She spent her last night as spinster worrying about the wedding. She knew Mrs Patmore and Daisy had the catering well in hand, but she was concerned about all the details that she previously thought she had addressed sufficiently. She wondered if there were enough chairs so the guests could all be seated for the wedding breakfast. She hoped that the vicar hadn't come down with an unfortunate cold.

For long moments had she thought about what would come after the wedding.

They're both two feet over the threshold of the room they've rented for a few days; the Scarborough beach lies yards away and she can hear the waves crashing on the shore. Next to her is her husband and in front of them a double bed that's been pulled away from the wall a few inches.

Words spoken over the past few weeks ring in her ears. He wants them to be as close as two people can be. He loves her. He spoke of her grace and charm; that he couldn't believe his luck. Right now she doesn't think she is being particularly charming and certainly not graceful. Nerves are coiling in her stomach: the next step into her wedded life is so close now.

Beside her, Charles isn't moving either.

The silence - normally so comfortable between them - is closing in, making her feel even more uncomfortable and she wishes he would speak. Say something. Anything. But she can hear him breathing: short shallow breaths that give away his unease.

The bed looms big and daunting. Twilight is setting in and the clock is ticking loudly: every second adding to her sense of foreboding.

She hears Charles put down his old, battered suitcase. The one that has seen countless London seasons. Weeks they spent apart until that one season Mrs Bute fell ill and she was summoned to step in. The summer that set everything in motion; that afternoon on the beach, the cold water lapping at their toes, hands clasped together:

"You can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady."

She reaches out and feels his fingers curl around hers and she lets out an audible sigh.

His hand is warm against her cold, clammy palm and he gently gives her a squeeze. She shuffles a little closer to him and her arm touches his. He is wearing his summer coat and she is still in the gifted evening coat, so expertly altered to fit by Miss Baxter.

He clears his throat and takes a step, pulling her further into the room. There is barely space to swing a cat: they had agreed upon taking a modest room. They aren't used to extravagant spending (even though he bought them a house) and they are not young. They don't need everyone to know what they'll get up to in this room.

She swallows as she think of what lies ahead. Of what they'll get up to. What it might be like. She has imagined how his skin might feel like and how it would be to share a bed together. Ponderings about night clothes and underwear and how many pillows he might like.

She purchased extra strong tooth powder in the village and a new toothbrush. A new piece of soap and talcum powder. Necessities pondered upon in a whole new light: the thought of how Mr Carson might perceive her.

She is no Theda Bara and she hasn't much to seduce her husband with. Not that she would know how.

So here they stand, hand in hand, and neither of them seems to know how to move forward.

After an age (or five minutes) she takes off her hat with one shaking hand and holds it by the rim. The new styles don't require much in terms of pins and the hairstyles aren't as elaborate as they once were. Next to her, Charles takes off his bowler and he turns to put it on the stand in the corner, letting go of her hand. She follows him, putting her hat down next to his and she briefly wonders if that's the sides they'll choose in the bed.

"Let me help you with your coat," Charles offers. His voice sounds oddly quiet and she finds her mouth has gone quite dry. She lets him slide the exquisite coat down her arms and watches as he puts it on a hanger and hangs it before he shrugs out of his own.

Their coats hang neatly under their hats as if it means nothing. As if it's never been any different.

She watches Charles as he looks at her. She knows her dress is very plain without the coat; it reminds her of her parlour maid's uniform she wore once upon a time.

When her bottom was still firm and her breasts were a perky handful that didn't need any support to look enticing.

Long ago.

She knows Charles told Mrs Patmore that he thought her beautiful. But he has never seen her without her clothes on and she never expected - not really - that the day would come when he would. She doesn't know what she might expect when she sees him undressed either. She's never seen a man in the nude. Well, statues perhaps - but Mr Carson isn't made of cold, unforgiving marble.

Last night she tried to imagine what it might feel like if his hands touched her. She tried to picture him kissing her the way she had seen them do in the movies - the very few she has seen.

But she came up short.

Once upon a time Joe Burns courted her chastely and she didn't go into his advances much. She's as untouched as she was when she left the farm, a blushing lass of not yet sixteen. Her sheltered life - protected first by other housekeepers and later by her position and her withering stares - has in no way prepared her for this moment. This moment where her new husband slowly turns to kiss her, and not as confidently as he did in front of the church.

His lips land slightly crookedly on hers and he pulls back quickly, startled. She looks up at him, her teeth digging into her lower lip. Seeing him as much at a loose end as she is, somehow makes her feel a bit better. She assumed that Mr Carson would take the lead. That he would show her what to do; which steps to take. She thought that during all those seasons in London he would have visited someone to amuse him. After all, didn't they say that all men are the same and no man can live without?

Their hands find each other again, steadying and warming. Together they take a step towards the bed and Elsie can feel how her breath is shaking and a tremor in her husband's hand.

He lifts his other hand to cup her cheek and speaks softly:

"You look very beautiful."

"Thank you," she answers breathily.

He softly strokes her cheek and she can feel her blush warming the pad of his thumb.

He leans in to kiss her again and this time it goes better. He pulls his hand from hers and lays it on her waist and he gently pulls her a bit closer, his lips staying firmly on hers.

She tilts her head a bit and experiments with the pressure of her lips against his and she is surprised when she feels Charles lips open slightly as they still kiss her. Her arms wrap around Charles's neck. His hand leaves her cheek and the hand that was on her waist now slides around her to the small of her back and lower

She leans against him, almost melting into him. The tip of his tongue touches hers and she lets her own press back, moves it as well as her lips. She breathes through her nose. Her hand plays with the tiny curls in his neck.

A quiet sense of understanding starts thrumming in her veins.

A/N: Thank you, onmyside, for your help and thank you everyone for your kind encouragement