Chapter Text
As promised, the following morning Bertha sent a letter of gratitude to Mrs. Fisher for being such a wonderful hostess and sharing such a well-tended garden for their enjoyment. Two days hence she had an answering letter in hand.
“Would you be available for dinner at the Fishers this Saturday?” she asked George, risking entry to his study despite her usual avoidance of what was so clearly his domain.
“We’ve been invited already?” he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Naturally,” Bertha replied, trying not to take offense. “Mrs. Fisher returned my note just now.”
“That’s—good. Excellent,” he nodded, swallowing. “Saturday works well.”
Something about the way he was studying her face as he said it had Bertha feeling oddly flushed.
With the answer she sought now obtained, she really ought to leave him to his work, but she found herself inexplicably wishing to linger. He hadn’t minded talking to her of his plans for Ohio before—perhaps he wouldn’t object to discussing such things further?
“May I ask what you’re working on? More to do with the line in Ohio?” she risked, moving towards his desk tentatively.
George’s eyebrows raised. “No,” he began, his tone equally cautious. “Not this morning. I’ve been evaluating ARTC’s debt to asset ratio. They’re ludicrously over-leveraged.”
Bertha took a breath. She certainly knew the words “evaluate” and “ludicrous” and could have hazarded a guess at “debt” and “asset” but the string of all of them together, with the ensuing words between, turned it all to as good as gibberish.
“I’m sorry,” George continued, interpreting her silence. “It’s dull work, I’m sure.”
“No,” Bertha interjected. “Not at all.” She came to stand closer beside him, looking over his shoulder at the papers in case they might elucidate things further. “ARTC? I’m not familiar with the acronym.”
“American Rapid Telegraph Company,” George explained, leaning back in his chair to meet her eyes. “Not a major player like Western Union, but they hold one or two worthwhile patents for signal switching and rather helpfully have a board that could barely strategize its way out of a paper bag.”
His last words were said with such obvious satisfaction that Bertha couldn’t help but smile.
“I didn’t realize you worked in telegraphs as well as railroads,” she started, encouraged.
“Telegraphs, railroads, steel and manufacturing.” George shrugged. “Much of it is the same. Any company with weak stocks and poor leadership is vulnerable in much the same way at the end of the day: Find the anxious investors, buy up shares through proxies, amass controlling interest, and then demand a restructuring or else force a sale for consolidation.”
His hand swept through the air as if brushing aside such corporations like so much smoke and Bertha knew it was odd of her, knew she must be a strange sort of woman to feel it, but the gesture gave her an absurd desire to pounce on him like a lion might her prey. She felt giddy with it, giddy too with the way he had indulged her curiosity so willingly.
“So you find a vulnerable company and then make it better for profit?” she summarized.
“Make it better, perhaps,” he began consideringly, “or destroy it entirely. Not all companies ought to survive after all.”
He said it so like an emperor condemning a gladiator to death that she couldn’t stop herself from breathing out, “Remarkable.”
George blushed scarlet.
“Hardly,” he demurred.
She found herself fascinated, studying his cheeks, transfixed by the tangible proof that she held some power over him. Perhaps he’d been feeling underappreciated by his new wife? The idea had never occurred to her, but it was true that she rarely shared her gratitude for the business acumen that put a roof over her head and saved her parents from ruin.
“I’m serious, George,” she pressed on. “I doubt there’s a man in a thousand who has such insight.”
If she had thought her husband had blushed before, he now seemed almost sheepish with embarrassment, turning away from her to look back to his papers as if he could no longer even bear to meet her eyes. Her satisfaction only grew to see it. Her husband must hold some reason against other forms of intimacy but here at least was tangible proof he wasn’t entirely unaffected by her.
“It is not…” he began haltingly, “not without…risk, you understand?”
“Nothing worthwhile ever is,” she assured him, as if the matter were settled. “So, these documents,” she continued, “they tell you how vulnerable this ARTC has become?”
“If one reads between the lines,” he explained, before pausing. “You truly wish to hear about this?”
For half a second Bertha considered her replies. If you wish to tell me, would be proper, but was that the really her only reason? She found she was curious to hear regardless of his sensibilities. Ought she to explain? If it’s what you spend your day thinking on, surely I should understand its aim? would be a fair summation. But that too felt wrong somehow.
“I do,” she said simply, a declaration of intent just as simple as the one she had made in her marriage vows. He studied her eyes for a moment before nodding and beginning to explain.
~
Had Bertha been born a man, George was quite sure he would have hired her on the spot. She hadn’t the necessary training of course, but she had that which he’d found no training could ever adequately impart: instinct. It was uncanny, the way she naturally seemed to sense the weaknesses he sought to exploit.
“How did you even get such a thing?” she asked eventually, after he’d explained the basics of the financial statements in front of him. “Surely, such documents are not available for public consumption?”
George flushed.
“Well, no,” he began, cautious as to her ensuing judgment. “They aren’t. I bribed one of the secretaries.”
“Oh?” Bertha started, but it wasn’t scorn in her tone, more…was that intrigue? A smirk twisted her lips. “Well, I hope they were worth the price.”
“I think they will be,” he assured her, matching her expression. Bertha nodded, stepping back from his desk as if he’d dismissed her. He held back his disappointment at the movement, already missing the pull of her presence.
“I thought we’d have lamb this evening,” she asked by the doorway, “if you’ve no objection?”
“None at all,” he assured her with a small smile.
She returned it, with a nod before leaving him alone once more.
He busied himself with work for the rest of the day, content to slowly make his way through the sheaths of documents, keeping track of relevant figures and a few ideas for further consolidation once such avenues were open to him. It wasn’t until dinner that his wife had him on his back foot once again.
“I’ve been thinking about those land grants you mentioned? For the railroads? You said they were often quite political, in terms of whom the government favors?”
George swallowed his bite of lamb with mint sauce, surprised at the question.
“Exceedingly,” he confirmed.
“I wonder then, might it be of use to become a bit involved in the process?” she asked, her voice tentative. “Adrian Haverford’s considering a run for the state senate this fall. I’m sure he’d welcome your support.”
George’s brows raised, surprised.
“How do you know that?”
“I met his wife at the Women’s Benevolent Society and she has astonishingly loose lips.” Bertha’s mouth quirked as she said it, pausing to take a sip of her wine. “Loose enough to make up for being rather dull herself, I’m afraid.”
George had witnessed it before, his wife’s rather sharp tongue when it came to social considerations, but he felt a deep fondness blooming to hear it now. He knew well that she was the picture of propriety beyond these walls but there was something wonderful about seeing her thorns prickle into view, on display but for him alone.
“And he has a chance of winning?” he asked, slicing his asparagus in half before spearing it.
“Well, I’m sure you ought to look into it further,” she demurred, “but yes, I think so. They’re well-connected and well-liked and he has experience in law that it seems men tend to amass before such electoral bids. I imagine the real question rides on whether he has sufficient resources to allow for any campaigning.”
A sensible assessment if ever he’d heard one. George nodded.
“I’ll look into it,” he confirmed.
Bertha nodded, spearing her own asparagus delicately before adding, “Actually, I thought we might invite them to dine with us?”
“Oh?”
Bertha frowned slightly. “Well, it would be the done thing to do, unless you’ve some objection? It would give you a chance to get to know him better before making any decisions.” She paused, her voice tentative when she continued, “And they might think it strange were you to donate without having done so.”
George flushed. Of course, why base decisions on careful research when one was supposed to simply share a meal and decide off the cuff? But Bertha wasn’t chastising him, nor was her tone mocking, merely casual. He felt a sense of relief sweep through him, like he’d dangled on some precipice only to be pulled back at the last moment.
“That’s very sensible,” he agreed.
She smiled. “Good,” she agreed. “I’ll arrange it.”
~
Dinner that Saturday at the Fishers went as smoothly as Bertha could have hoped. It was funny, just how much she’d learned about her husband in such a short time. She had thought, before, that he preferred silence and thus had often held back her own questions and thoughts for fear of irritating him. She knew now he merely found idle conversation something of a challenge but not one for which he evidently held any disdain. In fact, far from irritation, she rarely saw him gaze more warmly at her than when she steered the conversation for them both, guiding the group from topic to topic and sparing him the evidently onerous task of engaging with more than a well-timed affirmation or two.
This suited Bertha rather well—exceptionally well, if she was honest. She had never quite had that social freedom herself, always one of a pair with her sister, or under her mother’s thumb, or dodging innuendos about her father’s misfortune or her family’s roots. Now, however, she was on equal footing with the other ladies of society, and yet it felt oddly as though she had catapulted to a rung above. It seemed the rest were so often held back by husbands who undermined them or stole their spotlight, while she was steadily propped up and pushed to the forefront.
“I wonder, Mrs. Fisher, if I might trouble you with a tour of your lovely home while the gentlemen enjoy their port?”
They’d just completed their fifth hand of whist—three to two in favor of the Fishers, as George had agreed to her suggestion that they allow Mr. Fisher to win in order to improve his mood—and Bertha had judged it more or less time to move things along before the evening stretched too much later than was proper.
“Of course,” Mrs. Fisher replied politely, albeit with perhaps an overly knowing glance at her husband as she escorted Bertha from the room. Bertha resisted the urge to give George an equally laden look—after all, this was business. Certainly her husband required no hand-holding in such things.
However, by the time the house tour had ended and their carriage had been called, Bertha found herself fearing she may have to update that impression.
“How did the matter proceed with Mr. Fisher?” she asked once they were safely ensconced in the carriage and away from prying ears.
“I inquired about his shares, he seemed uninterested in selling, so I informed him that whether or not he sold them to me, by the time the leaves changed this fall, they would be worth pennies on the dollar, if that.”
He said it so simply that it took a moment for the gravity of his words to sink in.
Surely, he hadn’t—
Surely he would not have actually said—
“But that if he were willing to part with them now, I was willing to offer him favorable terms on shares in my Ohio line when I open to investors.”
But no—evidently he had done.
Goodness.
Bertha tried briefly to imagine how she might possibly apologize for such offense. Her mind unhelpfully drew a complete blank.
“And what did he say to that?” she managed in reply, her voice weak, dread creeping in.
“He required a bit of additional persuasion, but after I presented the figures plainly, he came to see the favorability of my offer.”
Bertha, who had previously believed herself to be shocked, now felt obliged to downgrade that past emotion. That had clearly been mere surprise. This was shock.
“He did?” she managed, her voice almost frail.
George turned to look at her properly, evidently confused at her tone.
“Naturally,” he assured her.
She had, of course, read snippets in the papers that hinted at just how her husband generally conducted business. It was one thing to read such things in the paper. It was another to know that such a conversation had taken place a mere room away—and what’s more that it had all worked .
“You seem concerned,” George continued, frowning.
“No, I—” she paused, “well, I worried he might have taken offense, but it seems such fears were in vain.”
“Offense in business is easily papered over with dollar bills,” he scoffed before pausing, his face turning pensive, “though I do—that is it say, I am aware such principles do not apply so easily in all situations and have found myself grateful for your guidance on such things.”
Bertha tried not to let her mouth hang open in surprise. Or her heart explode from her chest. She managed both, but it was a far nearer miss than ever before.
“I appreciate your direct nature,” he continued as their carriage stopped, finishing with a small nod as if in approval of his thought. “It is,” he paused, evidently searching for the right word, “uncommon,” he settled on at last.
Uncommon. Uncommon, he said, and yet it made it sound like a compliment.
She briefly contemplated what might happen were she to simply throw herself upon him, pin him to the carriage seat, and bar the door.
Instead, she at least managed to hold in her sigh until he had stepped outside and was out of earshot.
But by the time George had escorted her up the stairs and back to their bedrooms Bertha had rather decided to it might be time to abandon such restraint. Appreciated her direct nature, he had said?
Well, good. She could manage that.
If he prized her forthrightness, then, perhaps this evening, she would simply have to be forthright.
~
It had been a triumph of an evening. With Fisher’s shares, George was nearly at a controlling interest in the Erie line already. One or two more anxious investors and he’d been home. To be sure, he wasn’t entirely confident in the legality of his ensuing plans to issue so much new stock the existing shares would dilute to nothing, but that was a problem for tomorrow. For now, he had won.
And she had won it for him.
Over the past week, it had occurred to George that he had happened into marrying a rather singular woman. To be sure, he was not particularly fluent in the broader members of her sex, but he felt increasingly sure that no advice or knowledge of the rest of her gender would prove at all insightful with regards to Bertha. Her mind simply worked differently—better, clearly, than all the others. That must be the case, he reasoned, because if all women were as capable as Bertha had begun to prove herself, then surely society would have evolved to have both genders in the boardroom rather than one in and the other out.
But how fortunate for him that he was to have lucked into such an unusual partner for his endeavors.
He helped her down from the carriage when they arrived home, exceedingly content to feel her lean against his arm as he guided her up the stairs towards their rooms.
Perhaps she would ask him to help her with her gown again tonight? The thought of it thrummed through him as they approached her door, his mouth running dry. But, no, he shouldn’t indulge such things. It would only torture him further, as the memories of that night already did: the way her hair felt as it had brushed against his fingers, the warmth of her skin beneath his hand as he had caressed her waist.
He would bid her goodnight and take himself back to his own room, where he might safely handle whatever errant and vulgar thoughts persisted in his mind before drifting off to sleep.
But as they reached her door, he felt Bertha pause as she stepped towards it and he failed to follow.
“Won’t you come in and help?” she asked, her voice deep, almost raspy.
George felt as if he always swayed to hear it.
“It’s late,” he managed. “I can call for your maid?”
This, evidently, was quite the wrong thing to say.
“Oh, for goodness—” she began, breaking off, her face twisting. “Won’t you tell me what it is about me you find so displeasing?” Bertha’s eyes were bright with anger, but they betrayed a deeper hurt as well, something mournful in the turn of her mouth that gave George a plummeting feeling in his stomach, so dreadful that it took him precious seconds to even understand her words.
Displeasing?
“I find nothing about you displeasing,” he said truthfully.
What a strange question. Bertha was obviously pleasing in every way.
“Then why—” she stared at him blankly, her eyes wild. “Why haven’t you—have you some aversion to touch?”
George felt his heart begin to pound.
“No,” he managed. “I am not averse.”
Bertha seemed to sway where she stood and he stepped towards her without thinking, ready to catch her should she fall, his hands bracketing her, inches away on either side.
“Then why have you never—”
Her eyes were wild, turning to look from one of his hands to the other and back again, before, it seemed, she threw caution to the wind and lunged forward, her hands on either side of his face to hold him still as she began to kiss him.
George melted. And melted truly was the word for it. He was a puddle, a puddle only capable of being kissed by Bertha. His mouth opened on instinct, feeling her tongue touch his, feeling her teeth scrape across his lip and her nails scrape up across his beard and up across his ear until it anchored in his curls, pulling gently as she wove a firm grip there as if concerned he might move away. How silly. Puddles could not move. Puddles could merely kiss and be kissed. And touch, apparently, he discovered as his hands moved almost automatically to rest on her waist, and then stroked over the soft fabric up her back, up and down and back up again, entranced by how very delicate she felt, his hands all but capable of spanning her waist entirely.
He lost all sense of time. And so when Bertha eventually pulled back, her breathing heavy and her lips the most enchanting shade of red-pink from kisses, it might have been minutes or hours. But then, he wasn’t sure it mattered, not so long as she might allow him to lose such time in her kisses again, ideally as soon as possible.
“Did you enjoy that?” she asked softly, looking up at him through dark lashes.
“Very much,” he breathed out in total sincerity.
“Then why the devil haven’t you done such a thing before!” she cried out, her fist hitting his chest for emphasis.
He blinked, transfixed by her, even as her brows narrowed in frustration at him.
“I—” he started, stumbling to find words for his jumbled thoughts. “I—I did not wish to press and we—that is to say, this was a matter of circumstance for you and I—I had been led to believe, that is—well, do you like such things?” he spluttered.
“Do I like such things? Do I like such things?” Bertha let out an entirely unladylike noise of frustration before pressing towards him again, this time pressing herself even closer, so close he felt the warmth of her body as though it were scorching, even through the layers of fabric covering her.
George felt quite certain he had never felt anything in his life so exquisite as this. Bertha felt so soft and precious in his arms. She was so delicate, angelic even. He felt an absurd desire to cover her entirely, to wrap himself around her every limb so that nothing might come to harm such perfection. She invaded his every sense, her hand stroking through his hair and another over his cheek and down his neck. And the sound of her—those swallowed whimpers, Christ . He’d never heard, never even imagined, anything so utterly affecting.
She pulled him into her bedroom without breaking the kiss, both of them stumbling over the threshold in their distraction.
She pulled at his collar as if angry with it, tugging it free and setting to work on his buttons next, her fingers fumbling, unfamiliar with the task. He moved at once to help her, tugging hard, hard enough it seemed, that those buttons broke loose, scattering across the floor and Bertha giggled—actually giggled—at the sight of it. It was the most remarkable of sounds, so joyous he could not help but join in.
And then she kissed him again, her hands warm on his chest and George lost himself entirely to the sensation.
~
It seemed this evening that Bertha was to learn all manner of new information about her husband. Earlier this evening, for example, she had learned that he disliked hollandaise sauce, frowned when confused while playing cards as if annoyed by a move he hadn’t predicted, and was every bit as ruthless as the papers suggested—threatening a man with ruin, and in his own home to boot.
Now, evidently, she was to add to that knowledge that her husband had a devilishly sensitive neck. She wondered idly if he found shaving these spots as arousing as it seemed he found the feel of her lips and teeth and tongue caressing them.
“Bertha,” he panted. “Bertha,” he whined.
“Yes, darling,” she encouraged, ravenous to watch him unravel.
She was learning too now just how gentle he was. She could hardly have known that the man the newspapers so regularly described as a barbarian and a brute would be so delicate as to remove every pin and comb from her hair without pulling a single strand, sighing even at the feel of those strands on his fingers. She could hardly have known too that he would caress her skin as it was slowly bared like it were made of glass. She found she could hardly stand the tease of it all, leaning her body into the sensation, craving more pressure without care for the impropriety.
And surely it was thoroughly improper, the way she felt, the overwhelming greed burning through her blood, making her feel as if she was nothing but need, as if she’d boil or evaporate or burn if he didn’t touch her, more and now, and then more again? Perhaps this was merely because she had imagined it so often. That surely was why the sight of his bare chest, broad and muscled, had her almost weak in the knees. Or perhaps that was the way he had begun to caress her curves, weighing one and then the other in his hand, as if mesmerized.
“Here,” she offered, sliding the straps of her chemise from her shoulders so that it fell to the floor, baring her almost entirely to his gaze.
His answering intake of breath was unspeakably satisfying and yet, he held himself back from touching her further, searching her face as if some secret password might be written in her pores.
She caressed his cheek, her hand carding through his beard.
“If you are ever unsure, you need only to ask,” she assured him.
“May I?” he breathed out at once.
“Yes,” she answered, the word melting into a whine as he did as she had bid.
Christ, it had been wonderful to feel him through the fabric, but nothing compared to this. Nothing—truly nothing. Her own hands held no comparison. She touched every inch of skin his fingers now caressed every time she washed and yet—oh!
“Too much?” he asked at once, her nipples pebbled into rosebuds in his hands.
“No!” she assured him. “Oh no, darling, just—”
She felt herself almost sway with the sensation.
“To bed, I think,” he murmured, his hands shifting to her arms to guide her.
“Won’t you—?” Bertha broke off. Saying it—asking at all even—had her feeling unspeakably crass and needy, mortifyingly so.
“If I may ask when unsure, perhaps you will offer yourself the same courtesy?” he answered, entirely guileless.
Uncommon, he had called her. Well, perhaps they both were.
“Won’t you let me see you too?” she managed. A euphemism still, as she could see him, and, in fact, more of him than she ever had before, but it seemed he understood her well enough becuase his hands began to move at once, disposing of his trousers and socks with exceptional efficiency. He met her eyes, a question in his own for a moment, before evidently finding an answer there, and stripping entirely.
She couldn’t make herself look away. And she should, shouldn’t she? That would be proper, surely? But then, more and more every second, she found she had no care left for what was proper.
After all, George didn’t seem to mind.
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to pin him down and study him to her satisfaction, until there was nothing about George Russell she didn’t know, nothing about him that he might steal away and hide from her again, until he was hers entirely, catalogued and memorized.
She reached for him, intending to do just that, but as he came towards her, bracing himself above her, it seemed he had much the same idea. He felt wonderfully solid above her, one hand keeping himself up so that his weight was lessened while the other stroked up her torso. He felt so warm, a veritable furnace in human form—or was that simply the way his touch quickened her blood, making her feel like she was on fire from the inside out. And then he bent, pressing kisses to her neck, his beard scraping against her skin as he worked his way down and across her body, and Bertha simply lost whatever bits were left of her mind to the sensation.
~
She was a marvel, some untold wonder of the world, and for him alone to explore. He had known of course, from the crass comments of colleagues after one too many drinks, that men favored certain attributes in women. He had not, however, entirely understood their fascination—until now.
“George!” she whimpered, her hands woven in his hair as he laved at her nipple, transfixed by the texture as it pebbled beneath his tongue. He was transfixed too by how electrically she responded, her whole body twisting to press against him.
He let one thigh press between her legs, feeling damp cotton against his skin as Bertha keened.
He backed away, panting for a moment as she rocked against him, content to brush his nose back and forth against the curve of her bosom, feeling the flesh give way and shift, so soft and delicate. That too it seemed was satisfying to her—Bertha whimpered, a protesting sound, but one of pleasure, before he turned his attention to her neglected side and repeated it all anew.
“Darling,” she panted. “Oh please, oh please, won’t you—?”
He was dizzy with desire for her, her words pulling him up from depths, like a diver gasping for breath as he broke the surface.
“Tell me,” he breathed into her skin.
But it seemed words proved difficult for her now. She gave her answer in actions instead, rocking her hips up against his thigh, the movement insistent and pleading.
“Here?” he asked, his hand falling down her core, parting the fabric there, and brushing against her, her skin scorching and slick.
“Yes!” she cried out, nodding and her eyes pressed closed.
There was an unspeakable pleasure in having such an effect on her. He felt drunk on it, the feeling more potent than straight whiskey in his veins. He did that. That gasp? That was him . His heart beat faster as he let his fingers explore her further. Perhaps she might let him study her properly, map her here too with his tongue as he had the rest of her? The thought of it was almost too much when mixed with the feeling of her skin as he pushed further, pressing one finger—
She gasped sharply and he froze at once.
“Are you—?”
“I’m fine. It’s fine,” she replied, her voice strained, her eyes opening and glassy.
“It’s not,” he protested, feeling her slick skin, unimaginably tight around the tip of his finger. “It—I will not fit. You’re too…petite.”
Bertha growled. There was no other word for it but growl—a delicate one, perhaps but a growl all the same.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she breathed. “A child will fit whenever we have one. It must—that is, I must…adjust.”
He stroked her further, pressing kisses to her neck.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.
“You won’t,” she assured him, gasping, but this time in pleasure as he laved at her skin. “Oh!” she cried out, he froze again, terrified his hand had caused some greater pain as he’d shifted.
“Oh, again. Do that again,” she pleaded.
“What?” he murmured, studying her face for clues.
“With your hand, that—yes!”
He’d rocked his hand back on the path he’d just taken, tracking her face as it twisted in pleasure.
“Here?” he asked, shifting again.
“Yes,” she panted. “Yes, yes, again.”
He obeyed, rocking his hand back and forth, one finger still buried inside her, mesmerized by the feel of her, by the sight of her, her skin flushed and her eyes heavy.
“Tell me,” he begged, eager for whatever instruction she might provide.
“Oh it’s—“ she panted. “I didn’t know—don’t stop. Please don’t stop, George.”
She whined, rocking into his touch, pressing herself against him, her hips rolling in a way that had him aching as he pressed himself against her thigh for some relief.
“I won’t,” he promised. “I won’t, my dear.”
She nodded, almost sobbing as she slicked his hand further, her body pulling him still deeper inside her.
“Does this please you?” He circled a finger lower, thrilling as she whimpered. “Or is this better?” He moved higher.
“There,” she nodded at once. “Oh—George,” she whimpered. “I want—I need—“
“It’s yours,” he promised. “Whatever it is,” he assured her. He had never meant any words more than he did these now, uttered into that holy space that existed sheltered from the world between their skin.
“More,” she panted.
“Like this?” he asked at once, a second finger pressing at her entrance, her skin so slick now that it might just fit. “Or here?” He let his hand slide up to cup her further, the heel of his hand meeting the cant of her hips as she nodded, the motion desperate.
“Yes, yes, both—George!” she cried out, burying her face against him as if blocking out the world.
He could feel her heart racing and her body fluttering as if it were panicking at the sensations thrumming through her—but a pleasurable panic it seemed, one that had her near hysterics. He’d never known a woman might experience such things, and just from a mere touch. But then perhaps they didn’t as a rule. Perhaps this was a miracle specific to Bertha, his singular woman, the only one who mattered.
She kept rocking against his touch, making the most wonderful mews, more gently now, in her melodic voice. What an extraordinary sense of peace this was, to have her in his arms and radiating such pleasure.
And he ached, yes, but even if she could take no more of him than this—still what a wonderful development. He might happily—
Oh Christ Almighty.
He cried out, part in pleasure and part in shock.
“Too much?” she asked, her voice small and tentative even if the hand that had descended down to stroke his length was…decidedly less so.
“No,” he managed, his voice strained.
She swept her fingers gently from root to tip, her grip gentle and her skin exquisitely soft, even as she still rocked against his hand on her.
“Is this typical?” she asked idly. “This size and shape? I’ve never seen one before.”
George gritted his teeth, trying his hardest not to simply start thrusting madly into her hand like some barbarian.
“Fairly,” he replied weakly. “Though I’ve hardly made a study of them either.”
Bertha grinned, watching him with satisfaction written in every quirk of her expression.
“No, I imagine not,” she agreed.
She studied him for a moment, before her eyes flicked to their surroundings and then back.
“Perhaps, like this?” she asked, guiding him to his back and then straddling his legs on her knees, her hand still gripping him, stroking in a rhythm surely designed to torture. “Then I might slow if it’s too much?”
He hadn’t imagined such a possibility, but her argument seemed unequivocally sound. He nodded at once, his hands coming to rest on her hips, his mind fevered at the image she presented before him, her long hair falling in a sheath, and her breasts bare and rosy from his earlier attention and—
Oh— oh.
Bertha had shifted forward, guiding herself until she was just above him, astride him like a jockey would mount a stallion and so close he could feel the heat of her cunt bleeding onto the tip of him, torturous and wonderful.
And then she brushed herself against him and George only barely managed to swallow his groan. Bertha studied him. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for a window into her mind, the ability to read it and know every thought hidden behind those eyes.
But then she shifted, her body taking hold of his—and when she did, it was all George could to do to hold any semblance of thought himself, much less crave hers.
~
He was exquisite. Her husband was exquisite. And he was hers . That thought was more than worth the splitting pain as she forced her body to comply with her demands of it. It was built for this after all—she was built for this goddamnit—and she would not let some momentary pain deprive her of that as she grit her teeth against it.
“We needn’t—“ he started.
“Hush,” she interrupted dismissively. “Just let me—“ She rocked back, gently, slowly, before shifting forward, feeling her body relax infinitesimally in each movement.
She pressed herself up, an inch, maybe two, before releasing herself, falling back with a gasp, at the burning pain, yes, but something more too. Just a hint of—
Oh—oh no —George had his teeth gritted, his face twisted as if in pain.
“Is it unpleasant?” she asked, her voice embarrassingly small. Perhaps he didn’t enjoy it? Perhaps something about her form was poorly suited to his? All of the sudden she felt terribly self-conscious, bare as she was above him. She shifted back, her hands coming to cover herself, so much as they could at least.
George’s eyes opened almost wildly and her panic only grew.
“Do you not—is it—?” she began, anxious.
“Not, no, not at all,” he assured her. “I—oh, my dear no . It is—overwhelming. Overwhelmingly good,” he managed his eyes transfixed on her hands. Belatedly she realized just how provocative it must appear, her own hands cupping her breasts, covering them, yes, but also looking as if she were pleasuring herself further.
She rocked her hips again, almost without thought this time, just to watch his reaction.
He gritted his teeth again, but now she recognized that expression, an expression of pleasure, and of pleasure she had caused. Her favorite kind.
“It is?” she asked, breathless, grinning, as she pressed up again, further this time now that the burn had lessened, letting her hands fall, baring herself to his gaze again.
“Exquisite,” he confirmed at once, entirely earnest.
She felt relief flood through her. He enjoyed it—he enjoyed her. She rolled her hips again, and George groaned, a wild sound—a wonderful sound.
Oh yes. He enjoyed her—quite a bit, it seemed.
“Touch me?” she asked, her voice small, playing at girlish.
George let out a stifled whine, his hands coming to her hips, gripping gently, as if afraid to hold too tightly.
“I won’t break, George,” she teased, thrilling at the sense of power she felt over him now.
He groaned again, his hands tightening so that when she next rocked against him, he pulled her down still further, pushing up as he did and—oh, that was—that was—
She moaned—moaned in a way that she’d imagined was reserved for loose women and streetwalkers, but she couldn’t help it, not when she felt like this, not when he was moving like that. He pushed up further, his face a grimace of pleasure as she moved.
“Can I—?” he started, his hands making to twist her hips. “Or will it hurt you if I—?”
She shook her head, understanding, rolling with his motion until she was on her back, her husband cradled between her, one leg rising up his hips until—
“Christ,” she swore. That was exquisite—that was wonderful. The best feeling. She had to have it again. Again and again. “Please,” she whined unsure of how many of her thoughts had made mind to voice.
“Yes,” he groaned, speeding his pace, burying his face in her neck as she anchored one hand in his hair and the other in the sheets beside her.
She felt it all overtake her, just as it had before, like a tidal wave crashing through her even stronger than before. She was quite sure she must look absurd, flushed with her face twisted as if in pain, and sure too she must sound worse, nearly screaming in a way their staff were sure to hear, but she simply couldn’t stop herself. Something had possessed her, something inside him that had tempted her to oblivion and she was long past protesting its call. God—
She felt him pull back, suddenly, his face twisted in equivalent agony as he pulled at himself—once, twice, before spilling across her stomach and collapsing beside her, panting.
They stayed like that for a moment, side-by-side, gasping for breath, as if he were just as stunned by what had occurred as she was.
After a few more seconds, her hand found his, threading her fingers between each of his own.
After a few more seconds, he brought that hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles gently.
And then their life began anew.
~
George had never minded the travel required for his chosen profession. He much preferred to survey the land he intended to buy himself rather than rely on another, to inspect the quality of production with his own eyes, and to meet face-to-face with any man with whom he might enter into contract. He had never minded the inconvenience of it all—that was, until now.
Now, he found it all nearly intolerable.
From their first night together it was as if his wife had tied a cord straight round his soul, whatever bit of it, buried deep within him, that she had found and tended and sheltered that evening, and now whenever forced from her side for any length of time, it ached, sharp, persistent tugs that lessened only when back beside her.
He still travelled—he had to, really—but each trip was shorter, each conversation blunter than even his previously direct nature would have allowed. After all, he had a purpose and he would stick to it. His purpose was to build an empire and then return to Bertha to enjoy it. She certainly did not seem to mind the offense he might cause others, not in business at any rate.
In fact, he came to realize, she seemed to rather enjoy it. At the end of his journey, often in a train car late in the evening or the back of a stage coach rumbling along, he now found himself imagining how he might unfurl the story. What bits might she like the most? That he had driven that investor to blustering curses? That that surveyor had been so furious he’d stormed out? Would she prefer if he told her now just how much they stood to gain in the next month if all went according to plan? Or should he save it as a surprise, buy her something extravagant as proof of his success? He’d play each out idly while the countryside and towns and cities flickered past, warmed by the vision of her in his mind’s eye.
Though, it must be said, no imagined vision compared to the actual quantity, warm and solid in his arms every time he returned.
“How long do I have my husband with me?” she would coo between kisses.
A rhetorical question, for she knew his schedule, but one he adored. Proof that she wanted him there, that that cord that bound him to her had wrapped around her soul as well as his.
“How did you know?” she murmured late one evening, her head pillowed on his chest as his hands stroked gently through her hair.
“Know what?” he rumbled.
“That you wanted to marry me?” Her voice was soft, almost cautious, as if she were somehow frightened of his answer. “You didn’t know me—and you, well, was it simply a matter of convenience or—?”
She turned to look up at him, propping herself to allow herself to study his face properly and the anxiety he saw written in her own clean broke his heart into a dozen pieces.
“No,” he replied at once, simply because he knew it was the answer she sought. “I—” he paused, trying to find the words to explain his earlier self’s rationale. “Well, I was looking for a wife who might wish to proceed expediently with an arranged match, it’s true but—well, do not be angry, my darling, but you were not a stranger to me when we wed.”
He braced himself for her shock.
“What?” Bertha gasped, pushing herself upright as if unable to remain so relaxed when greeted with such news.
“I—well, you can’t have expected that I wouldn’t research such a substantial decision,” he started. “I could learn much of what I needed of your father’s affairs of course, but to determine compatibility, I had—”
“Compatibility?” she interrupted, her voice faint. “To determine compatibility you had to…what?”
“Meet you,” he replied, a bit sheepish.
A slow smile spread over Bertha’s face. “I knew it!” she cried, vindicated.
“You what?” he breathed out, shocked.
“I thought—well, I admit I wasn’t sure, but—the McNeal’s party? It was you, wasn’t it? The man I danced with?”
George flushed. And here he’d thought he’d been so secretive.
“How did you know?” he asked. “ When did you know?” he added, as he thought of it further.
She grinned smugly. “I didn’t know, not for certain. But–” she paused. “Well, when you started talking more about business, after that first party at the Fishers? It jogged my memory. I couldn’t place it for a while, why it all sounded so familiar, but then it came to me.”
George scrubbed a hand over his face.
“You are a rather singular man, you know,” she added, smirking.
He huffed a laugh. “To match my very singular woman,” he said, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“It was the beard that led me astray,” she added. “I take it you grew it after?”
“Over the winter,” he confirmed. “But if you prefer me, without—”
“Don’t you dare,” she interjected sharply, her hand carding through it possessively. “It suits you.”
“You suit me,” he replied, unspeakably pleased at her touch.
“I do, don’t I?” she murmured, pulling him in for a kiss that ended the need for any further conversation that evening.
~
Bertha Russell was quite sure no woman had ever been so pleased with her husband as she found herself to be. The city was chilling slowly as November turned to December but as Bertha approached her one year anniversary, she was sure she’d never experienced such radiant warmth.
“I thought you’d like them,” he explained to her that evening, after buying her third new pair of earrings this month, these a pair of delicate emeralds.
“Oh darling, they’re lovely,” she sighed. “But really, George, shouldn’t we be saving more carefully? You mentioned we might want a larger house soon, didn’t you?”
But how delicious to have this problem and not another? A husband who enjoyed buying her pretty things too much? Who could have imagined such a thing?
George grinned back. It was her favorite grin, that one he had that she he knew something she didn’t, that he’d been terribly clever and was about to let her in on whatever secret bit of something he’d done well. She felt her chest swell with it. He was clever. Her husband was exceptionally clever. Her husband .
“About that,” he started, his voice teasing. “I wondered if you might have the afternoon free tomorrow? You see, I’ve learned that Hofmanns are preparing to move to Chicago and plan to put their house on the market.”
Bertha didn’t bother to hide her gasp.
“You know the one don’t you? With that veranda stretching round the front?”
Of course she knew the one. She’d only pointed it out to him half a dozen times when they’d discussed moving somewhere with more room.
“I wondered if you might wish to see it before I buy it for you.”
Bertha squealed. There was no other word for it. It was undignified and unladylike and she was quite sure her husband didn’t give a damn. She jumped into his arms and he let the force of it carry her until she was swinging slightly, swaying, pressed against him entirely before sealing their mouths together to kiss him properly.
“I’d like that very much,” she murmured when they parted at last.
George hummed in satisfaction.
“And what else might you like, my dear?”
~
It was his wife’s turn to hum now, her fingers toying with the curls just at the base of his head as he sensed her beginning to play coy.
“I was thinking it was time perhaps for a new pattern of china? Something more modern perhaps, for when we entertain.”
George hummed his agreement, leaning forward to brush his nose against her jaw simply for the pleasure of her ensuing little gasp.
“And we ought to look seriously at investing in some art. Especially now that we’ll have such a grand foyer. That mantle they have, by the stairs? We’ll need something to adorn it.”
He hummed again. He’d give her all of it. How wonderful to have someone to spoil now that he had such spoils amassed from victories.
“And,” she paused, and George pulled back, hearing the seriousness of her tone shift.
Bertha looked anxious, her hand still toying with his hair but now biting her lip in apprehension.
“What is it, my darling?” he murmured. “If it is mine to grant, then it will be yours.”
She smiled, a soft thing, so delicate he felt a need to protect it from harm. “And, perhaps, I’d been thinking, we might try for some children?”
George felt his mouth run dry. She sounded so very tentative.
“I know you’d said you wished to wait until the business felt secure, but the Ohio line does seem to be doing so well now, doesn’t it? And the Hofmanns house has more than enough bedrooms for the additional staff we’d take on and—”
He kissed her. She could enumerate as many reasons as she liked. He needed only to hear the first. She wanted it—and it was his to grant.
“Yes,” he sighed when they parted, his hands already fisting in her skirt, as she kissed him again. “Yes,” he sighed again, as she leaned back, a whimper on her lips already at the feel of his hand grasping beneath layers to finally reach the smooth skin of her thighs.
“Yes?” she asked. “We can? Because—George, I—”
“I know,” he murmured. “I want them too. As many as you’ll allow me.”
Bertha let out a delicious aching little whine. “Oh, you’ll have to—” she panted, pulling at his clothes to free him as he pushed her skirts aside, trying his best to hold them away to give them more room to maneuver. “We’ll have to— together —everyday at least.” She sounded delirious at the thought of it.
“Twice a day,” he countered. “For good measure.”
She nodded, agreeing at once, crying out as he thrust inside her without ceremony. There would be time for slow movements and languid touches later. For now, he simply needed to fuck his decidedly perfect wife full of his seed as expediently as possible and thank goodness she seemed to agree with that aim entirely.
“Yes, yes,” she panted, canting her hips towards his every movement, her hand anchoring in his hair. “That’s right. It’s your duty—” she whined. “A husband’s duty to—to—”
“To fuck his wife full of child?” George finished, without a care for his own vulgarity. He trusted it now—trusted in her to understand, not to take offense at how base and coarse he could become, and once again he found that trust well-placed indeed.
“Yes!” she cried out. “Oh yes, darling,” she sighed, nodding. “Your duty, your duty to fuck me.”
He growled in agreement, thrilling at her curse. Truly he found he could not agree with any words more than he did with those. He felt them written in his bones, in his soul, in whatever it was deep within him that Bertha seemed to slowly pull from the inside out, rending him into nothing but raw feeling and pleasure, placed on display for all to see. She encouraged it, welcomed it, begged for it even—and it made him ravenous.
He had her once standing there, by her dressing table and without a care in the world, and then he picked her up into his arms despite her giggling protests and laid her on the bed, covering her with kisses, before leaning down between her legs.
“Just to make sure it takes,” he murmured, before he began to lap at her core like a man starving. It seemed Bertha quite agreed with his suggestion.
~
The Russells were unusual—anyone in society might tell you that. It wasn’t just that they were the newest of new money to ever move to New York City, or that every morning paper was as likely to carry news of his brutality or her scandal as it was the morning weather. There were half-a-dozen families who’d made their fortune at similar pace and well more than half-a-dozen men and women for whom such things might apply.
No, what made the Russells unusual was that they—quite inexplicably—insisted their marriage had been arranged, even when such a thing were absurd. Mr. Russell often even mentioned it as if it were a boast, as if the best deal he’d ever negotiated had been with Mrs. Russell’s father for the honor of her hand.
This was, as anyone could plainly see, the most obvious of their many foolish attempts to fit in with the upper crust of New York society. It was true, of course, that many marriages of that more aristocratic set were similarly arranged, partners carefully selected to complement one’s resources and breeding, and, even more importantly, to stop unwelcome intruders from seducing their way into the ranks.
But to suggest such a thing were true of Mr. and Mrs. Russell?
“You look simply radiant tonight, my dear,” Mr. Russell murmured to his wife, evidently without care of the many other partygoers that evening who might overhear the purring sound of his compliment.
“Thank you, George,” she replied, blushing like a school girl, leaning in to her husband’s touch on her arm as if unwilling to be a millimeter further than propriety might demand.
Well, that, quite clearly, was absurd.