Sophie caught him staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Seven in the morning, London grey filtering through the frosted glass window, and her nightgown had ridden up as she bent for the toothpaste. Benedict stood in the doorway, coffee mug suspended halfway to his mouth, and the hunger in his gaze made her stomach clench.

Good. She had him right where she wanted him.

The thought arrived with a particular satisfaction. Twenty-eight weeks pregnant with their first child, and she'd discovered something fascinating about this new body: it made her husband stupid with want. The swell of her belly beneath thin cotton, the fullness of her breasts straining against fabric – he looked at her like she'd hung the moon and he was dying to touch it.

Well. He'd done this to her. Got her pregnant, made her constantly aroused, made her hips ache and her back hurt and her body feel like a stranger's. Fair was fair.

Sophie straightened slowly, letting the fabric drag against her thighs. The hem settled just below the curve of her belly. Everything felt heavier now – her breasts had gone up two cup sizes, her centre of gravity had shifted, and the persistent ache between her legs had become her constant companion. She noticed it most when Benedict looked at her like this, when his gaze went dark and focused and a little desperate.

"You're going to be late," Sophie said, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"Right." Benedict's voice came out rough. He didn't move.

He didn't move. Sophie brushed her teeth, taking her time, hyperaware of how the motion made her breasts shift beneath the nightgown. She could feel his attention like a physical touch, could see the exact moment his breathing changed. When she bent to spit and rinse, she heard his sharp inhale – the nightgown had ridden up again, and she knew he could see the absence of knickers beneath the thin cotton. She'd stopped wearing them three days ago. Too constricting, she'd told herself. Too much effort.

Also: effective.

Benedict set the mug down. His fingers flexed. "Come here."

She did. Slow steps until her belly brushed his stomach. His hands settled on her hips immediately, thumbs tracing bone through fabric.

"Missed you," he murmured, ducking to kiss her neck. "All night. Right next to me and–"

"You did this." Sophie tilted her head, giving him access. His lips dragged lower, found the hollow of her throat. Her pulse jumped. "Got me pregnant. Made me like this."

She felt him smile against her skin. "Like what?"

"Desperate." True, but not the whole truth. "Constantly wet. Constantly wanting."

Benedict groaned, a sound that vibrated through her chest. One hand slid down, cupping the swell of her belly with something like reverence, then lower. Sophie caught his wrist before he reached the junction of her thighs, before he could feel how truthful she'd been.

"You're going to be late," she repeated, stepping back. Cool air rushed in where his warmth had been.

He stared at her. Pupils blown wide, mouth slightly open. "Sophie."

She smiled – sharp and knowing, the smile that made him nervous in the best way. Pressed a quick kiss to his jaw. "Go to work, Benedict. Say hi to your brother for me."

--- --- ---

She texted him at noon: Thinking about you.

What about me specifically

How badly you wanted to touch me. How I didn't let you.

I'm in a meeting Sophie

Poor thing. Is it hard to concentrate?

She sent the photo at two –her hand on her bare stomach, the bottom curve of her breast visible. The shirt she wore was his.

Benedict called immediately. She let it ring out.

You're killing me

Not yet. But the day's not over.

--- --- ---

When he got home at six, she was in the kitchen wearing one of his oversized shirts and nothing else. Benedict crossed the room in four strides and kissed her hard, desperate. Sophie kissed back for exactly ten seconds before pulling away.

"Dinner's ready."

"Sophie." A plea. She could hear the frustration, the edge of something rawer.

"You must be starving. Long day."

"The longest." He moved behind her. "You know what you're doing."

"Making dinner. Being a good wife."

"You're being evil."

"I can be both." Sophie turned, holding bowls of pasta. "Sit."

She watched him try to eat while his knee bounced under the table. Every time she shifted, uncrossed and recrossed her legs, his gaze dropped to where his shirt had ridden up on her thighs.

When they'd both finished, she stood to collect plates. Benedict caught her wrist.

"Please."

One word. Desperate.

Sophie set the plates down. Straddled his lap in one fluid motion that made him gasp. Her knees bracketed his hips, and when she settled against him she could feel the rigid length of his cock through his trousers.

"Please what?" she asked, rolling her hips in a slow grind.

Benedict's head fell back. His hands clamped onto her thighs. "Fuck. Sophie. Please."

She did it again. Dragged herself along his length. She was slick – had been wet since morning.

"You still haven't told me what you want."

"You." His hips bucked up and she lifted away. He made a wounded sound. "Christ. You. Inside. Please."

"Better." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "Bedroom."

--- --- ---

She made him lie down on their bed. Late afternoon light slanted through the window, catching on his wedding ring as he fisted his hands in the sheets.

Sophie stood at the foot of the bed and unbuttoned his shirt slowly, one button at a time while he watched, chest rising and falling too fast. When she reached for his belt, his stomach muscles contracted so sharply she thought he might come just from that, just from anticipation.

She took her time. Trousers and pants off together, tossed aside. His cock stood flushed and leaking against his stomach, thick enough that her fingers wouldn't meet when she wrapped her hand around the base. She didn't stroke. Just held him there, feeling the weight of him in her palm, watching precome bead at the tip.

"Sophie." The sound was broken. "Please."

"You keep saying that." She tightened her grip fractionally. Benedict's hips lifted off the bed. "What exactly are you asking for?"

"You know what I'm asking for."

"Tell me anyway."

He stared at her, breathing hard. "I want you to touch me. Want to be inside you. Want–" His voice cracked. "Want to make you feel good."

"That's sweet." Sophie climbed onto the bed, still wearing his shirt. "But I'm already going to feel good."

She straddled him properly this time, feeling his thighs tense beneath her. The head of his cock nudged against her entrance and Benedict made a desperate sound, hips lifting, trying to push inside without permission.

Sophie rose up on her knees, denying him.

"Don't." His hands flew to her hips, grasping, trying to pull her down. "Please don't. I can't – I've been good–"

"You have been good." She reached between them, positioned him. Let just the tip press against her folds, dragging through her wetness. Benedict choked on air. "Very good."

Then she sank down approximately two inches. Enough to stretch, to burn, to make them both gasp. She stopped there.

"Sophie. Please. More."

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you. Fucking hell, I love you. Please–"

She sank down another inch. Stopped again. Benedict was making sounds now, desperate broken things that went straight to the ache in her belly.

"Tell me you'll do anything I want."

"Anything. Yes. Fuck. Anything. Just– please–"

Sophie sank down the rest of the way in one long, slow movement that felt endless, that made her cry out and him choke on nothing. He was thick, almost too much, the angle different with her belly in the way. She had to brace her hands on his chest for balance, could feel his heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out.

She sat there, fully seated, feeling him pulse inside her. Benedict's eyes were squeezed shut, his whole body rigid with the effort of not moving, of not just grabbing her hips and fucking up into her.

"Look at me."

He did. Pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black.

Sophie lifted her hips until he almost slipped out. Paused for three heartbeats. Sank back down just as slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure and frustration.

"How does that feel?"

"Good. So good. Please don't stop–"

She stopped. Completely still, seated fully on him.

Benedict made a sound like pain. "No. Please. Sophie–"

"Faster?"

"Yes. Please. Faster. Harder. Anything–"

She rolled her hips. Once. Slow and deliberate. "Like this?"

"You're evil. You're– fuck–" His hands slid from her hips to her thighs, fingertips pressing bruises into her skin. "Please move. Please. I'm begging you."

"I know." Sophie braced her weight differently, found a rhythm that was still torturously slow but steady. Each downward stroke hit something deep inside her that made her gasp, made pleasure coil hot and tight low in her belly. "That's the point."

She kept that pace for longer than was kind. Long enough that sweat gathered between her breasts, long enough that Benedict's begging became incoherent. His hips jerked up to meet her strokes and she allowed it sometimes, denied it others, kept him guessing. Kept him desperate.

"You did this to me," she said, breathless now. "Got me pregnant. Made me need this all the time."

Benedict groaned, a full-body sound. "Made you even more beautiful. Made you– Sophie– please–"

She ground down on him, circling her hips, and pleasure spiked so sharp she nearly lost her rhythm. Close. She was so close. But he was closer – she could feel it in how his cock swelled inside her, how his hands had gone from gripping to clutching, how his breathing had gone ragged.

"Not yet." She stilled completely, seated fully on him.

Benedict made a sound like something dying. "Please. Sophie. Please. I can't– been so good– please let me–"

"Let you what?"

"Come. Please. Need to come. Need–" His voice broke. "Please. I love you. Please."

She leaned forward, changing the angle, and they both gasped. Her belly pressed against his stomach. She kissed him slow and filthy, all tongue, swallowing his desperate sounds.

Sophie sat back up. Rolled her hips once, twice, finding the angle that made stars burst behind her eyelids. Then she rode him properly,  still slow but steady and relentless. Each stroke dragged against a spot inside her that built pleasure like compound interest, careful and cataclysmic.

Benedict's hands found her belly, cradling the swell of it as she moved. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted sharply with the desperation in his face, with the broken sounds he was making every time she sank down on him, with the way his hips kept trying to drive up harder, faster, more.

"Come for me," Sophie said finally. Permission and command. "Now."

The relief on his face was evidence of a man wrecked. He came hard enough that his back arched off the bed, hard enough that he drove up into her with a force that pushed her own orgasm to the surface. She felt him pulse inside her, felt heat flood her cunt, and the sensation pushed her over half a breath later. Her orgasm rolled through her in long waves, muscles clenching around him, drawing everything out until they were both gasping and oversensitive and thoroughly destroyed.

Sophie kept moving through the aftershocks. Slow rolls of her hips that made Benedict gasp and twitch beneath her, made his hands fly to her thighs in half-hearted protest.

"Sophie. Too much. Can't–"

"You can." She ground down on him. He was still half-hard inside her, softening but not enough. "You will."

She kept moving until he was fully hard again, until he was gripping her thighs and making those desperate sounds again, until she dragged herself to a second orgasm that left her shaking and spent. Only then did she lift off him, feeling him slip out, feeling his come start to leak down her thighs.

Benedict lay beneath her, chest heaving, eyes glazed. There were red marks blooming across his collarbones where she'd gripped him, crescent moons from her fingernails. He'd have bruises tomorrow.

Good.

Sophie settled beside him, not touching. Her own thighs were trembling from exertion. The shirt had twisted around her waist. She could feel the cooling sweat on her skin, the pleasant ache in her hips from holding herself up so long.

Benedict turned his head to look at her.

"Are you–" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Are you going to do this to me every day?"

Sophie smiled at the ceiling. Between her legs, she could already feel want building again, patient and inevitable.

My Cottage, Wiltshire, 9 May 1818

Benedict stood in the doorway watching his wife nurse their daughter in the rocking chair by the window. Afternoon light spilled across them both, turning Sophie's dark hair to burnished bronze where it had escaped its plait, catching on the curve of Violet's impossibly small head as she fed.

Sophie's dress bore a damp patch on the shoulder. A soft blue cotton, practical and already marked by the morning. She had not changed it. She had not sat down for more than a handful of minutes since breakfast. Benedict had been watching. Hours of near-constant movement: rocking, soothing, changing, feeding, walking the length of the cottage with Violet against her shoulder when the baby was fractious and red-faced.

They had chosen not to hire a wet nurse. It had been Sophie's decision, made quietly in the weeks before little Violet's birth, and Benedict had watched her arrive at it through careful observation of his own family. She had seen Daphne pass baby August to the nurse the moment the child fussed. Watched Penelope hand off Elliot without hesitation when he needed changing. Kate kept Edmund close more often, but even she relied on staff for the more tedious aspects of infant care.

"I wish to do it myself," Sophie had said, one hand on her swollen belly. "I know that is not what women of your station do. But I think I shall want those moments. The feeding, especially. Does that make me foolish?"

Benedict had kissed her temple and told her it made her Sophie.

Now, watching her gaze down at their daughter with that fierce, exhausted tenderness, he understood what she had known instinctively – she savoured this. Every moment of it. Even at three in the morning when Violet screamed and Sophie stumbled half-asleep to the cradle. Even when her nipples cracked and bled those first awful days and she had wept from the pain but refused to stop. She wanted every difficult, beautiful, mundane piece of it.

Sophie shifted Violet to her other breast, wincing slightly. Benedict pushed off the doorframe. "Your back?"

"It is fine."

"You have been standing since morning." He crossed to her, setting his sketchbook and charcoal on the small table littered with muslins and rattles and a half-drunk cup of tea gone cold. "Let me take her when she is finished. You need to rest."

"I am not tired."

A lie. Sophie told them poorly now, her defences worn thin by sleeplessness and the sheer relentless work of keeping a tiny human alive. Benedict crouched beside the rocking chair, one hand coming to rest on her knee. "Darling. You have barely eaten today."

"Mrs. Crabtree brought soup."

"Hours ago. It is still sitting there." He nodded towards the bowl on the window ledge, congealed and untouched.

Sophie glanced at it, then back at Violet, who was nursing with single-minded intensity, her small fist kneading Sophie's breast. "I shall eat when she is done."

"You shall fall asleep when she is done. You always do." He said it gently, without judgement, because it was simply true. The moment Violet finished feeding, Sophie would tuck her against her shoulder to burp, and within minutes both of them would be dozing, Sophie's cheek pressed to their daughter's downy head.

It was one of his favourite things to sketch. The way Sophie's face went soft in sleep, all her careful guardedness erased. The specific curl of Violet's fingers against her mother's collarbone.

"I am fine, Benedict." But her eyes had that glassy, faraway quality that meant she was running on fumes and stubbornness.

Violet pulled away from the breast with a soft pop, milk-drunk and drowsy. Sophie shifted her to burp, and Benedict stood, taking his daughter from her arms before she could protest. "Let me. You eat something."

He settled Violet against his chest. The baby made a small sound, not quite distress but close, and he adjusted her higher, one hand cupping her head. Her warmth seeped into him, bird-boned and fragile.

Behind him, Sophie was eating the soup. He heard the scrape of spoon against bowl, the small sound of her swallowing. Good. She needed to keep her strength up.

Violet burped, loud and undignified, and a warm trickle of spit-up ran down Benedict's chest. He grabbed a muslin from the table one-handed and wiped them both clean, entirely unbothered.

"You are so good with her," Sophie said quietly.

Benedict glanced back. She had finished the soup and was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite parse. Exhaustion, certainly. Something softer beneath it.

"She is easy to be good with." A lie. Violet was a tyrant. A beautiful, beloved tyrant who demanded constant attention and gave nothing back but occasional smiles that were probably wind.

He adored her beyond reason.

"No," Sophie said. "You are natural at this. I have been watching you, and you just... know what to do. How to hold her, how to settle her."

Benedict's chest tightened. He looked down at Violet, who had fallen asleep against him, her breath warm and even on his skin. "I am merely doing what needs doing."

"That is more than most men of your station would do." Sophie paused. "You are wonderful with her. With us."

Sophie's eyes went bright. She stood, crossing to him, and wrapped her arms round his waist, careful not to disturb Violet sleeping between them. Her head came to rest on his shoulder, and Benedict curved round her, forming a shelter for all three of them.

"I feel cared for," she murmured into his shirt. "Every single day."

They stood like that whilst the light shifted, and Benedict thought about that morning. About watching his mother meet Violet for the first time.

He had been anxious about it. The introduction had felt weighted with significance. His mother, meeting his daughter. Two Violets occupying the same space.

But his mother had arrived at My Cottage that morning, sweeping through the door with Hyacinth and Eloise in tow, and the moment she had seen the baby in Sophie's arms, her face had transformed. Gone soft and wondering in a way that made Benedict's throat close.

"Oh," his mother had breathed. "Oh, Benedict. She is perfect."

She had held Violet with the careful confidence of a woman who had borne eight children, cooing softly, examining tiny fingers and the dark wisps of hair, and then she had looked up at Benedict with tears streaming down her face. "You named her after me."

"Of course we did." His own voice had come out rough. "You taught me what family means. What love looks like. I wished to honour that."

His mother had pressed a kiss to Violet's forehead, then looked at Sophie with such warmth, such acceptance, that Benedict had felt his own eyes well up. Happy tears, unexpected and overwhelming, and Sophie had noticed. She always noticed.

She had crossed to him immediately, wrapped him in an embrace, and whispered, "I love you. I love that we made her."

Now, in the nursery, he pressed a kiss to Sophie's temple. "We should put her down. Let her sleep in the cradle for a bit."

"She shall wake the moment you move."

"Then I shall hold her a whilst longer." He guided Sophie back towards the rocking chair. "Sit. Rest. I shall draw you."

"Benedict–"

"Please." He gentled his voice, because he could see her wavering, exhaustion winning over stubborn self-sufficiency. "Let me do this. Let me take care of you whilst you let yourself simply be."

Sophie sank into the chair, and Benedict settled onto the floor beside her, Violet still asleep against his bare chest. He reached for his sketchbook one-handed, flipped to a clean page, and began to draw. Quick, economical lines. The curve of Sophie's shoulder, the tilt of her head. The way afternoon light caught in her loose hair. Violet's small, serious face visible over his forearm.

His two girls.

Sophie's eyes drifted closed. Her breathing evened. Outside, a wood pigeon called from the garden, and somewhere distant, Mr. Crabtree was humming tunelessly whilst he worked. The cottage smelled of roses and old wood and home.

Benedict sketched until his hand cramped, until Violet began to stir, until Sophie woke with a start and reached for the baby instinctively. He passed Violet over, watched her latch on to nurse again, and felt something settle in his chest.

This. This exact, unglamorous, beautiful thing.

--- --- --- --- --- ---

10 May 1818, just past two in the morning

The cry sliced through sleep. Benedict's eyes snapped open, his hand already reaching for Sophie before conscious thought caught up. She was pushing herself upright, moving on pure instinct, and he pressed her gently back down.

"I have her."

"Benedict..." Her voice was thick with exhaustion, barely awake.

"Sleep. I mean it." He was already out of bed, bare feet on cold floorboards, crossing to the cradle they had moved into their chamber. Violet's small face was red, her body rigid with infant fury, fists waving at the injustice of being awake and hungry.

"Hello, little tyrant," he murmured, scooping her up. "I know. The world is terrible, and you are quite right to be appalled."

He carried her to the small changing table by the window, talking in a low, steady stream whilst he worked through the familiar motions. Violet screamed her profound displeasure at being cold and handled, her small face screwing up with outrage. Benedict cleaned her quickly, dried her, wrestled a fresh nappy onto her squirming body whilst she kicked and flailed.

"I understand," he told her seriously. "Were someone to strip me naked at this hour, I should be equally vexed."

Violet's cries had taken on the specific pitch that meant milk, now, immediately, so Benedict tucked her against his bare chest and carried her back to the bed.

Sophie had shifted upright against the pillows, chemise already unlaced. She looked half-asleep still, her eyes barely open, and Benedict's chest tightened. "Here. I have changed her."

He settled Violet into Sophie's arms, watching as their daughter latched on with desperate focus. The room fell quiet except for the small, rhythmic sounds of nursing.

Benedict climbed back into bed, arranging pillows behind Sophie's back. She glanced at him, surprised. "What are you doing?"

"Making certain you are comfortable." He adjusted the pillow at her lower back, the one near her shoulder. "Is that better?"

"You need not..."

"I want to." He stretched out beside her, close enough to touch but leaving her space. "Lean on me if you need to."

They sat like that whilst Violet nursed. Sophie's breathing slowed, her head tilting towards him, and eventually she let herself rest against his shoulder. Violet nursed contentedly, one tiny hand kneading Sophie's breast in that instinctive infant rhythm, her eyes drooping as she drank.

Benedict stayed very still, hyperaware of the weight of his wife against one side and his daughter cradled between them. The window showed nothing but darkness and a scatter of stars. The cottage was silent round them, the world narrowed to this room, this moment.

Sophie's eyes had closed. She was asleep, he realised. Still holding Violet, still nursing her, but gone. Benedict carefully eased his arm round her waist, supporting her weight, and waited.

Violet finished nursing and fell asleep still latched on, milk-drunk and boneless. Benedict gently detached her, lifting her to his shoulder. Three soft pats against her small back and she produced a sound far too large for her tiny body, then settled back into sleep.

He stood, crossing to the cradle, and laid her down on her back. His hand lingered on her chest to feel the steady rise and fall.

When he turned, Sophie was watching him from the bed, still propped against the pillows, chemise gaping open. Her expression was soft, unguarded in a way she rarely allowed even with him.

"Come here," she said quietly.

Benedict crossed back to the bed. Sophie had already slid down beneath the covers, and he joined her, pulling her against his chest. She came willingly, her head tucking under his chin, one hand splayed across his ribs.

"Thank you," she murmured into his skin.

"For what?"

"For changing her. For letting me sleep. For being the kind of father you are. The kind of husband."

Benedict pressed his mouth to her hair, breathing in lavender and milk and the particular warmth that was just Sophie. "You are brilliant with her. Watching you be her mother... You know exactly what she needs before she knows it herself."

"I am tired," Sophie admitted, so quietly he almost missed it. "All the time. But I would not change any of it. Not a single moment."

"I know." He ran his hand up and down her spine. "But you need not do it alone. I am here. Always."

Sophie made a small sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and pressed closer. "I love you."

"I love you." He said it into her hair, into the darkness. "Both of you."

She was asleep within minutes, her body going heavy and trusting against him. Benedict lay awake longer, listening to the dual rhythm of wife and daughter breathing, thinking about the sketch he had started that afternoon. Sophie in the rocking chair, Violet at her breast, afternoon light turning them both golden.

The way Sophie's fingers curved round Violet's small body.

The exhausted peace on his wife's face when she finally let herself rest.

The moon tracked slow across the sky. Violet stirred once, made a small questioning sound, and settled again when Benedict murmured soft nonsense about neoclassicism from the bed. Sophie's hand flexed against his ribs, then relaxed.