Free Under The Mistletoe by Mary Balogh

still, Elizabeth smiled and felt happiness well inside to replace the raw discomfort of physical desire not quite allowed to complete itself.
    They were not estranged.
    Perhaps there would be another child.
    When he came for an occasional visit to Wyldwood—and surely he would come for Jeremy’s sake—they would perhaps share a bed for a few minutes each night and she would be able to feel this pleasure again.
    She tried not to feel dejection when he drew free of her and moved off her. He would return to his room now, and she would feel the remembered emptiness of being alone once more. But differently from all those other times, she would have pleasant memories with which to warm herself until she slept. And perhaps he would come back tomorrow night.
    He lay beside her for a while, turned toward her. Then he rested a hand on her stomach and made light circles with it. He sighed audibly.
    â€œFor a while,” he said, “I thought it was perhaps more than duty.”
    She turned her head sharply to look at him. He was half smiling.
    â€œIt was not duty,” she said.
    â€œYou just do not like me very much, do you?” he said. “Or is it sex you do not like? Or both?”
    Joy went crashing out of her again, and she felt her eyes fill with tears.
    â€œI am sorry,” she said. “I did not satisfy you. I did my best. I am sorry.”
    â€œDamn,” he said so softly that she was not even sure he had uttered such a shocking word.
    He turned sharply away and sat up on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees, the fingers of both hands pushing through his hair. Elizabeth felt two tears spill over, one to pool against her nose, the other to plop off onto her pillow.
    â€œI am sorry,” she said again. “What did I do wrong? Tell me, and I will do better next time.”
    â€œWhat has she done to you?” he said. “This is all her doing, is it not?”
    â€œWhose?” she asked, bewildered.
    â€œYour mother’s,” he said. “You are not naturally frigid, are you? I thought so until today, but I have seen you laughing and flushed and happy. You are warmly maternal with Jeremy. Do you hate me so much? Or are you merely a product of your mother’s rigid ideas of what a lady should be?”
    But she had heard only one thing. She stared at his back in horror.
    â€œI am not frigid,” she protested. “I am not . I feel things as deeply as anyone else. How could you say such a cruel thing? I am sorry if I do not satisfy you, but I am not frigid .”
    She turned over onto her side, spread her hands over her face, and tried—unsuccessfully—to muffle the sobs she could not control.
    â€œElizabeth—”
    â€œGo away,” she wailed. “Go away. You are horrid, and I hate you. I am not fr-frigid I wish you would . . . I wish you would go to the devil.” She had never, ever said such a thing aloud, or even thought it, until now.
    For a few moments she did not know what he was doing. She waited for the sound of the door opening and closing. But then the bed beside her depressed. He had come around it and sat down. He was wearing his dressing robe. He set the backs of his knuckles against her hot, wet cheek and rubbed them back and forth lightly.
    â€œForgive me,” he said. “Please forgive me.”
    She turned her face into the mattress, shrugging his hand away.
    â€œNo,” she said. “How could you say such a thing after . . . after what happened. I thought it was wonderful. Obviously I know nothing. It was not wonderful at all, was it? Go away, then. Go away and never come back. Jeremy and I have lived without you for three months. We can live without you for the rest of our lives.”
    â€œElizabeth,” he said, and she had the satisfaction of hearing distress in his voice. “My dearest, I had no intention of hurting you. Curse me for a fool that I ever said such a