First Blush
by C.L. Knight
Copyright© 2012 C.L. Knight
Smashwords Edition
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My heart thumped against my chest, as my eyes lingered over the clean, white sheets. I tried to calm my rampant breathing, as a stood, unmoving, at the foot of the bed. When I tentatively reached out my right hand to smooth the soft cotton of the bedclothes, my fingers trembled and I swiftly enclosed them in my fist. My tongue reflexively drew along my dry bottom lip, as I brought my entwined hands to my chest.
“Nervous?” came a smooth, deep voice from the doorway.
“No,” I lied, my eyes still fixed on the bed before me. I was determined that he should not see my fear. Besides, there was something much more potent at work. An excitement the like of which I had never experienced.
“Maria,” he called. His voice had taken on a strange quality, one that I had not heard before. I wondered briefly whether it was caused by the brandy he had consumed at the post-nuptial party. “Turn around,” he said firmly.
A fever had risen in my cheeks, which I knew would be obvious, even in the dim light from the oil lamp in the corner of the room. I reminded myself that I was now to do as he bid, my mother had made that point very clear.
“You cannot continue to behave in this unladylike manner, Maria,” her words echoed in my ear. “You should consider yourself fortunate that any man wants you and you must amend your willful ways.”
My father, of course, had remained silent on the subject. He had always treated me and my sister, Elizabeth, as though we were rational, intelligent human beings; capable of making decisions and worthy of a proper education. Mother was convinced that this had exacerbated my obstinate nature. Many was the time I heard them arguing over whether I should be allowed to read some work of literature or other, which my mother felt wholly unsuitable for a young lady. I do not think she ever appreciated the irony of her argumentative attitude over the dangers of my developing an independent streak.
Now, however, that independent streak must be quashed. A husband, with the possible exception of my father, had no desire for a quarrelsome, challenging wife. The problem was that in order to give my new husband a passive, simpering, agreeable wife, I would have to go against my very nature. Something, I was not entirely sure I would be capable of doing.
I wholeheartedly believe that women should occupy an equal footing in society. But, the realities of the world simply do not allow it. So I must accept that young women, like me, can never truly be independent.
In of itself, this fact could never have persuaded me to marry. I had always viewed marriage as a means of seeking financial and social security. Neither of which appealed to me. What I had not anticipated was the existence of love. True, passionate, heartache-inducing love. To me, it had always been just a silly concept dreamt up by equally silly young women. Then, when I met Thomas, I became one of those ridiculous, vacuous girls, who believed in the fanciful notion of love.
At first, it was an emotion I fought. I even treated him with hostility and rather blatant rudeness on occasion, in my desperate attempts to hide or kill the unwanted sensations that he caused. He handled my brusqueness with patience and pithy remarks that made him all the more attractive to me. I adored the fact that he spoke to me as an intellectual equal, rather than a feeble-minded inferior. The few suitors who had expressed an interest in me and, when I say me, I mean my father’s business, had treated me as if I were a child. Thomas, with his ability to remain unruffled, despite my many attempts to rile him, and his light sarcasm, was a breath of fresh air. Naturally, his handsome physique, warm smile and deep, brown eyes had done no harm.
“Maria,” he called. “I asked you to turn around,” his smooth voice gently reminded. Even though I had my back to him, I could tell he was smiling.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I braced myself. This was not simply about facing him, it was about facing my future. A future that would require me to become an obedient, dutiful wife. A future in which Thomas would have possession of me, of my body. Tearing my eyes away from the bedclothes, I twisted my head towards him, as if in slow motion.
He smiled, as he lent against the closed door. “Have I told you how beautiful you look?” he asked, pushing his weight onto his feet and taking a step towards me. “Well,” he continued, not waiting for a reply. “You are incredibly beautiful.”
For reasons I could not explain, I was unable to hold his gaze and my eyes darted to the floor. It was not as though I had never heard those words from him before. Now, however, they were imbued with something more; these words were an opening gambit in a game I was unfamiliar with. Oh, I understood the mechanics of what was about to happen. My sister, who had married two years previously, shared the secrets of her own wedding night when my marriage to Thomas was announced. She warned me that the first time he entered me would be painful, but assured me that it would be over quickly.
What troubled me, was not the fear of discomfort, but the fact that the act was clearly an indication of dominance; a man claiming his wife as his property. Elizabeth did not articulate this, but it seemed implicit to me, by the very fact that a woman is quite literally impaled by her husband. Every rebellious instinct indicated that I should be disgusted by the notion of being dominated and possessed by any man. However, the thought of Thomas doing so, created a quivering sensation between my legs that belied my desire to reject accepting him as my lord and master.
“It is going to be all right,” his calm voice nudged, as I continued to examine the patterned carpet at my feet. “Tell me something,” he said, suddenly changing his tone from the soft, lover’s voice to a lighter, conversational quality. “Is this the Maria I am going to be married to for the rest of my days?”
My eyes lifted to see him unbuttoning the black tailcoat he wore and shrugging it from his shoulders.
“What do you mean?” I asked, raising my left eyebrow quizzically, a habit my mother had been unable to deter me from.
“I thought I had married a headstrong, passionate, insatiably curious, fiercely wilful woman,” he explained, throwing the tailcoat over the back of a nearby armchair. “Suddenly, she has turned into a shy, introverted mute.” His eyes sparkled, as they met mine and his lips rose into a broad beam. “It is perfectly natural to be nervous,” he added.