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Chapter Text

VERSION ONE: Jack Seward

"This hotel has an illustrious history— Lord Godalming was giving me a full account of it— dating back to its construction in 1411 and its reconstruction in 1647 after a fire…"

Jack was speaking so fast that Lucy could hardly catch the words, and striding down the hotel corridor at a pace to match it, making her almost have to jog to keep up with him as he led her (and three porters weighed down with luggage) toward their honeymoon suite. Jack had casually dropped that he originally intended to spend their wedding night at the asylum— and hadn't given any indication that this was a bad idea— but then Jack's good friend Lord Godalming (God bless him!) had offered to pay for a stay in this hotel instead.

A porter opened some huge wooden doors, and Jack walked in ahead of Lucy, still talking about the history of the hotel, the porters trailing behind them. The room was richly-decorated but cozy enough, with a fire crackling in a hearth with two overstuffed chairs drawn up to it, and a bottle of wine and two glasses sitting on one of the end tables beside it. Beyond lay a kitchenette and wash basin, and facing the hearth was an enormous bed with a velvet cover. Lucy nervously glanced at the bed, then quickly turned away, focusing on thanking the porters.

After a flurry of setting down suitcases, stoking the fire in the grand hearth, and making sure they were settled, the porters left with courtly tips of their hats, leaving Jack and Lucy alone.

Alone. How strange it was! They hadn't been alone once since Jack had proposed— Mrs. Westenra had hovered over them at every opportunity, often dominating the conversation so much that Lucy felt it was her mother, not her, who was courting Jack. Still, Lucy was a sensible young woman, and she knew that marrying not only a doctor, but the head of his own asylum, was an advantageous pairing, and she was lucky that said doctor was courteous, handsome, and just within ten years of her age.

Still, she couldn't help but feel a bit of anxiety as she found herself in this elaborate room with nary a soul but the doctor— her husband, she reminded herself.

She realized that Jack was still rambling about the hotel and its history, and she wondered if she should find some way to stop him, but before she could think of a good way, he stopped and turned around, blushing a bit, and said, "My dear, I'm afraid I'm rambling again, aren't I? I apologize, please forgive me."

He took her gloved hand and kissed it courteously, and she felt bad for wanting to interrupt his monologue so she simply said, "Oh no, you weren't rambling— it was fascinating." Part of her felt conflicted for saying such a thing, but she felt that she must know him better before she ever tried to correct him.

"Good," he said, still holding her hand as if not knowing what to do with it. For a moment the pause stretched between them, and then Jack smiled— an unusual expression for his stern, handsome face— and said, "Would you like to try the wine?"

Lucy felt a flush of relief, both for something to keep them busy for several minutes, and for perhaps a way to calm herself down. "I think that's a splendid idea…" She tried out a new word on her tongue, "…darling." She noticed Jack's expression warm at the word, and decided that she would continue to use it. She pulled off her gloves and coat as Jack poured the wine.

Lucy sat down on one of two overstuffed chairs facing the hearth, cheered by the pleasant crackling of the fire. She glanced at Jack as he held out the wine glass, and noticed his hands were trembling slightly. With a flush of relief, she wondered if he was nervous as well. But it felt improper to mention it, so she just took the glass when offered. Jack sat opposite in a matching chair, sitting on the front edge of the cushion with both feet on the floor as if ready to jump up at any moment. Their eyes met, and Lucy felt such a wave of nervousness that she immediately averted her eyes to stare into the fire, sipping her wine a bit more greedily than was proper.

Her mother's terse description of what to expect on a wedding night had not exactly been encouraging: Mrs. Westenra had instructed Lucy to obey her husband, undress when instructed, and not show that she was feeling pain, no matter how much it hurt. "It will get less painful in time," her mother had said matter-of-factly, "and occasionally it is not painful at all. But the first time is misery."

At the time Lucy had wondered how extramarital sex could be such a popular sin if it was so undesirable, but she didn't think it wise to push her mother.

(Mina had tried to bring up the conversation topic, but Lucy felt so embarrassed at the thought of Mina explaining how to have relations with Jack that she had always shut it down. She was regretting it now.)

As they drank the wine in silence, Jack shifted and re-shifted and looked almost as nervous as he had the day he had proposed. Lucy was afraid he was going to start rattling off history about the hotel again, so she sneaked a glance at him and said, as casually as possible, "It feels strange to sit here alone, doesn't it? I've grown so accustomed to my mother chaperoning us!"

Jack smiled— the expression still looked a bit odd on his face. "Yes, it is! But don't worry, my dear, having a bit of nervousness is all perfectly normal."

"Oh good!" Lucy said, smiling despite herself. "I feel as if butterflies are flitting around in my stomach!"

This time, Jack made a tiny sound that seemed to be a genuine laugh. "I confess I feel that anxiety as well! But not to worry." He held the smile, but she could swear she saw his brain racing to try to come up with what to say next. She decided she must help him.

"You have always been so unflappable. It is something I have always quite admired about you."

Jack sat up a bit straighter in his chair, reminding Lucy of a peacock. He took a sip of wine, and Lucy took the opportunity to gulp down another few mouthfuls. The warm glow in her throat was being matched by her cheeks growing red with the effects of the wine. It took the slightest edge of anxiety off, but not enough.

She and Jack drank the rest of their wine without speaking, letting the white noise of the fire fill the silence. Then Jack set his glass aside, and Lucy, with a strange reluctance to let go of something to do with her hands, put hers on the end table near her as well.

Jack placed both hands on his knees and leaned forward as if to stand up. "Well. Er…" He cleared his throat. "My dear, er, beautiful, honorable, noble wife, I suppose we should consummate our marriage."

Lucy felt a wave of both excitement and fear. "Oh, of course," Lucy said. Jack stared into space for a moment, then took her hand and stood up to face her, helping her to her feet. She could feel his breath wisping shortly over her face as he looked at her with eyes wide with— fear? desire? She couldn't tell.

They had kissed a few times before, but with Mrs. Westenra always hanging about, the kisses had been so restrained as to have barely happened at all. Lucy was not immune to the thrill of intimacy from this brief touch of connection, but she was unsure how to kiss in a way that would jump-start the process that they both felt desperately bound to complete this evening.

Jack's face was only a couple inches from hers now, but his skin was blanched and he didn't move a muscle. Hoping she wasn't too forward, Lucy decided that she couldn't take the awkward silence a moment longer, and she stood on her toes to reach up and press her lips against his.

As he bent his head to meet her kiss, she felt distracted by a dozen tiny things. She realized that her forehead was pressed against his glasses and smudging them, that his lips felt foreign and oddly warm, and that perhaps she shouldn't have her eyes open because now they were trying to look into each other's eyes but they were too close and so she could see nothing but a blur.

She felt frustration building up as she broke the kiss— she was so bad at this! This handsome doctor deserved better, and yet she had no experience in such things. She felt a child, a pitiful young child who couldn't even kiss properly. For a moment her mind flickered to Mina and Jonathan, the ease with which they spent time together: marrying a childhood friend certainly must be the most blessed of unions. But Lucy had made her choice, and she could— she would— learn how to be happy with this most courteous of men.

"Perhaps I should take off my glasses," Jack said, removing them and placing them on the table next to his wine glass. "Don't worry, I'm only nearsighted, so I can still see your beautiful face."

Lucy smiled at the compliment, and kissed him again. This one was better, without the glasses in the way, and his lips felt a little less strange, a bit more satisfying.

She pulled away, and Jack leaned down to touch his forehead to hers (she had always loved that forehead). Lucy had already kissed him twice, so she figured it was his turn. But when he didn't continue, Lucy, with a hint of desperation, reached her arms around his neck to pull her body flush against his. The act felt rather daring, although the layers of clothing between them— Jack's shirts and waistcoats, Lucy's dress and corset and shift— still prevented a feeling of too much intimacy.

This kiss was better still, and Lucy found herself melting against his body a bit, enjoying the feeling as his arms tentatively encircled her waist, holding her close. He was a thin man, but surprisingly strong.

Lucy felt something hard poking against her waist. She was confused about it for a moment before realizing it was Jack's manhood. The sensation sparked a feeling of panic. No matter how much she told herself that this was perfectly natural— even crucial— for a married couple, she couldn't help pulling away a tiny bit. Then, feeling guilty, she pressed her body against his again, and felt him harder than before, which made the panic grow like rising floodwater.

She felt a little queasy, and wished she hadn't drunk the wine. She wanted a mug of warm milk and to go to bed alone, or with Mina, not with this man who still felt like a half-stranger to her. But she mustn't cry, she mustn't show how uncomfortable she was—

They kissed a few minutes more, and although Lucy was beginning to enjoy the kisses, a cloud of anxiety was building as she could think of little else than that hard lump that would soon be between her legs. At last Jack pulled away, and said, in a voice that was a bit huskier than usual, "I believe I am ready, my dear. Are you ready?"

She was not, absolutely not, but she remembered her mother's admonishment: You must obey your husband. "Yes, of course. Do you wish me to undress?"

"I would," Jack said, "and I will undress as well, and we can lay together on the bed."

Lucy felt another wave of embarrassment fall on her— she had not even thought to consider that both of them must be undressed! "As you wish," she said, and instinctively glanced around the room for a changing screen. One stood in the far corner, and she started to walk toward it.

"Oh, er—" Jack stumbled over his words. "I thought perhaps we could… undress… in front of each other?"

Again, Lucy was mentally kicking herself for being so ignorant. "Oh, indeed. Of course. How silly of me!"

"Not at all, not at all."

They stood three feet apart facing each other, the firelight flickering on them as neither moved.

"Perhaps we could have another drink?" Jack said explosively, and Lucy immediately said, "Ah yes, a very good idea!"

One very big glass of wine each later, they decided to try again. Lucy's head still felt clear enough (clearer than she liked), but her fine motor skills were less than she wanted as she unbuttoned her dress jacket with fumbling fingers. Jack was busy with his own coat, and then each was down a layer. Lucy didn't wear a jacket at home, of course, so she was still technically fully-clothed, but she had never seen Jack without his coat on, and beneath all the anxiety she felt a tinge of pleasure to see his thin arms visible through his loose white sleeves. He took off his vest and draped it over the chair, and began fiddling with his cufflinks, dropping them onto the end table.

Now that Jack was more undressed than she had seen before, Lucy felt she must follow suit. With trembling fingers, she slowly pulled off her cravat, exposing her bare throat to the air— and she could swear she saw Jack's pupils dilate as he looked at her.

Calm, she told herself. Breathe. You can do this.

She slipped out of her heels, standing in stocking feet, with made Jack look even taller.

Encouraged by this, Jack slipped out of his shoes as well, and then eagerly undid his tie and unbuttoned and pulled off his long-sleeved shirt, exposing the sleeveless shirt underneath. Now he was standing before her with his thin white arms and shoulders exposed, and she could see goosebumps on his arms. She felt an instinctive flush of embarrassment at seeing him in his undershirt, but once against forced herself to remember that this was not only permissible but mandatory.

Now it was her turn to take off another layer, but the next thing to take off— other than her stockings, which were held up by garters— was her entire dress. If she did that, she would be standing before him in a corset and a shift. Through the thin cotton of her undergarments, he would… oh heavens, he would be able to see her breasts. She stared at his expectant face, feeling a wave of nausea again.

She couldn't do this. But she must— she must—

With trembling fingers, she moved her hands to her throat to begin unbuttoning her dress.

She made it through two buttons before she broke down crying.

In an instant, Jack's face went through several expressions— changing from the expectant look to utter confusion to desperation to frantic concern. He rushed to her side as she crumpled into the chair, sobbing into her hands. "Oh my dear," he cried, "I'm so sorry! Oh dear, oh dear! Please don't fret! I'm so sorry!" He tried to dab her eyes with a handkerchief, but she had her hands clawed over her face, blocking him entry.

"I can't," she wailed. "I can't, I can't, I can't! I'm so sorry, I can't!"

Jack fell to his knees at her feet, grabbing her elbows. "That's fine! That is completely fine! You have done nothing wrong. My dear, why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm—" Lucy was crying so hard she could barely speak. "I— I have no right to deny you. I said in my vows today— I promised to obey you!"

"Poppycock!" Jack said, his voice full of disgust. "Of course that is in the words of the service, but any rational man would understand that it only pertains to obedience that brings joy, not sorrow!"

"No, no, no," Lucy sobbed. "My mother said I must obey you no matter how much I hated to—"

"Your mother can go to hell," Jack snapped, and then clapped one hand over his mouth with a stunned expression as Lucy's head snapped up, the shock obliterating her tears for a moment. "I don't know why I said—" Jack stuttered. "Mrs. Westenra is a noble lady, and—"

Lucy kissed him, the rest of his sentence dying in her mouth. This time she closed her eyes, and clutched the back of his head with both hands. When she released his lips, he sank as if half-dead, resting his head in her lap. Instinctively she began to stroke his head, mussing up his neatly-combed hair.

For a while they just sat like that, Jack's head in her lap, the rest of his body slumped along her legs and onto the floor like a dead man. Lucy rather guiltily thought that touching his hair was rather like petting a dog— it gave her a bit of stress relief.

Jack moved his hand to rest on her knee, his head still in her lap. "My dear, please tell me what is distressing you."

Lucy tried to speak, but tears came up to choke her. Jack looked up at her, which made it worse— she couldn't bear the emotional weight of his wide brown eyes, his slightly-parted lips, his look of utter confusion and concern.

"It's silly," she managed.

"Please tell me."

How could she sum up the looming specter of the whole situation? So she started small, with the worry that was running in the front of her mind. "I'm— I'm afraid of the pain."

Jack looked genuinely confused. "Pain from intercourse?"

Though she blushed, she looked into his eyes and nodded.

"Oh Lucy, do you think that it must be painful? That's not necessarily true. In fact, I have prepared at length to ensure that it will be a pleasant experience for you. The key is proper genital lubrication, usually through use of oil, which is in my suitcase for just such a circumstance." The words flowed out of his mouth without a hint of embarrassment, and Lucy realized that as a doctor he could easily discuss bodily functions without shame.

For a moment she hesitated, then she asked what was really on her mind. "How does… the process of consummation… work, exactly?" She looked sideways quickly, ashamed. "My mother was very vague on the details."

"Oh, it's very simple," Jack said, in such a clinical voice that Lucy felt herself relax a bit. He sat back on his heels, sitting at her feet but speaking as if lecturing a sexual health class at the university. "First the man in question must become aroused, during which his penis will become hard and erect due to increased blood flow…"

He was so businesslike about it that Lucy didn't even have the chance to feel too embarrassed, and as he laid out the cold facts of life, it all started to feel a bit more manageable and less scary to her. She was still suspicious that it would hurt, but at least she felt more equipped with knowledge. And speaking seemed to relax Jack; his shoulders loosened, the muscles in his face relaxed, and he spoke calmly, laying out the details. Lucy asked a few more questions, which he answered in the same professional way, and when at last she had gotten a picture of the whole process— a very strange process indeed, she thought— he asked her if she had any additional questions, and she shook her head no.

"Thank you for explaining," she said. "It helps."

"I'm so glad to hear that, my dear!" Jack said brightly.

Lucy fidgeted slightly— she dearly wished that she could now simply go to bed and process all of this information, rather than immediately trying to put it into practice. (She would have given anything to sleep sweetly in Mina's arms again!) But she was a good Christian wife, and she would do her duty, strange as it seemed.

Squaring her shoulders, she sat up straight in her chair. Her body felt light from the wine, but her mind was steady. She held out her hand for Jack to take, and asked matter-of-factly, "Well, darling—" (the word still felt a bit foreign in her mouth) "—you are the man in question. Are you aroused enough to consummate?"

Jack's expression faltered, as if in all the technical details, he had forgotten that this process must be carried out in flesh and blood.

"Oh, ah…" His eyes glanced this way and that, and she swore she could see panic rising in him. But then he clenched his jaw, and looked at her resolutely, and said, "Not at the moment. We will have to start again."

"All right." Lucy waited for him to do something— raise her to her feet or draw her in for a kiss or speak to her— but he just sat there on the floor, looking lost.

"Please!" she burst out. "Please tell me what to do. I don't know what I'm doing and I need you to tell me what to do!"

"Please don't cry," Jack sat, raising himself up on his knees to kiss her nose. "I… I…" He was sweating, his eyes darting around nervously.

Finally, he sunk his head back into her lap again, his hands clutching the folds of her skirt. "I… am not good at reading emotional cues, and did not realize you were feeling unwell until you began to weep. I cannot bear for something like that to happen again. I wish for you to tell me what you want, and I will obey."

Lucy instinctively began petting his hair again, imagining he was a little curly dog, and tried to calm down. She had never even stopped to consider what she might want on a wedding night, and now that Jack asked, her mind was a giant blank.

Lucy had never asked for anything in her life. How could she start now?

"Please," Jack said, burying his face in the folds of her dress. "Please, be my master and let me be your slave."

"Goodness, darling, don't say such things!" Lucy said, cupping his face in her hands and lifting him to face her. "I wish only to be your wife."

Jack's voice was so small she barely heard it. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Do you wish to be my wife?"

What an odd thing to say on the day of their wedding! "Of course I do. How could we have gotten this far if I did not?"

"You could have married Lord Godalming and lived in high society," Jack said, his voice a bit choked, "or Mr. Morris with his wild tales of his adventures. Instead you chose to become the matron of an asylum and spend your days with… me. Why?"

Lucy stared at him for a moment, unsure how to answer. "Because I judged you to be the best prospect," she said simply, at last.

Jack looked unsatisfied, but he brooked no argument.

"Besides," she added, "you are the most handsome."

Jack's eyebrows raised in surprise, then arched in suspicion. "Don't be cruel," he said, almost sulkily.

"But it's true!"

"It absolutely is not. Quincey is objectively more handsome than I am— a more virile specimen of manhood does not exist. And Arthur is also fair-faced, and broad-shouldered, and has a kindly smile that warms the heart far more than my stern countenance!"

Lucy couldn't help herself— she laughed. It was wicked to do so, she thought, but Jack's face looked so consternated that she couldn't help it. "Darling, are you arguing with me about my own taste?"

Jack paled, and slowly leaned his head back into her lap.

"I could show you my diary if you are ever in doubt," Lucy said with one last little smile. She began petting his hair again, and after a few minutes, both of them were breathing more easily.

"My dear," Jack murmured, "I don't care if we consummate tonight."

Lucy started in surprise— it had never even occurred to her that this might be a possibility. "Are you certain, darling?"

"I'm certain. I just want you to be at ease, and allow me to adore you, even if from afar."

Lucy looked into the fire, letting the relief roll over her like a wave. She didn't have to do anything tonight. She didn't have to do anything.

At last, in a small voice, she asked, "Would you make me a mug of warm milk?"

Jack's head shot up, his expression brighter than it had been in many minutes. "Of course, my dear!" He practically jumped up, ran to the kitchenette in their suite, and began rummaging through the cupboards. With him occupied, Lucy felt a weight lift from her shoulders, and she slumped back into her chair, rebuttoning her dress and gazing into the fire.

Jack had managed to wrangle a pan and some milk, and he brought them over to set on the kettle warmer in the fireplace. He was still dressed just in trousers, socks, and his undershirt, and his arms looked colder than ever.

"Why don't we change into our nightclothes while we wait for the milk to warm," Lucy suggested.

"Of course! I shall go in the adjacent room, and you can use the changing screen."

Lucy almost cried with relief, and she waited until Jack had grabbed his pajamas out of his suitcase and ducked into the other room before she retrieved her own nightgown and walked behind the screen. Even with a wall and a changing screen between them, she still felt her hands tremble as she unbuttoned her dress, but soon muscle memory took over and she took off her dress, although removing the corset without any help was a great ordeal that involved much wrangling and rustling.

At last she pulled on a pair of lacy bloomers and then put on her full-length nightgown. Then she peeked out to see Jack in his striped pajamas and a silk dressing-gown, pulling the milk off the fire with his back determinedly to her.

Lucy had a dressing-gown as well, and she pulled it on. It still felt exceptionally vulnerable to walk out only in her night-clothes, but at least her body was somewhat obscured by the robe. She sat down across from Jack, and he handed her a steaming mug.

Lucy settled in and tasted the warm, fatty milk, feeling it relax her far more than the wine had. "I confess that I've gotten rather used to this drink before bed," she said, cupping the mug with both hands. "It brings a sense of warmth to the any nights. Even in the summer I can't shake the evening chill until I have this in my hand."

"Then I shall make it for you every night," Jack said, pouring a mug for himself.

"Mina and I have always shared warm milk together in the evenings," Lucy said. "We take turns making it. Sometimes I burn it, and Mina gives me a lecture about not letting my mind wander. Goodness, but I can be a dreamer sometimes!" She took another sip, looking into the fire. "But Mina and I have our best conversations curled up by the fire, giggling into our mugs of milk. I remember her telling me about Jonathan asking to court her, and I was so concerned that she had chosen a poor solicitor's clerk! I suppose that sorted itself out, though, didn't it? I actually tried to set her up with you at one point."

She suddenly cut herself off, aware that she had spoken more words together in the last minute than she had during her entire courtship with Jack. "Goodness, how I ramble."

Jack was staring at her with a soft, almost dazed expression. "I love to hear you talk."

Lucy smiled shyly and gulped some more milk, as she began to entertain an idea that she had never truly considered:

Maybe Jack would actually like her.

She had been so caught up in trying to do everything right, to be everything that she should be, that it hadn't occurred to her that she could let down her guard and just… be herself. She already knew how to do this around Mina, but few others. But perhaps this kind of easy familiarity would come in time.

She set down her empty mug, though Jack still sipped his. With her body calmer, Lucy realized that much of the remaining tension she felt was caused by the pins keeping her elaborate hairstyle piled up on her head. She reached up and began pulling them out, letting the sunny waves of hair fall down, and feeling the relief of the pressure lessening on her head.

She glanced up to see Jack staring at her with eyes wide and lips slightly parted.

For a moment Lucy basked in the glow of that expression. The wine— yes, it must be the wine— had emboldened her. "Would you help me unbraid my hair, darling?"

Jack's hand quivered as he set down the mug and walked toward her. "Of course. Ask, and I obey."

Lucy scooted forward on the chair and turned sideways so Jack could kneel beside her. He did so, and hesitated before reaching out and reverently taking a braid in his fine, slender fingers, unwinding the strands. When the braid was unraveled he pressed the lock of hair to his lips, then started on the next one.

For several minutes they worked on unraveling, until her hair was loose, and then she asked Jack to find her hairbrush. He brought it over to her, and hesitantly asked, "Would you like… for me to brush your hair?"

"Yes please," Lucy said with a smile— she had always loved the sensation.

Jack pulled the brush over her hair, so gently that the bristles just glossed over the surface. She raised her hands to guide his, and the touch of her hands against his made her feel a spark of warmth in her breast. In a few moments had had gotten the hang of it, and in short order her hair was brushed, but she let him continue to meticulously work his way from one side of her head to the other. It felt so good that Lucy didn't dare interrupt him for many minutes.

Finally, he tentatively asked, "Is that sufficient brushing?"

Lucy felt almost selfish for keeping him this long. "Yes, thank you." She paused, taking a deep breath. "I think… I think I would like to go to sleep."

"Of course, my dear. Anything you like."

Lucy stood up, ruffling her hair and feeling the relief to have her scalp unpinned, before moving her hands to her dressing-gown belt in order to remove it.

Then she remembered Jack was standing right beside her, and hesitated.

"Jack," she said softly, "are you certain that it is not necessary for us to consummate tonight?"

"Absolutely certain."

Lucy felt the relief in her chest again. Without the intimidating chore looming over her, she realized that she wanted Jack to see her without all those layers of clothing and corsets over her. She undid her belt, and slipped the dressing-gown off her shoulders, revealing the cotton nightgown underneath.

To her disappointment (and a bit of relief), Jack stared resolutely at her face, not allowing his eyes to wander. He took her hand and kissed it. "My dear, I forgot that I was planning to carry you across the threshold of our room. Would you allow me to carry you to bed?"

Lucy felt a glow at his suggestion. "Yes, darling, I would like that."

Jack paused. Then, as if trying to move a patient with a neck injury, he stood beside Lucy and slipped his left arm behind her knees, and his right arm along her back. For a moment she felt his quivering muscles and was afraid that he wouldn't be able to lift her, but with a soft grunt he managed, and she was lying bridal-style in his arms, her head naturally falling against his shoulder.

He kissed her temple gently, then carried her the short distance to the bed and laid her down, pulling the covers around her to nest her in their silky warmth.

When she was thoroughly tucked in, Jack pulled up a nearby chair and sat down, making a show of pulling out a pipe and some tobacco, but not actually smoking. Lucy laid in bed, fighting off sleepiness induced by both the wine and the warm milk.

She found herself wishing that he was lying beside her, rather than sitting five feet away with a pipe.

With a sigh, she turned over to go to sleep.

Then her eyes flew open, and she almost laughed. She didn't have to just wish— she could ask! (My, but this would take some getting used to.)

Slowly, she half-sat up. Jack immediately set down his pipe. "Is everything all right, my dear?"

Lucy almost didn't have the courage to speak the words. "Would you lie beside me?"

Jack's next breath came out ragged, but his voice was calm. "Command, and I obey."

Lucy felt a little rush at the sight of his intense gaze. "Very well. I command you to lie beside me."

Jack practically jumped onto the bed, then restrained himself a bit and calmly lifted the covers, scooting up beside her so that his body spooned hers, with his left arm tucked up under his head. He moved his right hand haphazardly for a moment, as if unsure where to put it, before resting it on her arm.

She wished his hand hadn't landed there. She wished it had been…

Don't wish— ask.

She took Jack's hand in hers, and then slipped it down to rest on her breast.

An intense spark of joy thrilled through her, and she felt Jack's body jolt, and a small whimper escaped his lips.

For a moment they laid there, tense.

"Command me," Jack pleaded in her ear.

Lucy blushed, but she was smiling. She felt his manhood against her legs, but this time she didn't feel any fear.

"Touch me," she whispered.

Jack's voice trembled. "Where?"

Lucy paused, hardly daring to speak the word. "Everywhere."

~~~

Chapter Text

VERSION TWO: Quincey Morris

Lucy tried to contain her giggles as Quincey Morris ran down the hallway of the hotel, carrying her in his arms. The porters were practically jogging behind them to keep up, and Quincey would spin every once in a while, which made Lucy laugh so hard that she had to bury her face in his neck.

It was already late at night— after the wedding ceremony, Quincey had insisted on taking her on a ride around London in his carriage, pointing out sights and drinking brandy all the way. Lucy had drunk a full glass, which made her feel that the world was hers to conquer. Her mother had always insisted that brandy was unrefined for a young lady— but Lucy was not on the best terms with her mother now, anyway. Mrs. Westenra only barely tolerated Quincey because he was so ridiculously wealthy, but her face had been like sour milk the entire wedding ceremony.

Quincey pulled up short at the heavy-paneled doors and gave her another spin, and when the porter opened it he carried her across the threshold and plopped her down into an overstuffed chair by the fire. Lucy loved the extravagant yet cozy room— their stay here was a gift from Quincey's good friend Lord Godalming.

As the porters bustled about, Quincey wasted no time pouring himself another glass of brandy, and Lucy giggled and flushed as she stole it out of his hand, raising the burning liquid to her lips and feeling the warmth travel all the way into her stomach. Quincey protested it and tried to snatch it, both of them giggling.

The porters left (with what Lucy thought was a rather judgmental glance), shutting the door behind them, and Quincey tumbled sideways into the opposite chair, one leg slung over the arm in a most ungentlemanly way, which made Lucy laugh even more.

"Miss Lucy, your face is flushed as a sunrise on a stormy morning. Give me that glass."

"Nonsense!" Lucy said in a flirtatious way, hugging the glass close and taking a defiant sip. "And I'm not Miss Lucy anymore, I'm Mrs. Morris."

"Damn right you are! —Er, pardon my French." Quincey reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her into his lap (and sloshing brandy everywhere), where she curled up, still slightly giggling.

"No more brandy, little lady!" he said with mock sternness, emphasizing his Texas drawl to make her smile. He pulled the glass out of her hand and set it next to his on the end table. "Less drinking, more kissin'."

"If you insist," Lucy said, throwing herself against him. He met her lips eagerly, and for several minutes they just rolled in each other's arms, kissing and murmuring. They'd had a decent amount of practice by now— the number of times they had been un-chaperoned during their courtship was downright scandalous, even though they had never done more than kiss (well, she had felt under his shirt once). But there was an element of scandal to their relationship from the beginning anyway— very few people could fathom why Lucy had chosen a cowboy over a lord or a handsome doctor. What was she thinking?

Lucy hadn't been thinking— she had gone with her heart.

She had almost broken off the engagement two months ago, when Quincey had admitted to her that he had sexual experience. Lucy had run sobbing to Mina about it, and Mina let her cry for a long time before asking her why this made her want him less. When Lucy didn't have a good answer, Mina encouraged her to accept Quincey for who he was now— a man clearly committed to being a true husband— rather than what had happened in the past. In this conversation, Lucy finally broke down and asked Mina all she wished to know about sex, which Mina answered so kindly and patiently that Lucy had hardly even blushed the whole time… until the end of the conversation when Jonathan walked in and Lucy realized that Mina had been talking about her experiences with him, and fairly melted into an embarrassed puddle.

But now, as Quincey petted her thigh and kissed her neck, sending little shivers of pleasure through her, she felt a small, guilty relief that he actually had some practical knowledge about what to do.

Quincey unpinned her hair, letting the curls fall to her shoulders. It wasn't an elaborate hairstyle— she would feel silly dressing too fancy while marrying a cowboy— but having the pins off her scalp was a relief anyway, and feeling his familiar hands running through her hair made her feel like she was floating on sunshine. When her hair was loose, he shifted her in his arms— she loved the way he could easily move her around— and began kissing down her throat, past her collarbone, and right to the edge of her corset, where the curve of her breast was just barely visible.

"Mr. Morris!" she giggled. "How indecent!"

He looked up at her with his warm brown eyes twinkling, and flicked his tongue out to lick her skin, which made her gasp in pleasure. The sensation was so intense that she pulled away, and though he playfully tugged at her to get her back onto his lap, she leaped up, smoothing out her dress in a huffy way. "I have not had nearly enough brandy for this kind of attention," Lucy said with a grin, vaguely aware that she was having to concentrate to enunciate properly. Before Quincey could stop her, she grabbed the glass of brandy and knocked it back.

Quincey tried to laugh, but she thought she sensed a worried edge on his voice. "Okay, darlin', that's definitely enough. C'mon, don't you want my lovin' more than you want that fire-water?"

Lucy threw herself back onto his lap and began kissing him again, pulling off his cravat and unbuttoning his shirt. To her surprise there was no undershirt, and the buttons parted to reveal his bare chest, a sight that made her heart leap. Quincey chuckled wickedly to see her blush, but a moment later she had torn his shirt apart and began kissing his chest, feeling the hard muscle and curly hair against her lips as he stroked her head. She felt she was swimming in a haze, and the pleasure that moved through her was so intense that it was making her stomach hurt and roll and pitch like a boat at sea, and her throat burn, and… oh no, what was this? Oh no…

She barely had time to jump up and run to the wash basin before she puked. It was an explosive motion that burned her throat with acid, and she couldn't seem to stop. She felt Quincey grab her shoulder and pull her hair away from her face as she threw up all the brandy, and most of their wedding dinner, too.

When she spat out the last bits, she felt her vision closing in, and her knees gave way. Quincey caught her and lowered her to the floor, and when her vision cleared she found him kneeling beside her, his bare chest still exposed, and dabbing her lips with a wet cloth.

Through acid-burned lips, Lucy whispered, "Am I ill?"

Quincey shook his head, looking equal parts amused and remorseful. "Mrs. Morris, this here is what we call 'getting blootered'."

"What does that mean?"

"Drunk," he said, suppressing a chuckle.

Lucy's stomach lurched again, and she groaned. "I'm sorry."

"It's my fault!" Quincey said. "I can drink that stuff like it's water, but I forgot that you'd have trouble with it."

"Because I'm a woman."

"Because you're half my size! C'mon, darlin', let's get you to bed."

At the word bed, Lucy felt embarrassment creeping to her cheeks. How could they consummate when her stomach was twisting into knots and her head felt so fuzzy? Well, it was no matter, Quincey could just make use of his experience, and she could just lie there.

Quincey slipped his hands under her knees and back, and effortlessly lifted her and carried her to the bed and set her down on its edge. "Let's get you out of these clothes," Quincey said, and Lucy weakly moved to obey. The whole room was spinning, and the force of throwing up had given her a headache.

She was vaguely aware of Quincey unbuttoning her dress and then easing it off her shoulders, leaving her in her corset and shift. He knelt to take off her shoes— kissing each foot in turn when he did so— and reached up with a daring familiarity to unbuckle her garters and pull off her stockings. Lucy felt a vague sense of warmth in her body at his touch, but the puking had knocked all the desire out of her. She was so tired, and hoped that Quincey would be quick in his attentions so she could go to sleep and hope to feel better in the morning.

Quincey climbed onto the bed behind her and moved her hair aside so he could undo her corset. Again, with a little twinge of guilt, she felt glad that he had experience enough to work the laces effortlessly, for her corset was soon off and she was only in her thin shift.

She expected him to pull that off, too, but instead he moved off the bed, drew back the covers, and helped her lay down. Then, to her surprise (as much as she could feel through the thick haze descending on her), he tucked her in on all sides, so she was like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

Her eyes fluttered closed, but opened again as she felt him climb onto the bed. He laid down propped up on one arm, laying on top of the covers beside her.

She would've fallen asleep right then and there, but she felt that it was her duty to say something. "You are… you are not going to take your rights tonight?"

Quincey scoffed. "Little lady, I'm never going to take anything. Get some sleep, y'hear?"

Lucy murmured softly, and then lifted her head slightly for a kiss, which he gave her. The smell of brandy made her feel nauseated, and she quickly pulled away. She was afraid she had hurt Quincey's feelings, but he just chuckled.

"Sleep well, darlin'," Quincey said, stroking her forehead. "We have all the rest of our lives to sort this out."

Lucy nodded weakly, leaning into his warm, callused hand on her forehead. Within moments, she was asleep.

~~~

Chapter Text

VERSION THREE: Arthur Holmwood

Lucy felt her heart glowing in her chest as she and Arthur strode arm in arm down the hotel corridor, porters in tow, toward their room for the night. The Godalming family was well-known at the hotel, and so the newlywed couple had been greeted with fanfare and congratulations and an entire complimentary supper with the owners, even though Lucy could scarcely eat any more after their lavish reception.

All day, through the wedding and reception and then the supper, Arthur had been small-talking and hobnobbing, kissing gloves and shaking hands and speaking flattery and acting as if he had been lord of his family his entire life, and not just a few short weeks since his father's death. Lucy was glad that her job for now was simply to follow at his elbow, smile much and say very little, though she had been focusing hard on learning every new name, tracking every connection between the dozens of people she'd met that day, hoping it would be useful to Arthur in the future.

But now all the formality and fuss was nearly behind them, and Lucy felt herself straining at the edges. Her feet hurt from her new shoes and her head hurt from her elaborate hairstyle, and she was dying to find herself alone with Arthur and out of the public eye.

The porters opened giant double wooden doors, and they stepped into an ornate but cozy room with a fire and a luxurious-looking bed with a velvet comforter. Lucy glanced at the bed, feeling her heart race, but kept what she hoped was a neutral smile, one that she was learning to perfect— must perfect if she was to be Lady Godalming now.

Oh, but the formality would never end! Arthur knew all of the porters, and as he left them with closing remarks and wished them and their wives good health and weighed them down with extravagant tips, Lucy felt herself flushing with impatience, waiting for all the fuss to be over and for Lord Godalming to just be… Arthur, plain good Arthur Holmwood, again. Lucy busied herself with removing her dress jacket and trying not to stare too much at the bed.

At last, pockets jingling with silver, the last porter left, and Arthur closed the door behind him, bolted it, and let out a tremendous whoosh of breath. The change in his appearance was sudden and almost shocking— his shoulders dropped, his face fell into a pained expression, and he slumped back onto the wood paneling and sunk slowly to the floor.

Lucy stood still, surprised for a moment, before bustling over him and crouching down with her arms folded over her knees. "Are you all right, my love?"

Eyes closed, Arthur leaned his head back, bumping it against the door (and exposing his neck and Adam's apple, which Lucy loved to look at). "I think if I smile any more, my face will fall off my skull like melting wax."

Lucy grimaced, but giggled. "Well, that's quite an image." She turned and plopped down cross-legged onto the lush carpet at his right hand.

"I'm sorry, dear, just give me a moment," he said, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.

Lucy gave him a few long breaths before she asked, "What's bothering you?"

He blinked, and she noted with concern that there were tears in his eyes. "It's no great matter, really. It's not."

"Well, I am your wife now—" What a glow she felt in her heart at these words! "—which means that no matter is too small or great to discuss with me."

Arthur chewed his lip for a minute, as he often did when he was deep in thought, but instead of speaking his mind, he said, "Look, here I am, making you sit on the floor! Goodness." He stood up, then offered his hand and helped Lucy up, leading her to the hearth, where a fire burned brightly and two overstuffed chairs were pulled up. Lucy followed patiently, knowing that Arthur would tell her all when he was ready, and not a moment sooner.

He sat down and drew her into his lap. They had only had the chance to sit like this a handful of times, and Lucy's heart thrilled at the notion that they could now curl up in this manner whenever they wanted. She sunk against his broad chest and nuzzled into his neck, resting her head under his jaw, fitting against him like a puzzle piece. He murmured happily and wrapped his arms around her, and for a few minutes they just sat like that, not wishing to do or say anything else.

Finally, Lucy's patience paid off, and Arthur said, "It's just that—" He paused. "This was my first appearance in society since my father's death. I'm used to the hubbub, of course, and the social pressure, and keeping track of everyone's lives so I can make polite conversation, and being recognized and respected and, well, fawned over."

Lucy listened attentively, wondering where this was going.

"But now that I'm Lord Godalming, head of the estate, the family, everything… It's so different. Everyone looks to me. Everyone expects me to automatically know what I'm doing— and waits for me to make a mistake." His voice grew husky, as if fighting tears. "It feels like I'm up on a golden pedestal surrounded by a mob."

Lucy tutted softly and nuzzled deeper against him. Beneath her concern for him, she felt a small twinge of happiness that he was not trying to keep up the pretense around her— he showed a good face to the outside world, but here, with her, he was just himself. Still, she hated to she him so tense: she could feel that his neck muscles were so tight they were twitching.

"Some of the mob are friendly, no doubt," Arthur continued. "But some of them seem like sharks in the water, circling, waiting for me to misstep. Waiting for blood." He shivered, and then loosened his cravat as if he was too hot (exposing more of that lovely neck). "Am I being melodramatic?"

Lucy lifted her head so she could look at him. "It doesn't matter whether you are or not. This is how you feel." Arthur seemed at a loss for words, so she continued. "This new title is a great burden, but I will do everything I can to help you bear it." She kissed his cheek, savoring the feel of his stubble against her lips. "You don't have to do this alone."

"My dearest Lucy," Arthur said, turning his head to kiss her on the lips. She could still sense his tension, but he melted a bit into her kiss, and she felt a wave of gratitude that she could comfort him in this way now.

"We will figure out together what it means to be Lord and Lady, my dear, dear husband," Lucy said, turning over the word husband in her mouth as if it were a delicious morsel of food.

Arthur's eyes grew soft in the firelight, making Lucy feel deliciously weak for a moment. "Perhaps," he said, "I should worry more about being a good husband than a good lord."

"You don't have to worry about that." Lucy kissed his cheek again, fighting down an urge to kiss all of his face, and his hair, and that beautiful neck—

"But I do. What if I'm no good at it?"

Lucy didn't mean to laugh, but she did. "Heavens, why are you inventing things to be worried about? You are carrying too much tension for your own good. Let me massage your shoulders and help you calm down."

Before he could protest, she hopped lightly off his lap and faced him. "Allow me to take your coat," she said, and he obliged, letting her pull it off his broad shoulders and toss it on the nearby chair. "And your vest," she said. "It will be easier to rub your back without all that stiff fabric in the way."

Lucy was trying to stay friendly and perhaps even a bit businesslike, but when Arthur made eye contact— with a rather flirtatious smile, she thought— and slowly began unbuttoning his vest, she found herself breathing more quickly and feeling a peculiar warmth between her legs. How many times she had daydreamed about this, imagined him peeling back the layers to reveal what was underneath! Of course when he shouldered off his vest there was no more skin revealed than before, and Lucy found herself staring at his cravat.

Arthur chuckled, and reached out to guide her hands to the tie. She fumbled with the knot, realizing her hands were trembling, and they didn't get the slightest bit steadier as he undid his cufflinks and began unbuttoning his shirt. He had his long-sleeved shirt all the way off his arms before Lucy finally managed to undo the last knot and yank off the cravat. Before she could really process what he looked like in short sleeves, he grabbed the hem of his undershirt with one hand and peeled it off in one smooth motion, baring his whole chest.

For a moment, Lucy thought she was going to faint.

On instinct, she turned sharply and faced the wall. Every part of her body— her face, her fingertips, her toes, her nether-regions— throbbed intensely, even as she felt drained of blood. She hugged herself, trying to force air back into her lungs.

"Er, are you all right?" came Arthur's concerned voice.

"Yes," she gasped.

"…Do you want me to put my shirt back on?"

"No!" she squeaked.

A pause. "Do you wish to look at me, then?"

"Yes."

She didn't move, feeling rooted to the spot.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" She sounded like a mouse, with all this squeaking. And still she couldn't move.

She heard a rustle as Arthur stood up, and he circled around to stand in front of her, gently placing his hand on her arm. She almost wanted to close her eyes to keep from being overwhelmed again, but they were frozen open, staring, staring at the bulky muscles in his arms, the sharp line of his collarbone, the dark blond chest hair, the bulge of his pectorals, the softer curve of his stomach, the way his hair grew less curly and darker on his stomach, leading down to his belt—

Lucy snapped her head up to look at his face, her cheeks ablaze. Arthur smiled in an almost giddy way, and Lucy abruptly remembered that it was not, in fact, inappropriate for her to stare at him this way, not only because they were married but because he was so obviously delighted. How strange, and how wonderful!

His muscles shifting in the flickering shadows of the fire, Arthur gently slid his arms around her and gathered her against his chest, though Lucy's arms hung limp at her sides. "May I still have that massage?" he asked.

"Of course," she whispered, but it took a moment for her to even move, paralyzed by the sensation. Finally she found feeling in her fingers, and placed both hands on his chest. She intended to slide her hands up to his shoulders straight away, but ended up lingering on his chest for a minute, her breath coming in short pants as she caressed his silky hair, traced his nipples, pressed her palms against the firm flesh, sunk deeper into his embrace. He smiled down at her all the while (a bit smugly, she thought).

Finally her hands found their way back to his shoulders and, determined to give him a proper massage, she focused on squeezing the muscles, pressing her thumbs to counterweight her other fingers and and roll the flesh through her hands.

Arthur made a soft "mm" sound and bent his head down, resting his lips on her hairline. Even this soft touch made her flinch, and she was once again reminded at how tightly her hairstyle pulled on her scalp. "Sorry," she said, still massaging, "it's just the pins. I should take down my hair."

"May I?"

Lucy smiled and lowered her head in response, and with delicate fingers Arthur began locating the pins and pulling them out one by one. As her sunny curls (and a dozen elaborate braids) fell around her face, Lucy felt herself relaxing, and put more strength into massaging his shoulders, feeling the muscles loosen under her hands.

Arthur gently tilted her head further forward so he could reach the pins on the back of her head, and her face sunk into his chest. For a moment she lost all strength again, swallowed by the warmth and the sensation, feeling his heartbeat against her lips. Arthur murmured, and the vibration rumbled through her, making her feel as if her whole body was aglow.

Arthur had moved on to unraveling the braids, and so she lifted her face, to come up for air more than anything, and dutifully began massaging his shoulders again. But in a moment her hands had slipped down to his biceps, squeezing the muscles, and her nose had slid up to his neck, and she began kissing him hungrily. Arthur flexed his arms, making the muscles turn rock-hard under her hands, and she let out an involuntary whimper, which made him chuckle, sending vibrations through her body again.

"You are wicked," she murmured into him, and then gasped when he moved aside the curtain of her hair and nosed his way to her neck.

As his lips pressed against the soft skin of her neck, a moan rose from her throat unbidden. She felt him smiling against her, sending electrical thrills through her body. Then he opened his mouth a little wider and worked his lips over her neck, his tongue pressing along the skin, making her gasp and squirm and utter sounds that were distinctly unladylike. She felt self-conscious for a few seconds before she gave herself to the pleasure and sank against him, losing herself in the bliss.

They kissed like this for a long time, drinking in the sensations. But eventually, and annoyingly, Lucy found herself distracted by the tightness of her shoes, and also began to feel frustrated that her body was separated from his by layers of stiff fabric and whalebone. She desperately wanted Arthur to help her out of her clothes, but wasn't quite sure how to initiate it.

"You're growing tense," Arthur said, pulling away from her neck. "Perhaps I should give you a massage as well?"

"It's my feet," Lucy said. "New shoes can be quite the sore trial."

"Then let me massage your feet!" Arthur held her at arm's length, then guided her to sit down in the chair. He plunked down on both knees and began working the buckles on her shoes, and Lucy just sat and drank in the sight of his chest and arms flexing in the flickering shadows of the fire.

In a moment both heels were off, with a blessed rush of blood-flow back into her toes, and Lucy let out a relieved sigh. Arthur gave her a brief smile and then took a foot in each hand and began massaging, which made Lucy sink back into her chair as he rubbed out the knots that had been forming from her uncomfortable shoes.

She was happy to watch him in silence, and have a pause to absorb all the intense sensations she'd experienced so far. But she noticed after a while that his gaze had turned inward— she could fairly see cogs turning behind his eyes like an open-backed pocket-watch.

"What are you thinking?"

"Sorry," he said, looking back down at her feet. "My mind was wandering."

"To where, might I ask?"

He glanced up at her, looking a little embarrassed. "Please forgive me, my love, but I was thinking about a conversation at the reception. I think I may have offended Lord Nickelby."

Lucy leaned forward and pressed her lips to his curly hair. "Oh dear, what am I going to do with you!"

"I'm so sorry. I will put it out of my mind, starting now."

Lucy leaned back and watched him for a few more seconds, but his gaze was turning inward again.

"Very well!" she said. "You simply must tell me every little thing that's on your mind, and then your head will be clear."

"Oh, darling, I couldn't!"

"You can, and you must. Out with it! Why do you think you offended Lord Nickelby?"

Arthur sighed, then relented. He talked quickly, words spilling out of his mouth as he agonized over every little thing he'd said and done the entire reception. He never stopped rubbing her feet, although sometimes he'd use one hand to gesture, or exasperatedly run a hand through his hair. Lucy listened attentively and asked follow-up questions when needed, but it was clear to her that he simply needed to speak all of this out loud, to sort it out by voicing it and then answering his own questions.

And she also couldn't help but feel a warmth growing in her to see him talking so casually with her while half-undressed— she had worried that it might be awkward between them, but it felt both incredibly novel and the most natural thing in the world.

(She had a feeling that conversations about social drama while half-undressed would be a common activity for them from now on. She didn't mind.)

Arthur talked incessantly for almost half an hour, but Lucy didn't mind because she could see how much it was helping, how his shoulders dropped, how the muscles in his face eased. At last they mutually agreed that he had probably not offended Lord Nickelby, and that he should graciously ignore Lady Easton's snide remark, that next week he must invite the Gladstone family to tea in order to avoid causing offense, and a dozen other details. At the end of it, Arthur kissed her hand and laid his head in her lap and let out a contented sigh, like a dog lying down after a long walk.

"My darling," he murmured, "I literally couldn't do this without you."

Lucy smiled at his praise, but she said, "Nonsense. I'm sure you would do just fine by yourself. But I'm happy to ease the load." She noted his body was relaxed and his breath even— verbally processing the day had helped him more than anything else. She ran her hand through his hair, and then let her fingers trail onto his back, tracing the muscles and feeling that hungry sensation rise in her again.

At last Lucy said, "You stopped rubbing my feet."

Arthur instantly moved back to her feet, but Lucy, trying to sound as casual as possible, said, "It would be nicer if you removed my stockings."

"Of course," Arthur said. Then he looked up at her in surprise, and she couldn't help but let a wicked grin answer his startled expression.

"What is it, darling?" she asked teasingly.

"Your stockings are held up by garters, right?"

"That's correct. You only need unbuckle them, and the stockings will easily come off."

Some red came to Arthur's cheeks as he grinned back at her, but he also looked a bit nervous. "All right."

He reached for the hem of her skirt, then hesitated, his eyes flicking upward again, as if asking for permission. Lucy felt her heart melt at how careful he was, but she was also feeling the slightest flicker of impatience. "Go on, my love," she said, still trying to sound casual.

His hand rested on her ankle, and then slid up her leg, on the shin, until he reached her knee. The sight of him, on the floor, shirtless and with his hand up her skirt, made Lucy feel delightfully faint again, but she maintained her poise, even as his hand stopped moving.

Hoarsely, Arthur whispered, "Your stocking are very tall."

"You're almost to the garter," Lucy fibbed, feeling a certain amount of revenge for being able to tease him after he had teased her so mercilessly.

Arthur's eyes were wide and blue and beautiful in the firelight, his hand still motionless on her knee under her skirt. Oh dear, that worried look was coming back into his face! She planted another kiss on his forehead. "What is it, darling?"

"What if I'm no good at lovemaking?"

Lucy could've smacked him, but instead she cupped his face in both her hands, leaned in to kiss him on the nose, and then shook his head between her hands as if vigorously petting a dog. "No more worrying tonight! I forbid it!"

Arthur broke free of her grasp, laughing and shaking the curls out of his eyes. "All right, all right, I am chastened!"

Lucy plopped back in the chair, sliding her legs forward so his hand bumped off her knee onto her thigh. "Well, stop being so chaste and remove my garter."

Arthur blushed at her joke, but he was grinning. He moved his hand again, but to Lucy's surprise and delight, his slipped his fingers to the inside of her thigh, tracing them up over the thin fabric, higher and higher, until they touched the strap of the garter, almost all the way in between her legs.

Lucy felt her body light under his touch like fire, and it was now Arthur's turn to look like he was going to faint. For a moment his fingertips brushed the bare skin past her garter— Lucy let out an ecstatic gasp and he stifled a low moan— but then he found the buckle, undid it it, and peeled the stocking off.

Lucy felt like she was floating and burning up, a pillar of pure light. Arthur stared at her bared ankle and stroked it reverently, his fingertips tracing over her downy hair.

She couldn't resist teasing him once more. "Well, that's one garter. What about the other?"

When Arthur raised his gaze to her, she felt the breath knocked out of her— his eyes were shining with desire, his skin flushed and sweaty, his lips soft. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and clutched the hem of her skirt with both hands.

Lucy held her breath, her heart banging in her chest.

"My hands are too weak for the buckles," Arthur said dreamily. "Perhaps I'll have better luck with my teeth."

He dove under her skirt, Lucy fell back in the chair and kicked her legs over his shoulders, and then all was heat and pleasure and bliss and fire and love.

~~~

Lucy laid in bed tangled up in Arthur's arms, her face tucked into his neck, swaddled in blankets but nothing else, her whole body sore and exhausted in a delicious way. Arthur's right arm encircled her and his left hand stroked her hair, weaving his fingers through the long waves in a hypnotic motion. The fire was dying but still crackled, a soothing white noise.

(She hadn't expected consummation to be so… vigorous, and she presumed that she would be getting quite fit indeed over the course of her marriage. She could already think of a dozen other things she wanted to try, but that would have to wait for tomorrow— they were both so tired that they could barely move.)

Arthur shifted his head so he could kiss her cheek. "Lucy?" he said softly.

His voice sounded pensive, and Lucy wondered if he was worrying about Lord Nickelby again. "What is it, my love?"

"Do you ever get a haunted feeling about how life might be different?"

Well, this was a new one. Lucy pulled away slightly to get a look at him. The warm light of the fire limned the edges of his face as he stared at the ceiling. "What do you mean?"

"Sometimes it feels like every decision in life is part of a stream, endlessly dividing. Every tiny decision alters the course of the stream. The smallest moment changes everything."

Lucy stroked his face, feeling his curly sideburns. "And what makes you think of such lofty philosophy when you should be kissing me?"

Arthur smiled, then shifted onto his side to face her, propping up his head with one (muscular, beautiful) arm. "Well, you had three proposals, for one. What if you'd said yes to Dr. Seward, or Mr. Morris?"

Lucy ran her fingers over his cheek. "But I didn't."

"Yes, but you could've. The stream could've divided there."

Lucy had never once considered what might've happened had she accepted either of the other proposals— and even now, she couldn't imagine it. Time to her was not a branching stream but a swift channel that flowed with singular purpose in one direction.

"Why do you think this troubles you?" she asked.

Arthur touched her cheek, tracing her jawline and staring at her as if trying to memorize every detail of her face. "Because things can go wrong in an instant."

Lucy could immediately tell that he was thinking about his father, and his next words confirmed this.

"If you had asked me a year ago whether my father was going to die, I would've said absolutely not. Yet here I am, fatherless and newly-lorded and stumbling into this new role in the dark. Things can go wrong so quickly. I could've died. You could've died. We might have been heroes of a tragedy rather than happy lovers."

Lucy was starting to feel a little alarmed. "Goodness, dear, why must you think of such things!"

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, quickly kissing her forehead. "I don't mean to be macabre. I think perhaps it's my way of… of being grateful for the present. I feel as if I've won a lottery by landing here, in this version of reality, with you."

Lucy saw grief in his eyes, but gratitude too. "Then bless God and be thankful that all the branching streams have led us here."

She would never tire of seeing that smile— warm and beautiful and adoring. "When am I going to learn to take your advice in everything?"

"We've only been married half a day— you'll have time to practice."

Arthur slid his hands into her hair and drew her into a kiss, rolling her onto her back and leaning over her. When their lips parted, Lucy whispered, "And now, take my advice to get some sleep."

Arthur smiled, kissed her nose, and then settled down into the blankets, pulling her close against him. Lucy cuddled up in his chest and breathed in his warm smell, feeling safe against the cold and the world and the ghosts of anything going wrong.

What could have been didn't matter— only what was.

They fell asleep in each other's arms.

~~~