"And this, my dearest, is my surprise for you," Knightley said, bowing with a flourish as he opened the parlour door for his new wife. Emma gasped with pleasure as she stepped past him, admiring the new furnishings.
For too many years, the house had been a bachelor's abode, so in the week before the wedding, with Emma busy and Mr Woodhouse too vexed about her imminent nuptials to leave her out of his sight for too long, George Knightley had seized the opportunity to prepare a little wedding gift for the new mistress of Donwell Abbey.

Even if they would not be making their home here yet, he was sure Emma would appreciate the gesture, and he had taken a great deal of pleasure in overseeing the details. It was a promise for the future, when they would raise a family in this house, his ancestral home. Tomorrow, she would help him move his belongings to Hartfield, and then they would take their tour of the sea-side. But tonight was their wedding night, and they were alone, and he meant for it to be special. Certainly, the effort had not gone amiss. "Oh, Knightley," said Emma, "it could not be more lovely."

He privately thought that the glow of happiness on her face put the most elaborate chamber to shame, but held his peace. His Emma was spoiled enough as it was, and he had certainly done his part in making her so. Instead, he simply chuckled good-naturedly. "I thought this might become a kind of sanctuary," he explained as she rushed to and fro, running her fingers along the creamy organza of the curtains, picked up a vase, turned the small golden key to the cherry wood bureau. "For you to run off to, when you're tired of your old husband."

"Never!" she cried, finishing her circle through the room in front of him, small hands coming up to rest on his chest. "Although it *is* beautiful, even moreso since you had it made just for me." She smiled up at him blissfully. "Oh, how wonderful our marriage will be!"

He laughed, catching one of her hands in his. "I am glad to hear that you think so."

She pouted prettily. "Do you not agree?"

Unable to resist, he placed his other palm on her cheek. She was flushed with the effects of the port she had consumed earlier, and her excitement, and she was so utterly breathtaking that in spite of his advanced years, his experience, he felt quite overwhelmed. No other woman could ever be quite like Emma. No other woman could ever be his wife. "I have no doubt whatsoever."

Her smile was back. "And you need not; for I have resolved to be very good indeed, from now on, and never give you any trouble. In fact, I will be a very obedient wife, and do whatever my husband asks." She looked so sincere, so innocent, Knightley felt quite wicked about the images that his mind conjured at those words. It was not that he meant any disrespect towards his wife; but he had known Emma for a long time, and he knew that behind the demure smile, there was a keen wit and a wicked sense of humour...not to mention a temper to be reckoned with. He had no doubt that, once he had shown her all the delightful things that marriage entailed, she would channel her natural enthusiasm into...
"Do you not believe me?"

Her words pulled him from the direction his mind had wandered off in. Only with the greatest of efforts could he keep a slight flush from rising to his cheeks. His Emma. The things she did to him. He cleared his throat. "Of course I believe you, dearest," he smiled, offering her his arm. "Would you like to see a bit more of the house?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Have you made more changes?"

"A few," he answered as he led her out of the parlour, down the hall and to the foot of the stairs. "And there are some rooms in this house, I believe, that you have not seen yet." Among them the bedrooms, of course - those would hardly have been proper for a young lady to enter - but she was his as of this night, and there was nowhere he'd rather lead her, right now, than to a bed.

Emma looked up the stairs, curiosity written over her face. If he had expected apprehension, there was none. "That is true," she said excitedly, tugging on his arm. "May I?"

She indicated the flight of stairs, and he gave a soft, quiet snort. "You need not ask," he said honestly, starting the ascent to the upper floor. "This is your house, now, as well as mine."

"Ours." Her voice conveyed her pleasure, and Knightley was inclined to share the sentiment.

He pointed out a few paintings on the way up, the large portraits of his parents above the stairs and the smaller landscapes in watercolours that adorned the hall on the first floor. "If you wish to change the decorations, you may, of course," he said. "They have been arranged in the same way for so long, I have grown quite bored with them."

"Oh?" Emma smiled mischievously. "Well, Knightley, from now on, you have me to ensure that you will never be bored."
In anyone else, anyone less pure and artless than Emma, he would have suspected wickedness in the wry words. As it was, he had to clamp down on a rush of desire that passed through him at the innocently alluring glint in her eyes. If she ever found out how much she affected him...if she ever learned to wield the powers of seduction...
Well. He would be lost. And he knew Emma was a quick learner.

Lord. He had never felt this way about any other woman, but a few months of anticipation, and the brief kiss before the altar in the morning had his mind reel with fantasies. Sometimes, a good imagination was a curse. Even though it came in handy when bantering with Emma.

His talent for banter, however, was sadly lacking this evening, Knightley had to admit to himself as they walked down the corridor in silence, her hand tucked snugly into the crook of his arm. Emma did not seem to mind. She cast glances around the dimly lit hall, making a remark here and there, oblivious to his increasing discomfort.
Still, it would have been too crude to lead her straight into his bedchamber, so he led her to the next room down the hall, and once again opened the door for her gallantly.

The servants had lit the candelabrae, flames were crackling merrily in the fireplace, and a cosy air permeated the small room. Here, too, he had adjusted small details in the hopes that it would please her. Emma looked around as he closed the door to the hall so the warmth would not escape, her fingers catching in the crocheted bedspread as she trailed her hand along the soft covers.
Silently, Knightley remained by the entrance, waiting for some sort of signal from his wife. This was her room, her space, and he was too much a gentleman to intrude if she did not wish it.

Even though he did wish to. Very, very much.

She took her time looking around, measuring the chamber in slow steps, making it her own. He felt moments stretch into hours before she turned back to him, standing by a delicate vanity table, the distance of the room between them.
He smiled as he met her eyes. Emma, his Emma, looked shy, for the first time since he had known her. Still, her gaze did not waver, and her voice was soft, but quite steady. "I am not yet tired."

He took that as an invitation to step a bit closer. "Neither am I," he replied. "But perhaps you would like to change into something less...confining?"
Emma glanced at her own reflection in the mirror, the flowery garland in her hair, the veil, the elaborate dress. She seemed undecided, so he resolved to help her along a bit. "Shall I ring for the maid to help you?"

Emma turned back towards him, tilting her head a bit with appraisal. "No, thank you," she said, then, tugging at the long white gloves she was still wearing. "I don't think that will be necessary."

He watched her pull off the gloves, revealing slim arms and an expanse of smooth, pale skin. He swallowed hard. Lord, her arms alone had him in a state of agitated pleasure. He wished he could step up to her and peel those layers of lace off her, but that would be too much, too soon. He cleared his throat. Emma looked up. "I will return in a minute," he said courteously, crossing the room towards a hidden door in the far right corner, which connected Emma's chamber with his. She followed his retreat with her eyes, but did not protest, so he left the door slightly ajar.

In his bedroom, he lit a single candle, pouring some water to wash his hands and face, then shrugging out of his waistcoat, cravat and vest. Behind the door, he heard her rummage around, a splash of water, the clatter of some bauble on the vanity, a rustle of fabric.
He waited for a few minutes, pacing back and forth at the foot of his bed. Emma. Emma. Emma...

Agitated, he ran a hand through his hair. It was not unusual in and of itself that his mind would stray towards her, but the images it conjured were quite new and very elaborate. Perhaps it was because he had spent so much time in her company, in the last couple of weeks... But then, he had always spent the better part of most days at Hartfield. Perhaps it was seeing her so radiant in her wedding gown, smiling at him as she spoke her vows... But he had always found her beautiful, whether she was dressed in the plainest cotton dress or in a ballgown. No, it was something else, something different that he found so appealing...

Knightley stopped pacing abruptly, his heart slamming in his chest. It was that she was his wife. His. His alone, never to be touched by any Mr Elton or Mr Frank Churchill or anyone else. His, his beautiful, witty, troublesome Emma.
And she was about to give something that only he would ever receive.

The thought propelled him forward from the edge of the rug, towards the door. He knocked gently so as not to startle her overmuch, but went into her room with sure steps. She was his, and the vow he had made that day would be sealed with the claim he would lay to her body now, this night.

Emma looked up as he entered. She was sitting at the vanity, dressed in a cream-coloured nightgown that seemed to glow in the flickering light of the candles. She had been brushing her hair, but as he came closer, the hand holding the brush sank to her lap, forgotten.

"Knightley," she said softly, and

"Emma," he replied, cradling her face gently in his hands as he kissed her. This was nothing like the chaste peck on the lips in the church, and after a moment, she seemed to gather her composure and kissed him back.

It was heaven. It was sweet. Too sweet. He laughed quietly against her lips. Emma was too spirited to be kissed so sweetly.
A small, breathless gasp escaped her as he deepened the kiss, her arms came up to encircle his neck, and he swept her up against him, into his embrace.

“Hmm,” Emma sighed happily, pressing herself closer against him. Knightley groaned inwardly. She *must* know what she was doing to him, she must, or she couldn’t… But then, Emma had many talents, and why should he be surprised if this was one of them? She was a passionate woman, after all. Passionate, and so perfect in his arms…

The kisses, the warm, soft body moving against his chest – it was rapidly becoming too much to bear. Without stopping to think, he lifted her up and carried her across the room, towards the bed.
Emma gave a tiny, surprised squeak, which turned into a giggle as he set her down beside the bed, allowing her to stand on her own feet again instead of just tossing her onto the mattress. Later, perhaps. Much, much later. They had a lifetime for this, after all.

When he drew back slightly to look at her, she was smiling, and there was a glint in her eye that told him she was in a playful mood, and he was about to be teased. “Well, Mr Knightley,” she said, and he noted with pleasure that she was as breathless as he felt, “do you like being married so far?” She tilted her head, an expression of mischief on her face that made him want to squirm.
It was disgraceful! One naughty look of hers, and he was transformed into an awkward youth. He gave a soft snort. Luckily, no one but Emma would ever know.

He put one hand on either of her hips, pulling her in closer, for a first feel of what she was doing to him. “Very much,” he said, voice very low, and kissed her again.

She came into his arms easily, and Knightley took advantage of that, stroking one hand slowly down her back, to the bottom of her spine, right above her shapely behind, securing her to him. She went still for a moment, adjusting to the hardness of his body, then, tentatively, tilted her hips so she was pressed flush against him.

He could not contain the groan then. “Emma,” he said roughly between kisses, hands coming up to cradle her face. “My Emma…”

“My Knightley,” she murmured affectionately, “Oh, I never even dreamed…”

He laughed lightly, joyfully. “*You* didn’t? My Emma, whose vivid imagination has kept us all busy for years?”

“Some things are too good to imagine,” Emma said, and her eyes were so full, so bright with things that even *she* couldn’t express in words, he found himself staring at her, enchanted.

“Yes,” he finally said, softly. “Some things are.” It had to be now. Now, now, now.
His fingers trailed down her soft throat towards the pink ribbon at her neckline, and she visibly shivered. “Allow me,” he said, tugging at the bow, and though a slow flush rose in her cheeks, she nodded, holding his eyes as the front of the nightgown parted and the garment slid down her body to pool at her feet.

Beautiful. Beautiful, from her stubborn little head to the tips of her pink toes, but he had never imagined her to be anything less than perfect. What made his body clench with need was not her beauty, however; it was the answering desire in her gaze, in the urgent motion of her hands and lips and tongue as he drew her close for another kiss, in the fervour he could almost taste.

He pushed her back gently when she was threatening to overwhelm him with her nearness, until the back of her legs hit the bed and she was forced to sit down. When he stepped back, she almost would not let go of him.
Hurriedly, he loosened the collar of his shirt, letting it flutter to the floor as he appraised her. Her eyes were roaming over him in a way that made his trousers feel more than uncomfortable. He wanted them off.

Stepping out of his boots, he forced his lust-addled brain to calm and ponder what to do next. He did not want to frighten her, but a bit of apprehension, at least, was inevitable. Why not face it now, get it over with?
His hands were moving before he had made any conscious decision to take off his remaining clothes. The blush on Emma’s face deepened as he shed the last garment, but she didn’t look away.

Knightley smiled. He had always admired her courage. Slowly, he approached her, tipping her chin up with one finger so she looked at him. “Trust me, Emma.”

The uncertainty in her eyes was replaced by a steady, warm calm. “Always,” she whispered, and did not resist when he nudged her gently so she lay back on the bed.

He joined her, slowly trailing one hand up and down her arm. She was still a bit tense, but if he knew Emma, curiosity would take over soon. The thought made him grin, which, in turn, seemed to relax her with its familiarity.
“Do explain what you find so amusing,” she said, voice a bit husky as he traced his fingers over her collarbone, down her chest.

“Nothing, my love,” he murmured, following the path his fingers had taken with his lips. “I am simply very happy.”

He felt one hand come up to cradle the back of his head. “You…” she started, but whatever Emma had been wishing to say was lost as he shifted and captured one rosy nipple between his lips.

A tremor went through her, spreading through him from where his mouth lay against her skin. Warmth pooled in his body, no, heat, in pulsating waves. Oh, Lord.
He had always suspected that Emma would make him mad one day. He had never pictured this, however.

But, even if it killed him – he would ensure her pleasure.
Gently, he placed one hand in the centre of her stomach, rubbing his thumb back and forth in soothing circles until she relaxed, then started to squirm a little when he strayed towards her ribs. Ticklish, she was. He filed that new discovery away for later, then flicked his tongue against her nipple purposefully.

She moaned, and the sound went straight to his loins. Oh, Emma.
He began to touch her more firmly, his hand coming up to mimic the action of his tongue on her other breast, and this time, she stiffened only slightly before melting into his embrace. She was making pretty little noises, noises which made it difficult to concentrate on her, and her alone.

He must do something. Something more. Now.
Pressing a kiss to her breastbone, he shifted, mattress dipping under his weight as he crawled along her body, touching his lips to her skin here and there. When he was kneeling at her feet, he looked up at her, seeking permission to go further.
Her eyes were open, enormous and dark in the dim room. Her chest was moving rapidly with heavy breaths. When his hand slid up her inner calf, her knee, her thigh, she opened for him, unresisting.

He hovered above her, studying her expression as he lightly touched her inner thigh. “You need not be frightened, love,” he said tenderly.

She shook her head. “Never with you.” Her voice was whisper-soft, and shyer than he had ever heard her. He savoured the soft tone for a moment, this glimpse of her as she never usually was and likely never would be again. His, to hold and to keep and to love.

“Of course not,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her soft belly. “My Emma is never scared.” And with that, he touched his lips to her intimately.

She shuddered violently, gasping for air in a startled inhalation of breath. Her fingers clutched at him convulsively, threading roughly through his hair. He moved down a bit, resisting her pull, and explored her gently with his lips and tongue. “Oh!” Beneath his hands, the muscles in her legs quivered, but she didn’t move, as if yet unsure whether she should resist or comply. “Oh, Knightley!” she breathed, her voice high and, he noted with satisfaction, not only a bit desirous. “I… Oh, please…”

She never finished her plea, only whimpered when he touched her more firmly. When she started to shift restlessly, her hips moving in small circles, he finally lifted his head and smiled up at her wickedly. “Yes, Emma?” Her breaths came in short, harsh puffs, and the splash of colour in her cheeks had deepened to a rosy red. Her eyes were squeezed shut. “Look at me, dearest.”

Her lashes fluttered, but she kept her eyes downcast. “I’m…not sure if I can.”

“You can,” he assured her, moving up along her body to kiss her. She did look at him then, licking her lips with the strange, new taste. “There is nothing you cannot share with me, Emma.”

She smiled up at him, his innocent temptress, her confidence returning at his tone that was so unusually serious. “I know,” she said happily. “I know.”

She raised her head to kiss him, and this time, when he responded, he felt her shift ever so slightly until her hot skin brushed his, rubbing, teasing, tormenting him. Startled, he nipped her lip, and she laughed quietly and nipped him back. Temptress. She was learning already.
“Emma,” he said fiercely, “let me…”

“Yes,” she sighed, relinquishing her hold on him so he could once more slide down her body to resume where he had left off. She was still cautious, at first, but did not take long before becoming bolder, as he had hoped, thought, known she would.
When he brought her to the peak of pleasure, she went over with a soft cry that changed to a quiet laugh as she lay sprawled on the mattress, her body flushed and damp, and he knew that no matter what would follow, then, he would always carry this image of her now, in that first moment where she ceased to be a girl and became his wife, his Mrs Knightley.

Everything after – everything after was bliss, bliss that started with a single tear and ended in breathless, joyful giggles as she lay in his arms, head tucked under his chin. “Hmm,” she sighed, once more, and this time she did not only sound pleased, she sounded smug.

Knightley chuckled, dropping a kiss on top of her head. Words were inadequate to express what he felt for her, but he would make it his life’s purpose to tell her. Show her. “I love you, Emma,” he murmured into her hair.

She shifted slightly, fully aligning her body with his. He bit back a groan. His wife *was* a quick learner.
Her breath whispered over his skin as she kissed his neck, his chest. “I could tell.”

He was lost, but he found that he did not particularly mind. “Couldn’t you always?” he asked softly, catching her chin in his hand, thumb stroking her full bottom lip.

Her smile was wicked. “Almost,” she said, leaning into his caress. “But do show me again.”

And so he did.