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In the grounds at the Priory there was a walled garden all of the groundsmen knew not to enter when the Damerels were at home: not in autumn, when the leaves fell in shades of gold and crimson; not in spring, when the bulbs sprang free of the ground, leaves unfurling, and baby birds chirped from high above; and especially not in summer, when the lawn was at its driest and the stream had dwindled to a mere trickle. For it was to this garden that Lord Damerel would take his lady, and he would brook no interruptions.
Lady Damerel had taken to marriage as a swallow takes to flight; for the first four years she laughed constantly, brushing aside practicalities such as finances and what to serve for dinner with a wave of her hands and a twinkle in her ever-sparkling eyes. After Arthur had come, she could occasionally be caught smiling at him soppily, playing with his baby fingers and stroking his golden curls; and she paid a little more attention to the future, for it was his future too.
It was to the nursery that Damerel went in search of his wife, one late June afternoon, and he found her there, watching as Arthur pulled himself upright by way of his rocking-horse as Nurse and his Mama gazed upon him beatifically. "Venetia!" Damerel announced. "I have come to take you for a walk!"
"Oh, but Jasper, look—he almost walks!"
Damerel grinned. "So he does, but Venetia—we have not been for a walk ourselves in quite some time!"
Venetia tore her gaze away from her child in order to laugh up at her husband. "Really, Jasper, you sound quite desp—oh!" For Damerel had reached to stroke across her cheek and to take her hand, and she rose, and she went with him.
It was almost dusk by the time Venetia had gathered her cloak and put on her walking shoes; they walked slowly across the grounds, Damerel supporting her by virtue of an arm firm though quite improper around her back, to rest on her hip and stroke slightly. In her turn, she leaned into his shoulder as they approached the gate, so as to kiss at his jaw and murmur phrases neither her brother nor her husband should have taught her.
Once safely inside, Venetia took a moment to gaze upon the flowerbeds, just closing for the night, and watch her husband as he lit the braziers from the lantern he had carried with him and carefully unfolded the blanket they always took with them. And then he was upon her, tugging her away from the stream and into his arms, letting her turn to lick across his closed lips, before he relaxed into her kiss and began to slowly undo the row of buttons at the back of her dress.
She began to untie his cravat, never very tidy these days, and pulled it from his neck as he pressed a series of tiny kisses along the neckline of her dress, tugged lower now that he had reached the last of the buttons. She laughed as he struggled with the ties on her new corset, a vastly different shape to the ones she had worn when they were first married, and he laughed with her and muttered ruefully that he should have come prepared with a pocket-knife.
In the end he managed the job, though not before politely requesting she hold the lantern steady for him while he knelt behind her—something she had done without demur before, though never for this reason. She quivered slightly while he worked at the ties, first because of the bad fit of the giggles she was barely holding in, and then because he alternated working at the knots with soft touches up her thighs. Once her corset was off, her petticoats followed in swift order, and then she was standing in her bare shift, protesting at the unfairness of it—for even his cravat still trailed from his neck.
"My darling, surely I cannot be held responsible?" he quizzed her, so she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him below one eye, before biting at his neck and tugging off his waistcoat and shirt. With his breeches she struck a problem, for she had not thought to make him remove his boots first and the breeches became quite stuck, but it was, after all, not insurmountable, and she pushed and prodded him down to the blanket and pulled off her shift in a smooth series of motion.
"That's quite enough out of you, Jasper!" she said, and sat down on his stomach to lean forward and kiss him again. They kissed for some time, until night fell entirely and the only light was the stars above and the lantern and braziers. At some point, he managed to kick off his boots; perhaps, she thought, as he was licking at her legs, working his way up her thighs slowly—or perhaps not, after all. Eventially she grew impatient and wriggled beneath him enough that he kissed the curve of her ear and huffed, before pulling her legs around his waist and entering her.
He was always gentle with her at first, but she had learnt how to ask for more, both with words and with a roll of her hips, so she did both and he obeyed. "I am," he gasped into her hair, "as always, your very obedient servant." She was too far gone to reply in kind, though, so he reached down between them to stroke her to completion and shortly let himself follow her.
He rolled them over while she was still breathing heavily, flushed pink and gold in the light, and she kissed and petted at his chest as he stroked her hair. Eventually she grew cold, goosebumps beginning to prickle her skin, so he lifted her up, and they smiled sleepily at one another as they helped each other dress.