Natural Sympathies

By Anna Austen Leigh

Being a scientifically minded young woman, when Margot marries a Duke she knows exactly what to expect on her wedding night.

Except that things don't go quite according to plan. Her husband can't consummate the marriage - and he's broke, having inherited a heavily mortgaged estate from his parents.

It's only when he meets a young scholar and invites him to stay that he sees a way to solving the problem - and Margot finds herself a happier woman than she ever expected to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Austen Leigh
• Release date: Dec 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466158429

Anna Austen Leigh

Anna Austen Leigh quit the stock market while she was ahead to forge a new life as a full time writer. She now writes erotic adventure and romance, and spends her spare time managing her investments, rather than the other way around.

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Natural Sympathies

Anna Austen Leigh

Published by Anna Austen Leigh at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Anna Austen Leigh

Discover other titles by Anna Austen Leigh at Smashwords.com:

Emma

The Duel

The Netsuke

A Grand Tour

The Swing

and with other publishers:

The Diligence de Lyon

Pilgrim for Love

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Margot thought she knew what to expect on her wedding night. Bluestocking as she was, she not only had her mother's warnings and her maidservant's hints to go on, but the works of Aristotle - or at least, she thought wryly, someone signing himself Aristotle, though she'd have been surprised to find he knew a word of Greek.

That was the trouble with a good education. Most fathers didn't believe in bringing girls up to do more than read and write very badly, and do what they were told; but Sir Charles had always told her she had the brains of a boy, and he'd humoured her desire to learn. She knew how to use a library; she'd helped him research the history of the Ackerton estate; and so when her betrothal was announced, she decided to put an end to her ignorance, and searched for an appropriate text.

She'd sat through the bridal feast, stiff and uncomfortable in her finery. She'd have been happier if she could have got a word in edgeways, but her father had engaged the bridegroom in conversation, and between matters of the estate, and which was the best bloodline for an Arabian horse, Fairfax's Sultan or Place's White Turk (John said it was neither, but the Sheffield Barb, and he should know), she was forgotten, and sat there like a painted doll. She was grateful when John turned to her, and smiled, but that was all the attention he could spare.

And now she was sitting in her nightgown, brushing out her hair, having bundled her maid out of the room as soon as she could. John would be joining her, as soon as he could get away, and then would come the bedding.

Everyone said it was an odd marriage, an ageing Duke and a young hoyden; some said her father had sold her for a share in the Oldcastle estate, but she knew better. She'd chosen her bridegroom freely; not a thoughtless young man, but a scholar, a companion, and a guide. Ageing? - Not really, he was still a year short of forty, but his quiet, slightly dour character made him seem older. A thoughtful, considerate man; and he'd need to be, she thought. Even though she'd inspected the pictures with a magnifying glass, she couldn't work out quite what went where, or how; she hoped her inexperience would not irk him.

Her hair was always in tangles, but tonight more than ever; she gave up, throwing the brush down on the table. At the same time, the noise from the house outside suddenly rose in volume, and was, as suddenly, cut off again; the door had opened and closed without her seeing, and John was standing there, his dark velvet suit almost invisible in the dimness of the room, the light picking out only his white cuffs and collar, and the paleness of his thin face.

He stood there for a moment, watching her. He took a step towards her.

I've never seen your hair down before.

She smiled uneasily. He came towards her, and put out a hand to touch her hair, stroking it.

You're silent. Most unusual. You are usually so full of words.

She shook her head. Tonight the words would not come. Now, suddenly, nothing she had ever read or learned made sense, nothing would help her, or explain this unexpected apprehension. She let her head lean slightly, to feel his fingers against her cheek. If she could not tell him, at least let her movements explain to him her deep affection.

He, too, seemed lost for words for a moment. Then he turned away from her, and began to strip, placing his clothes neatly over a chair - not fussily, but simply folding them, so that like everything in his life, they were in good order. He stopped when he was standing only in his thin chemise.

You've been watching me, he said, without accusation.

I should not watch?

He laughed. My dear Margot, the convention is that you should be ashamed, and repulsed, and frightened, and shy.

I should be repulsed?

That is the convention. As so often, when one considers it rationally, there is no reason to it. And as so often, you have chosen to ignore it. I am so glad I have married you.

You are?

Of course I am. Come. It's cold. He turned back the covers of the bed, and patted the mattress.

She smiled again, rather uncertainly.

And the bed is warm?

I should hope so. They wouldn't put me to bed in cold sheets. I don't have much temper, but my servants know better than that. Come, Margot; don't make me wait, my legs are getting cold.

She slipped into the bed. He was right; the sheets were warm, under the piled quilts, except right down at the bottom of the bed, where her exploratory toes found a fringe of icy cold.

You're not afraid? She felt the mattress sag a little as he joined her in the bed.

No. A little concerned, perhaps.

Concerned? About what, Margot? About the ... process?

Not so much. You did teach me to take a scientific attitude.

He looked a little shocked for a moment. Ah. I hope you have not also adopted the experimental method.

She flushed. My research went no further than the library. And...

Mmm?

And watching the horses. But I suppose the human anatomy is somewhat different.

You may be disappointed, he said with a smile, and reached out to take her chin in his hand. In certain aspects of the human anatomy, anyway.

Then he kissed her, and it was very different from the simple brush of lips at the end of the marriage service. This time his lips pressed hard on hers, and his mouth opened slightly, and she felt the insistence not only of his desire but of her own, and opened to him. She could feel the heat of his breath; she could taste wine, dark and sweet, on his tongue. It was hot, it was wet, two tongues slippery and sliding against each other; something different from what she'd expected, which seemed dry and hard and mechanical. Nor had any of the books mentioned the sensation that was invading her body, a sort of restlessness, and a congestion, or tension, that made her flesh tingle, as if she were cold - but she was far from cold, rather, too hot...

She felt John's fingers at her breast, pulling at her shift to expose the flesh. That was something else the books hadn't mentioned; maybe, she worried in a moment of doubt, she hadn't read the right books, the most accurate ones. Nor had the books mentioned the pleasurable tightness that made her nipples stand, that made her push forwards against her husband's hands.

Still, she knew what came next; and she was glad of the sensations, as they would make it easier, she was sure. One of his hands had slipped down to her hips; he was pulling up her shift, stroking her legs; surely now she knew what was going to happen?

But, as it turned out, she did not.

With a sudden hiss of exasperation, John stopped his explorations, and threw himself on to his back.

I'm sorry, my dear.

Have I done something amiss?

He leant on his elbow to look at her.

No, not at all. It is my fault, all my fault. Well, I suppose I must be philosophical. I'm an old man, Margot; I must expect these small infirmities.

Oh. She lay still for a moment, wondering what infirmity he meant. Surely he was not missing the appropriate member? No; had that been the case, he'd surely not have commenced proceedings. I don't understand, she said, and her voice was strangely small and constricted, like a child confessing a fault.

I thought you had read the books?

She wondered for a moment if he was chiding her, but then she saw his smile, and the softness in his eyes.

"I had... but... well... do you not have a... membrum virilis, or..."

The Latin seemed to out a distance between her and the thing; it made it safe, or at least more so than using the English word. She was disconcerted when John laughed.

So you do have one?

Of course.

Then what is the problem?

Ah. I see your knowledge is only theoretical. Then I should explain, though it is to my shame. I find it... not in a state in which I can justice to your charms. He looked at her sharply. I thought you had watched the horses?

My father keeps one of the biggest studs in Yorkshire. I could hardly avoid it.

Then you will have noticed how the stallion's member, normally so demure, is greatly increased in size before the mating can occur?

Ah. I had wondered about that.

In what regard?

I had noticed, once, a naked boy playing in the river. He was, perhaps, three or four years of age. And it was very small, just the size of a walnut.

John laughed again. She was getting a little tired of his good humour; his greater knowledge didn't justify his mocking her. And besides, he had roused her body to a fiery need that she would have to satisfy, somehow.

In a boy of that age it would indeed be small. I can see we need to proceed from theory to practice, so you will forgive me...

His language was elaborately polite, but his gesture was uncompromising, taking her hand in his and setting her hand firmly on what she did not dare, as yet, to name in good English - a package undeniably larger than that little boy's, and heavy in her hand when she pushed it to one side.

She could feel her cheeks flaming, though she was no longer quite sure that it was only with shame. Shame that she knew, logically, she did not need to feel; this was natural, after all, and John was her husband, and yet still... it was something different than seeing an animalcule through the microscope, or understanding the courtship rites of the birds.

It's quite large, she said, and very heavy. And soft to the touch. I hadn't expected that. I thought a man's skin would be rough...

Not there. But you can feel how it lies, quite inert. And that is where the problem lies.

I still don't understand. Is it not large enough?

Yes, he said, "you could not complain on that score. But it is not hard enough."

That was a new difficulty; she knit her brow, trying to think how something so soft could become hard. It didn't make sense; you could harden iron, for instance, by tempering it, but she couldn't imagine how that would work with a human body. And clay became hard when it dried out, but again, that didn't seem to be a useful thought. But he did have the correct equipment, so the problem must be purely a temporary one; so, she suggested, he should tell her at once if there was anything useful she could do.

He looked at her rather strangely then, but after a few moments, he spoke; sternly, which surprised her, but with immense gentleness in his eyes.

You understand that none of this must be repeated outside our bedchamber? Most people are driven by prejudice; what they don't understand, they fear, or hate, or laugh at. But if you can keep your own counsel, and if you don't find it repugnant, then I dare say there is something you could do.

How could I find it repugnant?

How indeed... he smiled ruefully. But some people do.

Then he instructed her to push back the sheets, so that she could see how he was made. The candle was guttering, but there was still enough light for her to see the dark hair on his belly, the long shaft and heavy head of his member.

Take it in your hand again.

She did, and weighed it in her hand, feeling its denseness, and feeling at the same time a stirring between her legs. She began almost unconsciously to move her hand along it, cupping it in her palm; a curious thing, and so warm. She looked at John; his head was thrown back, his eyes closed. It was easier when she knew he was not looking at her, somehow. She encircled the shaft with her fingers, and squeezed gently.

It was thicker where it sprang from his body, and then it tapered, till just before the end, where it mushroomed out, bulbous, in a broad, flattish conical head on which the skin was looser. She moved the skin backwards and forwards; it flopped and slid over the ridge of skin behind it.

Is this right? she asked. John opened his eyes.

Very much so, he said. But...

Futile?

Not entirely. Come, lie down again, and he pulled her down against him, hugging her closely to him. His body was warm, his arms a comfort; she moved to fit her body to his, and kissed him gently on the mouth, and saw, before she slept, a single tear on his cheek.

***

It was not an ordinary marriage; far from it. Though these were days when many girls were married young, not seldom to old men - sometimes stepmothers to several children before they had even put their dolls away themselves - there were few matches as surprising as that of the Duke of Oldcastle to Margot Hemsworth.

John Oldcastle had fought in Germany as a young man, gaining respect but little money; he'd come back to an inheritance that, though diminished, was still enough to finance a life at Court, and perhaps a good marriage could have been arranged in due course, refilling his coffers. But to everyone's surprise, he'd married a local girl for love, not money, a yeoman's daughter he'd met out hunting. That had ended badly, whichever story you heard; he'd locked her up and starved her, some said, while others said she'd run off with a Dutch painter.

Whatever happened, something changed in the Duke; his carefree wit had gone, and he'd become more sober, even a little dour. He kept up his interest in horses - he'd been a daring cavalry leader, and traded a little horseflesh from time to time, when he was in funds - but he no longer led the hunt. Instead, he'd begun breeding Arabians, spending his time plotting genealogies, trying to breed the best of both mare's and stallion's lines together. And from this interest, he'd developed others, becoming something of a naturalist, and eventually, through mixing so much with scholars, a dilettante in most branches of the sciences. He seemed older than his years; at only thirty-five, already a somewhat distant and withdrawn figure.

Local children were told to 'Hush, or the Duke will take you for his experiments', and there were tales of a human skull that sat on his desk, and a stuffed mermaid he'd bought from a sailor at Whitby. He invited men of learning to Oldcastle Hall sometimes; in the winter, he was often in London, where he spent as much time in the Royal Society as at court; and he travelled widely in the county, often visiting other gentry who were interested in improving the Arabian horse. Among the latter was Tom Hemsworth, squire of Gullthorpe, Margot's father.

While the Duke was used as a bogey-man to frighten local children, Margot was just as notable; her father's only child, ferociously clever, and competely untamed. Her mother's early death left her bereft of maternal guidance, and Tom soon transferred the affections his wife had possessed to his spirited, dark-eyed daughter. Tutor after tutor was hired, taught her a little Latin, some history, or the principles of chemistry, and then left, hurriedly, often at night, and once without his luggage, which had to be sent on after.

The Duke had first seen her when she was twelve or thirteen years of age, a sliver of a girl with unkempt hair and a wild look in her eyes. Don't look so sour, she'd said to him; you'll curdle the milk! and she ran off, laughing. (When, years later, he mentioned it to her, she had completely forgotten it.)

But she was capable of great concentration, when her interest was engaged. Next time he came to the house, she was reading, elbows on the table, head in her hands, as if protecting her concentration from the noise of the household around her. He looked over her shoulder; it was a work on astronomy, far beyond what he'd have thought most children that age could read.

You can read Latin? he asked, and she looked up, crossly.

Of course I can read Latin, she said, with a tone that told him how incorrigibly stupid he was not to have realised that fact already. And Greek, and French, and Italian.

"Well then, if you want to borrow some of my books on astronomy,