He slowed the phaeton as a gaggle of ladies crossed the street in front of them. “You seem better this morning.”
Her back stiffened even more. He knew at once that it was not the right thing to say. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know.” He gave her a look.
“I’m perfectly fine.”
A perverse part of him couldn’t let it go. “You weren’t perfectly fine two nights ago, and I only saw you in passing yesterday.”
Her lips pressed together.
He frowned. “Is it always like this? I mean, I know it happens monthly, but is it always so painful? How long does it last?” A sudden thought struck him. “I say, you don’t think it’s because we—”
“Oh, dear Lord,” she muttered. Then rapidly, in a low voice he had to bend his head to hear, “I’m perfectly fine. Yes, this happens every month, but only for a few days and the . . . the pain is usually over after the first day or two.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How many days, exactly?”
She shot him a look of pure exasperation. “Whyever would you wish to know that?”
“Because, sweetest wife,” he said, “if I know when your flow ceases, then I will know when I may visit your rooms again.”
That made her quiet for a few minutes, and then she said softly, “Usually five.”
His brows drew together. This was the third day. If she was “usual,” then he might bed her again in three nights. He was rather looking forward to the prospect, actually. The first time was never very good for the lady—or so he’d heard. He wanted to show her how lovely it could be. He had a sudden vision of cracking that mask she wore, making her head arch back in ecstasy, her eyes opened wide, her mouth soft and vulnerable.
He shifted uncomfortably at the thought. Several days of waiting yet. “Thank you for telling me. Still. Rotten luck, that. Does it happen with every lady?”
She turned her head to stare at him. “What?”
He shrugged. “You know. Does every lady have this much pain, or do—”
“I can’t believe this,” she muttered, either to herself or to the horses; there wasn’t anyone else within earshot. “I know you weren’t born under a rock. Why are you asking these questions?”
“You’re my wife now. I’m sure every man wants to know these things about his wife.”
“I very much doubt it,” she muttered.
“I at least want to know these things.” He felt his lips curve. Theirs might be an unorthodox conversation, but he was enjoying it nevertheless.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my wife,” he said, and knew suddenly that it was true, deep in his soul. “My wife to hold, my wife to protect and shield. If there is something hurting you, I want—no, I need— to know it.”
“But this isn’t something you can do anything about.”
He shrugged. “I still need to know. Don’t ever keep this or any other pain from me.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand men,” she said under her breath.
“We’re a rummy lot, it’s true,” he said cheerfully. “But it’s good of you to put up with us.”
She rolled her eyes at that and then leaned forward, unconsciously placing her hand on his arm. “Turn the corner here. My aunt’s house is down this lane.”
“As my lady wife wishes.” He guided the horses as directed, all the while aware of her hand on his arm. She let it drop a minute later, and he wished he could have it back.