Indeed, with an athletic figure like his, he could carry at least two or three children… and teach them to swim, to ride, to leave their mother alone during her writing. And with a heart as surprisingly gentle as his, she suspected that he would be the perfect specimen for an experiment into motherhood. A new foray into a world that was entirely unknown to her—the most exciting sort of territory for a woman of science like herself.
Now, why has that never been an inspiring thought before?She already knew the answer. All she had to do was look at the man she had married.
* * *
“You did it!” Albion howled, catching Matilda by the arms before she could sink beneath the surface. She had not yet learned how to stop in deeper water without drowning—that was to be the next lesson.
She spluttered, hair plastered across her face, grinning through it all. “I did?”
“You swam at least… ten feet by yourself!” he cheered, hoisting her into his arms. “I’m so proud of you.”
She cast him a mock withering look. “It was only ten feet.”
“From no feet,” he reminded her. “Don’t dismiss the small victories, they’re as important as the big ones. And if you keep progressing like this, you’ll be able to swim properly with me before the end of the summer, all the way out there.” He chinned toward the choppier wavelets beyond the millpond-still water of the cove.
She looped her arms around his neck. “No one said swimming would be so tiring or that it would make me so ravenous. Is it supposed to make you feel like you could eat a horse?”
“It can,” he conceded. “Is that your not-so-subtle way of saying we should return to the manor for dinner?”
She nodded. “Yes, please.”
“As you wish.” Grinning, his face more youthful and at ease than she had ever seen it, he wielded her all the way to the shallows.
There, he let her walk the rest of the way to the beach, her hand in his.
Matilda had written an entire half-chapter about the surprising beauty of touch, especially how exquisite it felt to have a gentleman’s fingers intertwined with yours. Another half-chapter about the science of kissing followed it though the pages were a mess of scribbles, crossed-out sentences, and nonsensical annotations, for it was still a magical mystery that defied all rational explanation.
The tongue thing in particular. How could such a strange behavior be so… utterly exhilarating? Weirder still, how was it possible that someone else’s tongue and lips could control the beat of one’s heart, making it race so vigorously?
And, perhaps, I shall have an epilogue in my book about the prospect of motherhood…For that tongue thing and the way his touch and kisses made her feel was certainly a part of that, though she had not explored how one transformed into the other, how a wife transformed into a mother. Still, it warranted discovery, and with every pleasant moment she spent in her husband’s company, she became more determined to find out.
“You’re analyzing me again,” Albion said, laughing. “What conundrum are you trying to solve?”
Cheeks flushing with warmth, Matilda set about putting her dress back the way it was. In order to swim comfortably, she had been forced to adjust her dress, tying and tucking the long skirts and petticoats into her belt so she could move and swim unhindered. If Albion had been shocked by the sight of her legs, bare from just above the knee to her feet, he had not shown it.
“I was thinking about your scars,” she lied, casting her gaze over some of the silvered lines.
He flinched. “Oh?”
“Most people think of them as a flaw, but I prefer to think of them as a story,” she explained. “You would not be the Albion that I know without them, you would not look like the Albion I know without them, and I think that is an interesting thing. On you, they are not flaws at all; they are the parts and pieces and memories of my husband.”
He eyed her warily for a moment. “You really mean that…” He sounded surprised.
“I rarely say things I do not mean.”
A sad laugh moved his chest. “I’m glad you’ve grown accustomed to them. There was a time, not too long ago, when I thought they repulsed you.”
“Never!” she protested. “I was fascinated by them, not repulsed.”
He raised a dubious eyebrow.
“I am quite serious! Look, I will show you,” she urged, walking up to him and grabbing his hand, touching a jagged scar that ran up his forearm. “All you have to do is observe a scar to understand just how miraculous the body is. It feels an injury—a cut, let us say—and it first stops the bleeding with coagulation then it begins to knit the split skin together again, all by itself. Itgrowsnew skin. Tell me that is not fascinating!”
He smirked. “I admit, I’ve never heard anyone use the word ‘coagulation’ so romantically.”
“My darling, discussing science and the natural miracles of the worldismy idea of romance,” she replied, grinning.
He gazed into her eyes. “I’ll certainly never look at my scars the same.”
