Page 2 of The Wife

Frowning, I forced my attention back to the books in front of me.

There’d be no answers here—especially not to the incessant question now beating in the back of my mind—but I could distract myself. Economics, politics, religion, philosophy… My fingers skimmed over the spines of books I barely saw.

But then, at the very back of a lower shelf, I found a cluster of books with no titles on their spines. They were pushed behind the others, as if hiding.

Curious, I pulled one out. The Memoirs of a Lady of Pleasure. I snapped it shut so fast I nearly dropped it, my cheeks burning. I shoved it back and pulled out another. A Gentleman’s Guide to the Art of Love. My heart was thudding against my ribs. I replaced it, my hands trembling.

Oh Heavens.

Robert had an entire collection of wicked books? And it seemed they’d been better read than any of the more academic books in his library. Was…was this the sort of thing he enjoyed? Reading about—even my mind seemed to whisper the words—sexual acts?

Well, I’d come here to find a way to connect with my husband, hadn’t I? And I wanted to share his bed, to win him back from whatever distraction had claimed him. So I took a deep breath and reached for another.

The third book I pulled free was thicker, its spine cracked with use.

A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts.

I clutched it to my chest, the candlelight flickering over the worn leather. Robert hadn’t come to my bed in weeks. I’d replayed every possible reason in my head—I’d been clumsy, I’d been dull, I was simply not enough—and I always landed on the worst one: a mistress. I’d heard how these things went. Wives were for breeding, for running households, for representing the family name. Pleasure was found elsewhere.

But I wasn’t going to just accept it. I wasn’t a passive creature, no matter what this empty, echoing house implied. I was going to fix it. I just needed to understand what I was fixing. What was I missing? What did some other woman know, that I did not?

Research, I told myself firmly. This is research.

I took the book to Robert’s favorite armchair—the big leather one by the cold fireplace—and tucked my feet beneath me. The leather smelled like him, like sandalwood and spice and tobacco.

I opened the book.

It was… instructional. Playful, even. The tone was light, scandalous but not crude, seemingly written by some long-ago lady, judging by the archaic language.

I flipped through, my eyes catching on all of the illustrations—line drawings of intertwined bodies, of positions I had never imagined. My face grew hot. My breath shortened.

I found a passage on “posterior pleasures.” The book addressed it with scholarly delicacy and a faint thread of comedy, noting that such practices were “not exclusively the province of either sex.” I read it twice.

Shock pooled in my stomach, a cold, heavy feeling. And then, mortification washed over me as I realized another sensation was coiling beneath the shock. A warmth, low in my belly. A strange, restless ache.

I slammed the book shut, my heart hammering.

I should put this down. I should return to my empty bed and pretend not to have seen it tomorrow when I sit across the table from Robert.

I opened it again.

My breath was lodged in my throat as I continued to read, my core beginning to throb in what I recognized as desire.

A few pages later, I encountered a position called The Burning Bush. The description was confusing—something about the woman sitting on a table or other flat surface, her legs spread, while the man stood between them. “Named thusly,” the text read, “because it is said it will make both occupants speak to God.”

The illustration was most illuminating, and the woman’s head was thrown back in an ecstasy I recognized.

I read on. There was a reference to oils—specific preparations for… for easing entry. The book noted that “a gentleman of discernment will keep such things to hand.”

I wondered briefly if Robert had such things, but imagined he did not. The Robert I knew was all gallantry and poetry. He wouldn’t…

But the Robert I knew hadn’t come to my bed in weeks. Maybe I didn’t know him at all.

My body was responding without my mind’s permission. I was acutely aware that I wore only my robe and dressing gown, and nothing beneath it. The silk brushed against my skin, and every slight shift sent a shiver through me. Between my legs, a slick heat was gathering. I pressed my thighs together, but that only made it worse.

I should absolutely put this down.

I read one more page. And then another. My fingers traced the lines of an illustration; The Supplicant Swan, a woman on her knees before a man, her mouth… Oh, God.