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What first woke her was Richard leaving the bed. It was light outside, and there was a knocking at the door. At her call, Phyllis came in with her cup of tea. She felt marvelous as she stirred in a second lump, and the room looked different, too.

“The light seems different,” she said.

“‘Tis the snow, Milady.” When she got out of bed and looked out the window, she saw what Phyllis meant. Snow, white snow, covered the ground, and more was falling. London snow was normally dirty, from all the smoke and grit. This snow was deep enough to have swept all the grit into the bottom, and the top was snow white. It was snow, clean snow, and it called her.

“Warm clothes this morning,” she told Phyllis. “Out of style so long as they are warm enough.” Her coats were in her dressing room except for the one she had worn for the fancy visits and the one she wore for shopping. Phyllis found a coat she’d worn in the country years ago. It was patched but quite warm. She carried it down with a scarf, gloves, and mittens. Richard saw her at the foot of the stairs.

“You’ll have to take the coach if you go out in this, London streets or not,” he said. “What won’t wait until the morrow?”

“The snow won’t wait, if I know London. It will be brown tomorrow morning. And I shall need neither coach nor carriage. I shan’t leave the grounds.” She did partake of a hearty breakfast, though. She would need the warmth. She also needed someone to play with. All her former playmates were in Stafford. She wondered for one moment whether Richard wanted to make a snowman. Then she thought of the girls who had seemed so joyless. She left her outer clothes in the breakfast room and headed up the stairs.

“What did you have scheduled for today?” she asked Miss Walters when she got to the schoolroom.

“Well, Deborah needs to learn her spelling,” that worthy began, “And Martha...”

“Are those words going to be spelled the same way tomorrow?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Then she can learn them tomorrow. So can her sisters. Come girls! Get into your warmest clothes and shoes. Then put on your coats and scarves. When all three of you are ready, meet me at the top of the stairs.” The girls scurried off, and Miss Walters turned on her with a schoolteacher’s wrath.

“Milady,” Miss Walters began. This was rather undermined her intent, since it reminded Vivian that she could be neither switched nor set a number of pages to copy. A schoolteacher without those weapons was no threat. This one was, indeed, fairly amusing.

“I don’t suppose you know how to make snowmen,” Vivian said. She had always been an assistant in those projects, and she wasn’t certain that she could lead her stepdaughters.

“Never!” Which meant that Mary wouldn’t have learned, either. Well there were many other joys to be had in fresh snow.

She inspected the girls at the top of the stairs. They had scarves and mittens, but their coats looked awfully fashionable. Well, they would each outgrow these by next winter, anyway. A little mussing now would be no great waste. She led them downstairs. They watched while she dressed herself, and she led them out.

The girls didn’t need to make a snowman. They enjoyed running around and throwing snow at each other. They didn’t seem to know how to pack a good snowball, though. When Mary and Martha joined together against little Deborah, it seemed hardly fair. She packed several snowballs, piled them in a little pyramid, and called Deborah to her.

“It’s Deborah and MamaVivian against Mary and Martha,” she called out. She threw a snowball at Mary and handed another to Deborah. The older girls were brave, if not competent. They advanced throwing piles that scattered while she scored hits and Deborah mostly missed with snowballs from the pile. One thing you could say for the loose piles: it is hard to absolutely miss with a missile that spreads so wide. Most of the older girls’ throws hit both Deborah and herself.

Mary saw her pack a ball and tried to emulate the actions. Her third attempt worked, and it landed smack on Vivian’s coat. Mary called her sister into retreat, and Vivian scored on each before they got out of range. Mary hadn’t abandoned the battle. She started to show Martha what she had learned.

While they were at it, MamaVivian taught Deborah about packing snowballs. The stacked their ammunition while the older girls were practicing throwing theirs away to check whether they dissipated in flight.

“Have you seen snow outside London?” she asked Deborah.

“I don’t remember it. They remember having Christmas in Kent.”

“Well, this year, we are going to have Christmas in London. We will, though, have a real Christmas.”

“Oh good,” Deborah said. Then their enemies were charging them with a snowball in each hand. One of hers caught Mary right in the face.

“I’m sorry, Mary,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, I mean this,” Mary said. She snatched up a handful of snow and launched herself bodily against Vivian. She blocked the arm, but the loose snow filled her face. She picked up Mary and held her as a shield with her right arm while she wiped the snow away with the other hand. “No Martha, no,” Mary called when her sister took the opportunity to toss handfuls of snow at friend and foe so intertwined.

Vivian had to laugh.

Richard had heard the shouting. He saw the romp out the window and went for his coat. He was barely outside when he heard Vivian laugh aloud. If her smile could light up a room, her laugh was like the voice of an angel. The girls were laughing, too. It was the first laughter he had heard from his family in years.

He trailed the sounds around to the side of the house where a laughing Vivian was setting down a laughing Mary while a laughing Martha was throwing snow at them. Deborah was rolling in the snow. Apparently she was laughing, too. If she were in agony, her sisters should have noticed. Still, he picked her up to make sure.

“Father,” Deborah said. She was still laughing. He set her on her feet and brushed her off.

“Father,” Mary and Martha echoed her together. They seemed to lose their laughter. Was he such a dampening presence.

“What is so funny?” he asked.

“They can’t make decent snowballs,” Vivian answered. “They can each make a perfect curtsey, but they have never thrown a snowball before.” Her humour, at least, was undampened. She resumed laughing when she had said that. Desperate to feel that laughter, he picked her up an carried her to the side of the house. He lifted her and fit his lips over hers. The kiss went on and on. He couldn’t feel her softness through their coats, but he could taste the laughter in her mouth.

“What are they doing?” Deborah asked behind him.

“Father is kissing MamaVivian,” Mary said. He felt something brush against his back.

“Should you throw snow on Daddy?” Deborah asked.

“We either throw at those two or Martha and I go against you. We both know how to pack them, and MamaVivian is busy.” Several more bumps against his back must have been snowballs. He moved his face back, but he didn’t set Vivian down.

“Set me down,” she said. “I have to deal with this.” He set her down and backed away. “Now, girls,” she said, “It is not fair at all to throw snowballs at your father and your MamaVivian when we are busy with something more important. I would wager that your father packs a mean snowball and can throw with good accuracy.” That was crediting him with skills that he hadn’t used for decades. “Now, decide whether it is going to be the two of us against the three of you or whether we are going to find another way of having fun in the snow.”

The girls kept the snowballs in their hands, neither dropping them nor throwing them. He selected the patch of clean snow he would use if they decided on war.

“Girls,” Miss Walters called suddenly. “This is disgraceful. Milady, I cannot imagine what you were thinking. This is disrupting all my classes.” Well games were over for now. Time for him to take charge.

“Well, we are done for the nonce,” he said. “The fun is over, and the work resumes. Before you resume your studies, take Annette upstairs with you. You need to change your clothes from the skin out. Ask Annette to towel you off before you begin dressing again.” The girls, obediently, filed towards the door. “Miss, Walters,” he said in a somewhat lower tone, “could you take a minute in the front parlor with Milady and me while the girls are changing their clothes?”

“Miss Walters,” he began when they were in the appointed place with their outerwear removed, “I appreciate very deeply the education you have instilled in the girls. I would be intensely sorry to dismiss you.” Miss Walters smiled. “That means that I shall be intensely sorry the next time you contradict Milady in front of your charges. The girls are her children, and she has absolute control. If her plans for them conflict with your plans for them, then you are absolutely entitled to appeal to her to take your plans into consideration. That appeal, however, is hers to hear in private and hers to decide. You are not to let the children hear that you disagree with her. You will notice that I brought you in here to speak to you. I don’t want my disagreements with you to be in front of them, either. Now, why don’t you return to your charges?” Miss Walters left with her face to the floor. She was either much chastened or plotting her resignation.

“Richard, do you know how to make a snowman?” Vivian asked when they were alone.

“Well, that side yard would be hopeless. Snowmen require untrodden snow. You walk behind the balls you are rolling.”

“It sounds like you do. Have you ever made a snowman for your daughters?”

“Absolutely not,” he said. “Are you suggesting that they would have laughed if I had?”

“I don’t know. Does one laugh at snowmen? I always smiled when we finished one.”

“Then you were damned lucky that they didn’t melt.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked. “They always melted sooner or later.” She clearly didn’t know how bright her smile was. Well, that sort of heat wouldn’t melt a snowman. It could melt him, though.

“We, like the girls, are in rather damp clothes. Why don’t you go up to your room and change into a dressing gown?”

He looked for a footman. Roger was the first one he saw. “Roger, please go up to my bedroom and shake up the fire. Toss a piece or two of pine kindling on it. I want it hot.” Then he went up to his dressing room and rang for Sean. Dressed in robe, slippers, and nothing else, he went down to Vivian’s dressing room. She was in her dressing gown, and Phyllis was getting out a new set of clothes. “Thank you, Phyllis,” he said. “We will not need you for a while.”

Vivian looked at Richard with something between annoyance and fright. He was supposed to not give Phyllis any orders. He had expressed himself as not wanting any arguments before the children; was he dismissing Phyllis so she would not hear him berate her? Indeed, he looked determined.

“Let us go to that glass,” he said. She stood in front of the cheval glass, and he stood in back of her. “Smile for me, and look at your smile.” She did, though she had nothing to make her smile. She was sobering from her joyful response to the snow and the girls.

She felt Richard’s arms around her. Then he was tickling her. She must avoid moving violently for fear of upsetting the cheval glass, and his arms were incredibly strong. He soon had one hand inside her dressing gown tickling her bare left side. The struggle was unequal, and soon she was laughing too hard to fight him at all. He pulled her up to see her reflection in the glass.

“See,” Richard said. “Now that is a real smile.” It was closer to a laugh, and her mouth was open. “That is a real smile. That is the real Vivian.” His hand left her side to cup her left breast. She could see everything in the glass, and the dressing gown was coming loose enough to show his hand and the nipple of her other breast.

She tried to clutch the dressing gown closed. “It’s cold,” she complained. In truth, his hand was chilly, but the grasp made her belly hot.

“Well, there is a better fire in my bedroom. We can go through yours instead of the hall if you want no servant to see you.” He took her hand and dragged her along that route. She wasn’t hanging back, but every time she hurried after him, he went faster.

“It is warmer in here,” she admitted. He led her in front of the fireplace, where it was not warm but hot. They were facing the fire with him pressed against her back. He pulled the sash of her dressing gown, and the gown gaped open to the fire. When she grasped the edges closed, he had a hand on each of her breasts. He nuzzled the collar of the gown off her neck and kissed her there.

“I have only two hands to protect myself,” she said. It seemed that he was baring more than she could cover.

“Protect yourself? Protect you from the fire?” He stepped back and then pulled her back against him. She felt his organ firm along her back. Now he kissed the left side of her neck. Hot as she was, this made her shiver. He licked her there, and his tongue was fire. That fire, though, made her shiver.

“Protect yourself from your wedded husband?” He murmured this question very softly, but his mouth was right at her ear. Then he licked the ear. He stroked down from her left breast over her belly. When his hand reached her mound, she abandoned the dressing gown to hold that arm with both her hands. “Hmm?” he asked again. He was right, she had no protection against her husband. He had every right to hold her, but did he have the right to fondle her?

At that point, he attacked her in three places, proving her claim that two hands were not enough. His fingers on her mound combed through those curls; his fingers on her right breast strummed the nipple; his tongue licked right behind the lobe of her ear. Meanwhile, the gaping dressing gown allowed the fire to spread heat through her. If it was the fire, though, it was strange that she felt hottest where his hand shaded her mound from the fire.

“Richard,” she pled.

“Hmm?” That was against her skin, but right next to her ear. Richard had always been a man of words, and now he was only answering with a hum. The hum was exciting her, too, exciting her in a way she shouldn’t be excited.

“You said you didn’t.”

“Hmm?” This was at an even more exciting spot, and something was happening in her belly when he did it. She had difficulty thinking, but she had to muster the words.

“You said, whatever the law, that you didn’t own me.” That, at least, got him to move his mouth from her neck.

“What I remember saying was quite different,” Richard said. “I own you, but you own me quite as much. ‘Ownership’ might be a clumsy word. The law doesn’t make a woman her husband’s slave. Whatever the obligations, though, they flow both ways in any moral sense.”

“Well, then, I need your hands to be off me.” He let her go, although he still was against her back. She felt the motion when he pulled the sash of his robe free.

“That creates a contradiction, then. I need my hands to be touching you.”

“You were driving me to distraction,” she said. She still felt him against her back with his organ a hot pressure there. Still, the fire was hot, too, and it would be hotter if she moved away from him. As clear as she was that he’d been disturbing her, she couldn’t persuade herself that the disturbance had been totally unpleasant.

“Well, I had intended to do so. Is that so bad. Were you entirely composed outside during the snow-ball battle? Did you find my kiss unpleasant then?”

“Well, a kiss is one thing.” What he had been doing was quite another. His fondling was what a wife had to expect under the sheets in bed at night. She, as a matter of fact, enjoyed that. Such pleasures weren’t for the broad light of day. Having told herself that, she asked herself where she had learned that principle.

“Would you kiss me, then?” he asked. “Kisses are proper between spouses.”

When she turned to kiss him, their skin touched. He had his hands behind his back, and they were holding his robe back there. She raised herself on tiptoes to reach his mouth. That pressed her breasts into his hairy chest and her belly against his organ. She grasped his neck to hold herself in place and pressed her lips to his. She was kissing him, without his bending at all to make it easier. Then, his tongue touched hers, and everything got hotter.

The heat spread from her mouth which he was ravishing and from her breasts pressed against his hairy chest. It pooled in the depths of her belly. She felt his organ twitch against her belly. Something hot leaked from it onto her skin. She had never really seen that organ, and he kept saying that she owned him. If so, she had the right to inspect her property.

“I have not seen it.” She took a step back, meaning she was standing on the hearth and endangering her dressing gown. She looked at it, but it was mostly pointing at her.

“Do you desire me to go over by the window where you could see more clearly?” he asked. “It might be cold there, though.”

“Only take two steps back and turn a little sideways.” He did, and she could see him more clearly. His organ was redder than the rest of his skin, and it looked, somehow, angry. It had a straight part that stood up at an angle, then it thickened towards the top before tapering off to almost a point. A little liquid was leaking from the top.

“It is very strange,” she said.

“To you. I have had it all my life.”

“Sticking up like that? It must be uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t stick up like that all the time,” Richard said. “That is merely its response to a beautiful woman. Most of the time it droops down and gives no trouble. I didn’t know you wanted to see it. You merely had to ask. Most of the rest looks more like the female body. Do you wish to see?”

Not waiting for an answer, he stripped off his robe, took two long strides to a chair, and draped the robe over it. He walked back very slowly, turning as he came. He didn’t look like a feminine body. There was much more definition to his muscles, the skin was hairier, and the frame tapered down from wide shoulders to narrow hips. There were, of course, no breasts.

The strangest part, aside from the organ, was a sack hanging down between his legs. Richard apparently saw her interest.

“That is not unique to human males,” he said. “Stallions have them, and bulls. They are the difference between a dog and a bitch. We call them stones, but do not be led astray. They are not impervious, and you must be very gentle when you touch them.”

“I did not ask to touch them.”

“You do not have to ask. As your husband, I am available to your touch. I do ask, however, that you be gentle when you do. And, of course, what you do in public is constrained by modesty.”

“Well,” she said, “I have some modesty even in private.”

“I am not certain that modesty operates in private. You take a bath naked, do you not? You would not bathe in the front yard, even in August when it might be more comfortable. That really was Miss Walters’s error. The girls should not indulge in a snow-ball fight before the mode. She is preparing the girls to enter the mode. It is folly, however, to expect them to live their every moment as though it were before the mode. You would not have worn that coat to a ball, would you?”

“No.” When had she worried herself that he was only murmuring instead of talking? Now he was talking -- talking paragraphs, chapters -- and it was nearly as dizzying as the touches had been.

“I propose, dear Vivian, dearest wife, that there are appropriate costumes before a husband and appropriate behavior with a husband,” he said. When did she become his dearest wife? He was not going to love her, and he was not supposed to say he did. Was being dear that different from being loved? “Just as there are costumes that are appropriate for a snow-ball fight that are inappropriate for a ball, there are behaviors that are appropriate with a husband that are inappropriate with anyone else. Is that unlikely?”

“It is quite clear.” For one thing, a wife, Mother had been adamant, should satisfy her husband’s lusts. That would be a sin with another man.

“Married women are supposed to bear their husbands children, and the most respectable married women do without anyone doubting their modesty or virtue. Now, you knew less about how children are begotten before our wedding than you do now, but -- even then -- you had some conception of the process of conception. Is that not so?” And now he was merely underlining what she had already thought.

“I am clear about the duties of a wife,” she said. “Although I do not know whether those include laughing at her husband’s plays on words.”

“Only if she thinks them funny. Indeed, you have no duty to laugh. Hiding your laughter, though, is only appropriate some of the time. But I digress. What I was speaking about is not the duty of a wife, but the behavior of a modest wife. Inspecting her husband’s private parts during a royal audience would be the height of immodesty. Doing so in the privacy of the marital chambers does not impinge upon modesty at all. Similarly, a modest woman does not disrobe before the world, but she disrobes in front of her husband when they are alone. The problem is that you came to me, quite recently, with no experience of behavior with a husband. I came to you a nearly-strange man, and you adopted the rules for modest women dealing with strange men.” She could believe now that his organ did not always stick up. It had been sagging throughout this speech.

“That is unfair, Sir Richard. In the first place, I gave you liberties I have never given any other man, however familiar. In the second place, I came to you not knowing at all how strange a man you were.”

Richard laughed at her thrust. “True,” he said. “You gave me liberties, if not all that I would have wished, but you took none with me. We have been wed a fortnight, and this is the first time you have examined me. If the inspection is finished for the nonce, by the way, may I step closer to the fire? Adam’s costume is a bit chilly.” She stepped away, and he walked closer to the hearth.

“You wanted me to inspect you?”

“I wanted you to want something from me, something intimate. If you wished to see me...”

“I have wished that for the longest time,” she confessed. “To have something thrust into me that I had not seen...” She could not finish that thought, even to herself.

“When you asked, I complied. I was happy to comply. It was no more that you wanted to see me naked than that your gift to the girls was the skill of packing snowballs.”

“What was wrong with them throwing snowballs? I thought you said it was proper.”

He sighed. He went to the chair, hauled it to the hearth, and sat on it. He still didn’t don his robe, though. “Darling,” he said, “nothing was wrong with them throwing snowballs. They threw some at me, and I had more important matters in hand. You were the one who made them stop.”

“Miss Walters made them stop.”

“Miss Walters made them stop laughing. They had already stopped throwing snowballs. The important novelty you brought into their lives was not snowballs. It was laughter. I married you for your smile, but your laugh is better. And you get the girls to laugh, as well.”

“Are you saying that they never laugh?” she asked. She had never heard them laugh, but she seldom heard them.

“They laughed with Susannah and me. Then we had nothing to laugh about.” That sounded tragic. “Now, they have something to laugh about. You brought laughter into this house. And we can laugh together when I tickle you.”

“I generally enjoy laughing. I enjoy being tickled much less.” Although, she had to admit that the last tickling session had led to some pleasure, if only when he stopped. “Since it is you that has lacked the laughter in his life, perhaps I should tickle you the next time.”

“You don’t know where I am ticklish,” he said. That was such a clear dare that she advanced on him. He sat back and spread his arms. When she discovered that the sides of his ribs were ticklish, though, he pulled her down in his lap and retaliated. He used one arm to hold her and the other hand to tickle her. With the advantage of two hands, she barely held her own, though he had a louder laugh. After he managed to remove her dressing gown, her laughter interfered with her efforts to tickle him.

“Mercy, mercy,” she cried finally.

“No free mercy. I need a forfeit.” He held her though he stopped attacking her ticklish spots.

“What forfeit?”

“I kiss you,” he said. “I kiss you as much as I want.” That seemed a slight forfeit. He already kissed her whenever he wanted, including outside in front of his daughters.

“I agree.” They were in the chair, with her more or less in his lap.

He rose picking her up. He walked to the bed, and dumped her on the quilt. Then he was between her legs kissing the inside of her left thigh. He kissed up towards the juncture. Then he switched to her right thigh and kissed higher. He could have only one target!

“Richard!” she cried. “You cannot kiss me there.”

“Why not? You said I could kiss you as much as I wanted.”

“Because...” Because she was dirty there. Because she had meant kisses on the mouth. Because the kisses on her thigh were driving her crazy. “Because...” But he seemed to have stopped listening. His mouth reached her center, and he brought fire with him. She felt herself writhe on the bed. She set her hands in his hair, but she couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him closer.

Then the lightning struck and she could do nothing.

She continued writhing, and the lightning continued to strike. She felt something thrust deep into her, and when the lightning struck yet again, she felt herself grip something within her. Then she collapsed.

Richard pulled his fingers out of her center. He untangled her fingers from his hair and move up in the bed to lie beside her. He had first loved her smile, but the smile in the dance was nothing compared to this smile. She looked sated, satisfied, quite pleased, and beatific. She was also blushing, with rose points down from her face to her breasts. He rested his hand on her mound while he watched her gaze move from something far away to his face.

“Welcome back, darling Vivian. You are very beautiful, dearest wife.” He began stroking his finger across her sensitive nubbin. She clutched his wrist as she had clutched his hair. He ducked his head to kiss her nipples, finding each already hard and throbbing under his tongue.

He soon rose enough to see her face, though. Once, the worry would have concerned him. As the worry deepened, Vivian’s body tensed. He left the nubbin to stroke the folds around her entryway. One more touch, as light as he could manage, to the nubbin, and he sent his finger on another patrol of the gates.

“Richard?” Her voice sounded strained.

“Yes, my darling.” He kept on the inner folds but not quite on the nubbin.

“Richard, I cannot...” She paused while he stroked quite close to the nubbin again, but not quite there. “I want...”

“Yes. Do you want a climax?” He slowed the stroking down and tried to lighten his touch.

“Oh, yes. Please yes.” Well, if she asked for it that prettily. He stroked the top of her entry from side to side, crossing her nubbin on each stroke. Her expression now was one of pain. It went to agony just before she convulsed. He stroked while she convulsed twice more. Then he withdrew his finger but only to her mound.

The agony left her face. Soon it was replaced by a blissful smile. The blush was brighter than ever. She was breathing too hard for him to kiss her mouth, but he bent over and kissed her forehead. She was a marvelous woman, so responsive and so open about her responses.

Vivian recovered from intense pleasure -- shattering pleasure -- into contented bliss. She was too content to move, though the air around her was a bit chill this far from the fire. Richard’s hand on her was a comforting warmth, as was his lips on her forehead. She was much too content to think, but thoughts kept intruding.

In her life, she had experienced pain so intense that it had left her barely aware of where she was, and she well believed that there was worse pain than she had ever experienced. That pleasure could be as distracting was a new idea, and a strange one.

She had begun with a tickling contest with Richard, and a contest against her husband was a strange idea in itself. One obeyed husbands; did one contest with them? She had lost the contest, trivial as that contest was. That defeat had led to more pleasure than she had ever received from any victory in her life. She suspected that something about that paradox bore a resemblance to Richard’s claim that he had wanted her to take liberties with him. She had not the wits after her recent experience and in her present bliss to sort out the connection, though.

For that matter, she had not the luxury of wallowing in her present bliss. Richard’s hand was still on her mound keeping it nicely warm. One of his fingers, though, had strayed lower. It was beginning to generate another sort of heat. The conclusion to the last times, had been extreme pleasure, but she doubted that she had the strength to take another such journey now -- to take another such journey this month.