Free The Ideal Wife by Mary Balogh

strangeness of knowing that she was his wife, that he could allow his seed to spring in her without having to be careful not to impregnate her. Or perhaps the new luxury of being able to bed her in the familiar surroundings of his own home.
    He did not know what it was. But he did know that for her sake he must remove himself to his own room. She was his for a lifetime. He must not demand service of her more often than once in a night.
    He was up on one elbow, his palm beneath her head, when she opened her eyes and gazed sleepily up at him in the near darkness.
    “Was I sleeping?” she said. “I thought I would never sleep again.”
    “I hurt you badly?” he asked.
    “No.” Her hand was still at his waist. “But it was all very strange. It astonished me that you were able to fall asleep immediately after.”
    He smiled. “You should have woken me,” he said. “I promised to leave you to relax and rest alone.”
    “I must have fallen asleep before I could think to do so,” she said.
    He chuckled and lowered his head to kiss her. Her mouth was relaxed and warm from sleep. He lingered over it, nudging her lips apart with his own.
    He should go. She was not a mistress, to be kept awake and busy at all hours of the night or day. She was his wife. But it was their wedding night, a night that could be expected to be different from all others. Perhaps tomorrow night he could set the pattern for the rest of their married life.
    “Are you sore?” he asked her.
    “Sore?”
    “Here.” His hand ran down her side and touched the cloth between her legs.
    “Oh,” she said. Her voice sounded breathless. “No.”
    He lowered his mouth to hers again and pushed the cloth back against the mattress. She was warm, slightly moist. His hand stroked her, played with her, parted her.
    This time when he lowered himself on top of her, she opened her legs for him and even lifted them to twine them about his. She did not wince when he put himself inside her, though she did inhale slowly and deeply.
    She lay still and felt comfortable beneath him. She had one hand in his hair, one arm loosely about his waist. He rested his cheek against her temple and felt the soft moist heat of her. He wanted this encounter to last for a good long time, he decided, beginning a slow shallow rhythm that he would quicken and deepen when his need outpaced his control.
    She neither moved nor spoke during all the minutes that followed. And yet it was not his own isolated pleasure that pounded with the blood through his body and lodged in his mind. Sexual activity had always been for himself. Much as he had appreciated the beauty and charm of his mistresses, much as he had enjoyed the skill of their performances, it had always been just for himself.
    But this time, with his wife, on their wedding night, he was very aware of the woman with whom he coupled, very aware of her warm and supple body, of her quiet surrender. He wanted to give her something in return.
    “Abby,” he said, moving his head so that his mouth was against hers. “I am going to make you happy. I am going to make you forget your years of loneliness and servitude.”
    And he brought himself swiftly to completion, sorry that he had given in to self-indulgence by taking her for a second time.
    “You have a greedy husband, my dear,” he said to her after disengaging himself from her body and sitting up at the side of the bed. He lowered her nightgown to the knees. “Forgive me?” He touched her cheek with light fingers. “Sleep well. I’ll not expect you up before noon. I shall leave word that you are not to be disturbed.”
    She said nothing as he raised the blankets up over her shoulders, stooped to pick up his dressing gown from the floor, and let himself into her dressing room and through to his own, closing the doors quietly behind him.
    He was going to be very well pleased with his marriage, he thought, yawning and climbing into his own cold and empty bed.
    He already was very