Desperate Measures (Regency Undone) by Claire Firth

told her that her problems were all anxiety related and that it was tension that was causing her muscles to spasm so that her husband could not enter her.  She had tried to relax, she really had but when he’d been so rough like that, trying to force his way into her, it was impossible not to become anxious.
    She ’d considered herself very fortunate that her husband’s swellings had never been such that he could manage full entry – something that had fuelled his anger and his violence even more.   But she had grown wily, finding other means of satisfying his needs so that he lay spent and exhausted in his bed with no chance at all of reviving himself sufficiently to penetrate her.
    She definitely could not speak of such things with Guy.  But perhaps she could be wily again? 
    Though she herself took no pleasure from the act, she had been trained well by one of the whores her husband had been particularly fond of.  Her name had been Miranda and strange though their relationship had been, Isabelle had sensed a sensitivity in the other woman to her plight.  ‘Men are a fool to their tool,’ Miranda had informed her scornfully.  ‘If you manage to control that, there are many ways to deflect a man from his original intention if that is your inclination.’
    And it had certainly worked with her husband.  Why should Guy be any different?  If she could satisfy him with her hands, maybe that would be enough for him also and they could reach an understanding of sorts.  
    But how to broach the subject?
    A knock on her door had her calling out for her maid to enter and she looked up from her bed.  But it was not her maid, but her husband who calmly walked into her room.
    Immediately the atmosphere became tense.  He had never entered her room before and his large frame seemed to dominate the space as he approached and sat down on the bed next to her.  Isabelle stiffened, but even though he was barely inches away from her she did not move.  Her eyes locked on her hands in her lap.  She dared not look at him.   She could think of absolutely nothing to say to retrieve the situation, so remained silent.  She felt she had said quite enough for one evening. 
     
    Guy had done a lot of thinking downstairs.  He had been shocked by the vehemence of her    outburst, affronted at first by her insults regarding men and their animalistic tendencies.  But then he had realised that her torrent of abuse had not been aimed at him personally but had been based on her obviously traumatic experiences with her first husband.  He could not help realising that normally he would have found such an outburst from a female extremely off-putting; confirmation of the hysterical nature of the fairer sex and a timely reminder as to why he wanted never to marry again.  But with Isabelle, it surprised him to discover that he had felt anger that she had so obviously been ill used, and he had no doubt at all that should her first husband still be alive, he would be filled with an urge to call him out and make him pay for his atrocities.   Yet where to go from here?  He would not contemplate another failed marriage, yet there was only one sure way he could prevent an annulment from happening – and it appeared she had no intention of letting that happen.
    He turned to look at her, his manner stiff.  ‘It wasn’t my intention to distress you Isabelle.  But surely you must have realised that the time would come when I would want to develop our relationship further?  When a man and woman marry, it is only natural that they make love.’
    ‘ The normal reason for making love is to have children.  I assumed when I told you I was unable to conceive and you said you had no desire for more children, that you would realise there was no need for us to be intimate.’
    ‘ I’m afraid, for a man at any rate, there is more to the act of making love than simply having children.  A man has … needs.’
    ‘ I have already told you that I