Free Blooming: Veronica by Louisa Trent

be with me down below . You may proceed with the wedding night. Hump me all you like. Hump me upside down and backward while swinging from one these gaudy chandeliers. It is all the same to me.”
    “You are not as cavalier as you pretend about your tragedy.” He flung an ink-stained palm outward. “And all that is beside the point. I hardly married you for breeding purposes.”
    He walked a tightrope. Push her too much, and she would pull in on herself, retreating deeper into her hurt. Stand back and do nothing, and she might never reemerge from her shell, never write again. He needed something to get her blood flowing hot.
    Anger. Sexual hunger. Both would break through her present apathy.
    “I am glad we can be so open about this, Mrs. Bowdoin, even if the conversation is done over dinner.”
    “Dinner is over, sir. And I have done more shocking things, as you very well understand.”
    “Yes, I do understand. Like everyone else, I know of the account in Around Town and in the Know , and I am far from shocked.”
    “Well, I cannot say the same about you. Your prior assertion does shock me.”
    “Which assertion is that?”
    “The one about not wedding me for breeding purposes. To create a dynasty, political or only in terms of a family’s sphere of influence, a man must have children, a large number of children. I can never give you a child.”
    “I did not spring from a family, and I never wished to sire a dynasty, political or otherwise. I am a self-made man.”
    “But surely you must long for a child. A son to bear your name.”
    He shrugged. “The name is false. I made it up. And there are many ways to leave a legacy. A book is one.”
    “You write?”
    “No, but you do.”
    “I did,” she corrected. “Once.”
    “And you will again.” At the resistant set of her shoulders, he let that go.
    “Mr. Bowdoin, are you saying this would only be a marriage of convenience, then?”
    “Not precisely.”
    “Then what are you saying?”
    “That I am a man with a different set of needs.”
    Coupling had never proven satisfying to him. A fuck never seemed worth all the trouble and fanfare. Ah, but looking. Looking was eminently satisfying.
    Some might say, his reticence to intercourse had everything to do with getting naked and exposing his twisted leg. His mangled leg was not his weakness, not his vulnerability. Exposing his thwarted search for romantic love was his real weakness, his real vulnerability.
    He poured her wine glass to the rim once more. “Drink it all down. There is a good girl.”
    And she was a good girl. A very good girl. Whores rarely get caught, rarely conceive children. And the bloodied results of those who did usually ended up circling some back-alley drain. He was one of a few exceptions. His prostitute mother had died bringing him into the world, which, in essence, made him a killer before drawing his first breath.
    He spoke the truth. He wanted no children off his bride, off any woman. Veronica had very nearly died after her miscarriage, and he was very happy she would never have to go through that ordeal again.
    Not that he intended to get close enough to her cunt to make that a possibility.
    “No intercourse tonight, madam,” he said softly. “I shan’t come to your bed.”
    The tension left her frame like air from a balloon. Whoosh!
    “Oh, thank you, Mr. Bowdoin, thank you—”
    He cut her off. Her gratitude was not what he sought.
    “You are not off the hook. No intercourse does not equal no sex.” He pushed back from the table. “Strip off.”

Chapter Ten
     
    Strip off.
    The sharp directive pierced the thick cotton wool that had encased Veronica’s mind since her miscarriage, and she gasped, “I recognize you.”
    “Not a terribly convincing assertion. I doubt you recognize yourself these days.”
    His facility in turning a phrase was remarkable. Once, she too had been facile with words. Once, whole pages had flowed from her pen with fluency and ease. Now her