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He knew that marriage to Pen would be wonderful, how could it not be, but he didn’t realise how much he would cherish the little moments of intimacy which now pepper his day.
Her sleepy smile is his first treat every morning. The way it spreads slowly and lazily across her face as she wakes, her sleeping pout stretching and curling at the corner bringing forth the apple of her cheek. Her eyes, still heavy with dreams until they brighten under his gaze. It makes warmth bloom within his chest to see that light appear for him. That moment between slumber and consciousness, when she is between two worlds is only ever witnessed by him.
It is rare for her to wake before him, but he wonders on those odd occasions if she too cherishes such moments.
He couldn’t imagine them keeping separate bedchambers like so many other Ton marriages. To wake and not have her within touching distance would feel like the cruellest torture, even in his own mind.
He wishes he had noticed her sooner, how many more years of happiness they could have shared if he had been less focused on the horizon. If he had simply stopped to listen to what his heart called for.
He has her now though, and he cherishes each and every day.
–
There is a chaise near the window of their drawing room which has become Penelope’s favourite spot to read after lunch. He often pauses in the doorway to admire her in her repose as one might study a painting by a great master. The afternoon sun floods the room at this time of day, kissing her profile and illuminating the creamy complexion of her face.
When she reads, her eyes are bright and alert, all of her attention focused on the world hidden within the pages in front of her. Her passion for the written word is on display for anyone who cares to notice. By contrast, her body is relaxed. She sinks into the plush cushions and rests her dainty stocking clad feet on the seat. Her shoes lie abandoned on the floor, for she has no plans to leave her comfortable spot for many hours.
He knows that should she look up and spy him watching her with his love-struck smile she would blush prettily, the rosiness spreading across her cheeks like a bloom opening its petals for the sun. Her own answering smile would pull him to her side. Exactly where he most longs to be.
Her smile works like a siren’s song and he would settle himself at the end of her chaise with her feet in his lap. He loves to trace the embroidered pattern on her stockings, across the bone of her ankle (where he has learned that she is ticklish), and up along her shapely calf. He restrains himself from ranging any higher, for these moments are about peace, not passion. Touching her in this way is intimate, but it is not a merely sensual touch. It’s much more than that; it’s devotion.
—
There is nothing quite like the way his wife’s hair glints in the candlelight. The reddish tint to her locks is made even more captivating in the warm glow of a flickering flame. He is dazzled by it in a ballroom as she twirls across the floor, but here in their bedchamber he is enraptured by it. Only he is allowed the privilege of seeing it completely unbound and unadorned. The soft curls falling down her back like a shimmering waterfall. He loves to twirl the coils around his fingers and note all the different hues one can see up close.
He had pouted like a petulant child one night when her maid had braided her hair before bed. Penelope had laughed so heartily when she learned the cause of his ire but she immediately untied the ribbon and pulled the shiny locks free from their woven constraints. She likes having his hands tangled up in her hair just as much as he does.
Sometimes he falls asleep with one of her curls held loosely between his fingers. The feel of the silky strands soothing him into a peaceful slumber. Other times he wakes to find his nose buried amongst her tresses, breathing in the comforting, feminine fragrance of his wife. He is glad she no longer wears her hair plaited for bed but he knows it is quite selfish of him, for he watches her maid carefully comb out the tangles each morning. The tangles made by his own hands or the result of their nightly passions.
Even before his eyes had been opened to Penelope’s beauty, he had noticed her hair. Its bold, gleaming colour stands out against her fair skin making an alluring contrast. Before, he had admired a curl dance against the curve of her cheek or the nape of her neck. Now, he knows that they look even more enticing next to the creamy skin of her breasts and their dusky pink peaks.
He doesn’t think he will ever forget that first sight of her hair fanned out across his pillows. Her curls mussed and slightly tangled, but beautiful nonetheless. A fiery halo around her head, identifying her as the goddess he knows her to be. If he were an artist he would paint that image, immortalise it for all eternity. But perhaps he likes it better that he is not, for it means he does not have to share this sacred vision.
He is a very lucky man, he reflects daily, sharing his life with Penelope. She brings so much joy into his world simply by being a part of it. Each and every sleep-tinged greeting of “morning” and “night” thrills him by being the very first and last words she speaks each day. They are for his ears only, in the quiet intimacy of their room. He can’t imagine a sweeter way to start or end his day.
He truly is very blessed.