren must have felt her touch. His eyes opened at last, and he looked down at her.

  “Søren,” she said. Some awareness seemed to come back to him. He touched her face, stroked her cheek. She turned her head and pressed a kiss into the palm of his hand. “Søren,” she said again. He lowered his hand to her left breast, caressing it through her gown. He grew impatient and yanked her gown down again, down to her waist, baring both her breasts to him. The cock inside her slid deeper, touching her womb. She flinched and the inner muscles of her body clenched around him.

  “Do anything you want to me,” she said, arching her back to show she was giving herself to him, all of her to all of him. “Anything.”

  “Don’t say that, Eleanor,” he said. His tone was sharp. She ignored it.

  “Why shouldn’t I? We’re married.”

  He wrapped his arm around her lower back, lifted her and impaled her.

  “Anything…” she said. He withdrew from her and impaled her again. “Anything…anything you want…”

  He turned his head and she saw him looking at something. What was it? There was nothing on her night table but a book and the candle still burning.

  “Anything.” She said it because she meant it. Because she would do anything, allow anything, give him anything as long as he was inside her, spearing her.

  Søren wrenched himself away from her, out of her body. He stood at the foot of the bed and straightened his clothes.

  “Go to sleep, Eleanor,” he said.

  “You’re going? Now?” She pulled her gown up to cover her breasts. “Why?” Her voice broke on the question.

  “Goodnight,” he said and then he was gone.

  Kingsley was halfway through a bottle of red when he heard Søren’s footsteps in the hall.

  “Coward,” Kingsley muttered, thinking Søren had gone to Eleanor but changed his mind and come back to bed. But the footsteps passed the door and kept walking, fast. Curious, Kingsley went to the door and looked out in the hallway. Søren was at the steps and descending.

  Kingsley ran to the bannister at the top of the stairs. Sure enough, in the entryway, Søren threw on his coat and walked out the front door.

  At night. In winter. Four hours after getting married and not fifteen minutes after going up to Eleanor’s room.

  Eleanor…

  He crept up the stairs and stood at her door. She sat at the edge of her bed, eyes wide open as if in shock, her torn nightgown clutched in her hand at her throat.

  Fuck.

  Kingsley withdrew to the hallway, leaned back against the wall and put his hand to his forehead. What had he done? From inside the room, he heard Eleanor softly weeping.

  Without knocking he went into her room. She looked up at him as he came to her and offered her his wine glass. With a visibly trembling hand she took it from him and drank deeply.

  “He left,” she said and her voice was hollow. “He came to me. We…”

  “Did he hurt you?” Of course he had. There was blood on the bed.

  “Some,” she said, shaking her head. “But that was…it was…I didn’t want him to stop. But he did. And then he left. He just…he left me.”

  “Shh…” Kingsley said, not wanting her to get overwrought. “Drink your wine.”

  She drank again, and he stroked her hair.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “It isn’t you,” Kingsley said gently as he took the empty wine glass from her. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll make it right. Try to sleep.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide and green and angry. “You know all his secrets. Why did he leave me?”

  Kingsley shrugged. “He doesn’t want to hurt you.”

  “Then why,” she said, “does he keep doing it?”

  7

  Christmas Eve, 1871

  At five the next morning, Kingsley was awoken by a light slap on the cheek followed by an order to get dressed. They were taking an early train. Eleanor and Annette would be coming on the later train apparently.

  Though he despised early mornings, Kingsley got up, got dressed, and flagged down a cab to take them to the station. They had a first-class compartment to themselves which Kingsley took advantage of by stretching out as best as he could on the rear-facing seat, arm thrown over his eyes.

  “You’re sleeping?” Søren asked, his tone scoffing.

  “With your permission, My Lord. And even if I don’t have your permission.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Fuck your mortal soul,” Kingsley said.

  “Have I ever told you that you are a bad valet?”

  “I’d rather be a bad valet than a bad husband.”

  “And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean?” Søren demanded, his tone clipped and crisp.

  Kingsley peeked out from under his arm and looked at Søren. “You know.”

  “Do I?”

  “You left her? Again? How could you do that to her? And on her wedding night?”

  “What did or did not happen on my wedding night is none of your concern,” Søren said.

  “In coitus interruptus,” Kingsley said, “you pull your cock out of her cunt before you come. You don’t pull it out of the entire fucking house before you come. Do I need to draw you a picture?”

  “You spoke to Eleanor?”

  “Someone had to go to her when she was sobbing her heart out after you ran away.”

  “I never, in my wildest dreams, imagined that my male lover would side with my wife against me.”

  “You need to have wilder dreams then, mon ami. And don’t call me your ‘lover.’ I hate that word. Implies I love you. I don’t. I barely tolerate you. I’m your ‘bare tolerator,’ if that. Good day.”

  At that, Kingsley rolled over onto his side, away from Søren.

  “Kingsley.”

  Kingsley held up his hand, fingers clenched, indicating Søren should shut it.

  “We will finish this fight,” Kingsley replied, “in four hours when I wake up. Until then, I want you to sit there and think about what you’ve done.”

  “Have you forgotten who you are addressing?”

  “Have you forgotten I’m French? In England you bow and scrape to your aristocracy, but in France we cut your fucking heads off. Pardon me—we cut your fucking heads off, My Lord.”

  To that, Søren had no rebuttal. A sure sign he did feel some remorse. Good.

  A little over four hours later, Kingsley woke up. He found coffee and the toilets and enjoyed them both and in that order. Revived, he returned to his compartment and found Søren behind the The Times again. Kingsley pulled down the shades to give them privacy. If this fight dissolved into fisticuffs, he didn’t want any witnesses.

  “I am now willing and able to continue our fight,” Kingsley announced. Søren did nothing. Kingsley attempted to kick Søren in the shin, but Søren had seen it coming and moved his leg at the last second.

  “Bastard,” Kingsley said.

  Søren lowered his newspaper, folded it, tossed on the seat next to him.

  “She said I could do anything to her,” Søren said. “She said it more than once, as if she meant it. And for a few seconds, I came dangerously close to taking the candle off the table and pouring scalding wax on her breasts. And if you think me leaving mid-coitus hurt her, imagine the alternative scenario, if you will.”

  Kingsley’s eyes widened. He blew hard through his lips. “Fair point,” Kingsley said. “That would throw even me off my game if you hadn’t warned me first.”

  “I’ll accept your apology the moment you offer it.”

  “You’ll accept my foot in your arse,” Kingsley said. “Just because I agree it was better for you to leave than douse her in candlewax without warning doesn’t mean you win this fight.”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Tell her. Just…tell her. Tell her what you are, what you do, what you want. Tell your wife who her husband is.”

  “And watch the girl who loves me come to hate me?”

  “She’ll hate you anyway if you keep leaving her like that. And who knows? She might not hate you. She might like it. If she told you to do anything to her…she might have meant it, you know?”

  Søren shook his head. “What is your game?”

  “What?”

  “What are you playing at? Trying to talk me into telling Eleanor about my…proclivities? What do you get out of it?”

  “A full fucking night’s sleep,” Kingsley said.

  “If you didn’t want us to marry, you should have told me.”

  Kingsley furrowed his brow at Søren in confusion. “I did want you to marry her. Nice enough way to get rich overnight, marry a beautiful girl. If I was against it, I would have stopped it.”

  “I kept waiting for you to stop it, to try to talk me out of it.”

  “I didn’t,” Kingsley said. “If you’ll recall, I talked you into it.”

  “Yes, which is highly suspicious the more I think about it.”

  “What do you think this is about?” Kingsley asked. “Can’t I just want you to be happy?”

  “No,” Søren said. “You know I know you too well for that.”

  Søren paused and Kingsley lived and died in that short agonizing silence.

  “Are you planning on leaving me?” Søren asked. “Is that what this is about?”

  Kingsley only stared at him, stunned speechless.

  “You sit there and berate me, swear at me, and insult me for not being honest with Eleanor. But you’re not being honest with me, are you? I ask you again…Are you planning to leave me?”

  “Why would you think that?” Kingsley asked, too stunned to muster a defense.

  “You encouraged me to marry her, encouraged me to bed her, and you are now encouraging me to tell Eleanor everything about myself. You seemed determined Eleanor and I have the same sort of relationship you and I do. Are you hoping she can be to me what you are so you can leave me with a clear conscience? If so, tell me and tell me now. I don’t know if I could bear it but I can hardly bear not knowing either.”

  “I…” Kingsley lifted his empty hands to show he was without words.

  “You were seeing a woman in Paris,” Søren reminded him. “Usually you boast about your other lovers but you rarely spoke of her. Is it her? For God’s sake, Kingsley, tell me.”

  Their compartment was silent but for the steady chugging of the train on the iron tracks.

  “I’m almost flattered,” Kingsley finally said. “No, I am certainly flattered that you think I could leave you. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. My love for you is a beast so unholy strong not even Hercules could slay it. Now that I’ve said that, I imagine Hercules was a mythological figure who also must have had an enormous cock.”

  “Kingsley.”

  “No. No. No. Never. I would never leave you. No, a thousand times, no. A million times. A billion. You own me, you know that. You should no more worry about me leaving you than your own hat growing legs and running away.”

  Søren exhaled and visibly relaxed.

  “You are being honest with me?”

  “Yes,” Kingsley said. “I swear on my mother’s grave. The woman in Paris…I do care for her. She’s only twenty-eight and her husband’s an old man, too old to give her children. She asked me if I would…and I was considering it when we received the news your father died.”

  “She asked you to give her a child.”

  Kingsley nodded, knot in his throat.

  “But if you’re married,” Kingsley pushed his words past the knot, “and you’re happily married then someday you’ll have children. And I could be like a second father to them. You would let me be close to your children, wouldn’t you?”

  Søren only stared at Kingsley a too-long moment. Kingsley waited and Søren finally spoke a command. “Come here.”

  Kingsley came and sat at Søren’s side. Søren took Kingsley’s face in his two hands, forcing Kingsley to look at him.

  “Yes,” Søren said, his tone emphatic. “Yes, I would let you be close to my children. I would let you be a second father to them. And while we’re at it…yes to everything you ever want from me. Anything you wish for, hope for, dream of…yes to it all.”

  Kingsley rested his head against Søren’s chest. Søren wrapped one arm around Kingsley’s back, the other around his head. Kingsley felt Søren pulling his too-long hair off the back of his neck. Søren kissed him on a tender spot, just above his collar. “Yes,” Søren whispered then kissed Kingsley’s neck again. “Yes.” A hundred kisses were punctuated with a hundred yeses.

  Yes. Kiss. Yes. Kiss. Yes. Kiss. Yes.

  It went on and on until Kingsley couldn’t tell the yeses from the kisses. He raised his head, and Søren gave him a long slow deep yes on the lips.

  Eventually, the kiss ended. With his thumbs, Søren wiped away the tears on Kingsley’s cheeks.

  “Why haven’t you ever told me you wanted children?” Søren asked. His tone was gentle now, not commanding, only wondering.

  “I never wanted you to think you weren’t enough for me,” Kingsley said. “It was hard enough convincing you to be with me. If you knew there was something more I wished for, something we could never have, you’d send me away, probably saying it was for my own good or something stupid and selfless like that. As stupid and selfless as running away from Eleanor for three years just because you wanted to take her to bed.”

  “It was the right thing to do,” Søren said.

  “It was,” Kingsley said. “Then. Leaving her last night with no explanation? No.”

  “No,” Søren said with a sigh. “It wasn’t.”

  “But it wasn’t right of me, either, sending you to her like that. It was selfish. When I saw her last night weeping…I wanted to break your neck for hurting her. Then I realized you must feel the same. You want to hurt anyone who hurts her.”