Pas De Deux

Final Part

He was sitting at the end of the bed, his white shirt still tucked in his trousers, waiting with a growing trepidation that only naturally came from the outpouring of anticipation. Natasha had gone to change in the adjacent room. He had laid his tailcoat on the chair, untied his cravate and unbuttoned his waistcoat with a smile plastered on his face the entire time. He then looked out the window, taking in the view of the estate that stretched beyond the horizon and filled him with a sense of quietude. He felt his entire soul being anchored into the familiar green meadows he had treaded a hundred times in his childhood. He felt delight at the realisation that his marriage would commence in his family's mansion, a place to which they both felt an attachment and which nurtured their hearts. A place they both considered a haven from the social ties of London and the first step before officially embarking on their next adventure in Edinburgh. This evening, and the next week, felt like a moment of stillness suspended in time.

He turned around and came face to face with the bed which, he realised then, was far more immense than he needed it to be. He mentally measured the long distance between each side of it and immediately deemed it quite a wretched design choice as it could potentially encourage spouses to sleep further and further apart over time. It was a horrifying thought that he brushed away and resolutely vowed never to let happen. He would hold his wife close to him always and act as if they had been given the narrowest couch to share.

He nodded to himself, quite pleased with this oath, and sat down — the mattress was plush, he conceded. He waited there, thoughts about the coming night toppling over one another, some sending warm shivers along his body, others, more alarming, rooting him to the spot. Finally, the sound of the door freed him of his inner turmoil.

He sat back straight and his eyes darted to where she was standing.

Natasha was wearing a white chemise hanging just below her knees along with a dressing gown. Her hair was no longer styled in the intricate updo she had at the ceremony; however, it was tied up in a bun with a long hairpin. He swallowed without a word, taking in the sight of her in her deshabille. The corner of her mouth curled up and she approached carefully. It was peculiar how their fiery surges from the past had been tamed by the realisation their most secret desires were only moments away from being fulfilled. It was blissfully petrifying.

Still sitting, he leaned over and reached for her hand and gently pulled her to him. Her graceful silhouette stood towered just before him and, as he took her hands into his, looked up at her face. He ran his thumbs over her knuckles.

"It can wait until tomorrow — or any other day after — if you aren't quite ready," he said to her with a nod. "I'll respect that."

She gazed down at his face, visibly reassuring and yet also yearning in silence. He concealed it remarkably but she saw it nevertheless she recognised its mark, familiar for having seen it on her face after every kiss he had given her, and no later than a minute before in her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"I am ready," she murmured. Relief washed over him and he leaned in, kissing her hands with gratitude and tenderness.

He turned them over and pressed his lips against her palms then on her inner wrists, feeling her heartbeat quicken when his mouth touched her pulse point. She was not indifferent to his touch, even the smallest and most innocent one, and it both comforted and thrilled him.

He slipped one his hands into the large sleeve of her nightgown, his fingertips gently travelling up the bare skin of her forearm all the way to the soft skin of her inner elbow. He glanced up at her face: her eyes were shut, savouring the feeling.

The nightgown was the barrier that he would take down first. He reached for each side of it and gently slipped it off her arms until it fell to the ground.