“I want you to take me to bed.” To ensure he understood, she added, “Your bed.”
Brown eyes lowered to admire her lips before Harold dipped his head to kiss her, a chaste kiss, but his lips were tender and slightly parted, sensual and teasing. Hazel’s frozen toes curled.
Wordless, he stood, offered his hand, and pulled her up, pressing his lips to hers once more in that gentle, sensual way. In unhurried steps, his hand still holding hers, he escorted her to his bed. She could scarcely breathe. He pulled back the blanket. Only then did he release her hand, enabling him to unbutton his banyan, one slow button at a time, his eyes unwavering from hers. She watched. Her body throbbed. He slipped the banyan from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Removing his nightcap, then his stockings, also tossed to the floor, he then reached behind his neck to tug at his nightshirt, pulling it up and over his head in a smooth movement.
Not wanting to shock him yet unable to resist, she touched her fingertips to the reddish-brown curls dusting his chest. He sucked in a breath but said nothing, allowing her to explore. She swept her fingertips over his chest, raking the curls through her fingers. Though her eyes darted lower, she dared not stare or touch below his navel. What would he think of her or her behavior? She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth.
Harold did not allow her to lose confidence. With both hands clasping her hips, he lifted her night wrap up and over her head. When he reached to do the same with her nightdress, his hands stilled, fabric grasped in his fists, then he pulled her against him with a sudden roughness that made her gasp. He nestled his long, hard body against hers and captured her mouth for a hungry kiss, a needy kiss, a kiss that pushed boundaries. His tongue probed. Though he held her body tight to his, he relaxed his kiss, flicking the tip of his tongue to hers in invitation, prompting her to take control. She took it.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she circled her tongue around his, kneading it, licking it, dueling for dominance. Instinctively, she wriggled her hips against him. Harold stepped away, but only to remove her nightdress.
As soon as the garment hit the floor, Hazel shrank back with self-consciousness.
Before she could cover herself with her hands, Harold palmed her face with both hands and said, “My beautiful, beautiful wife. My beautiful Hazel.”
Whatever Hazel had been thinking dimmed. She melted against him. In one fluid movement, he scooped an arm behind her legs and lifted her as though she were weightless, then laid her on the bed before climbing onto the feathered mattress beside her. He pulled the bedcovers over them before his hand found her waist and his lips found her mouth.
The contrast between the two swirled her senses. His kiss was urgent, demanding, more provocative than before, yet his hand flowed against her skin with such gentle persuasion, such slow and methodical precision, her mind rippled with need.
And then she understood. He was holding to his promise. He was applying his brush stroke to her canvas.
She stilled, then said against his lips, “Paint me.”
He leaned back only enough to see her face, his eyes a devilishly dark brown, his lids hooded, his lips reddened. While he studied her, his fingers trailed over her hip, shading a crosshatch pattern across her skin, one part with fingertips, one part with a gentle tickle of well-manicured nails. She made a sound mixed between a giggle, a gasp, and a moan. Dragging his fingers, he smoothed his palm over her hip and across her abdomen. The focal point her navel, he circled, then drew up and down her torso asymmetrical geometrics, his touch one moment light, fluttering, and silky, the next feathering against her skin, and then with a subtle move of the wrist pressured and coarse, hot and fast.
The sensations blended, muted then vibrant, shadowed then dramatic. She squeezed her eyes closed and pushed her head against the pillow, focusing on the contradictions, her skin aflame and sensitive to his touch. Just as his fingers brushed below her navel, his mouth covered her breast. She wrenched her eyes wide. He looked up to meet her gaze, her nipple between his lips, and flicked the bud until the skin puckered, embossed. Oh my! She had no words, no thoughts for the sensation, for the action. Arching her back, she reached a hand to his shoulder and dragged her fingers against his skin as he had done to her.
Harold shifted to move from her breast to her lips. His kiss distracted her only long enough for his hand to trace the triangle of her mons before slipping a finger between her lower lips and inside her core. She gasped in surprise.
He rubbed his nose against hers, then shifted his weight slightly away from her. Propping himself on an elbow, he smiled, a slow and sleepy smile.
She suspected he was about to say something, maybe ask a question, maybe make a joke, but she did not give him the opportunity. Tucking her hand behind his neck, she pulled him back to her for a kiss intended both to seduce and distract as she hooked an ankle over his hip and tugged. He needed no further persuasion. Angling himself over her, he brought his legs between hers and nudged her thighs apart.
As the weight of his chest pressed against hers and he positioned himself, Hazel braced for discomfort. She tensed and waited for the startling pain she recalled from their wedding night.
Instead, she felt his lips feather over her cheeks and down her neck. He shifted just so, then thrust not into her but against her, rubbing himself over her lower lips with a determined, wet friction. The motion caused a dizzying wave of euphoria. Her hips lifted to meet his next teasing thrust. Color filled her vision behind squeezed eyelids, vibrant, dynamic, a palette of shades, her world a distortion of gradient hues, tones, and textures. She met him thrust for thrust, rubbing her body against his, mumbling against his lips nonsense sounds, giving herself to the most glorious pleasure she had never known possible. Her limbs quivered. Her heart raced. Her senses layered. She dug her fingers into his back as a color wheel dazzled her in exquisite ecstasy.
In that moment, Harold repositioned and thrust inside of her. There was no pain. There was no discomfort. There was only bliss. She cried out. His depth deepened; his rhythm quickened. She rocked against him, layer after layer of saturated color overlapping. Elongated strokes. Short strokes. His rhythm turned erratic. Then he, too, cried out, burying the sound against her neck as his thrusts continued to bring her pleasure until they both tremored into a breathless, sweaty embrace.
His weight still atop her, he chuckled. She laughed, her lips pressed to his shoulder. What they laughed about, neither could say, but they both laughed. Even after he rolled off her, pulling her against him so she could rest her chin on his chest, they still laughed.
Hazel looked up at him, her husband, and admired the dishevelment of his hair, sweat drenching an inch into his hairline, frizzing his curls into wild disarray. His face was flushed. How could she ever have thought him a staid gentleman? This was no serious-minded bore. This was a man of passion. She wondered if it was too soon to ask for a second round.
Two days later, Harold sat in the private parlor of Ship’s Anchor Inn, savoring a bite of fish. The cook’s specialties were veal and West Country tart, both already on the table alongside a plethora of other culinary delights.
Patrick took a swig of ale then said, “Mr. Jones expressed the most interest. That is to say, the most genuine interest rather than obsequious interest.”
“I’ll call on him again next week and bring Hazel with me. She’ll like Mrs. Jones. If he’s sincere, now’s the time to make arrangements.”
An apple orchard should be one of the last items on his list, for once planted, it would not bear fruit for another five years. There were more pressing estate needs and faster yielding possibilities. But Harold wanted to consider long-term, as well. Not to mention he thought Hazel would like it. There was potential with an apple orchard, fruit to eat, cook, store, juice, and even turn into jam and cider. If Mr. Jones would agree to devoting a portion of his letted land for the orchard, Harold would promise to hire
an extra farmhand, someone versed in orchard cultivation.
“Not that it’s my business…” Patrick began before taking delight in the veal. Waving his fork at Harold, he continued, “But I’ll make it my business since I’m your wise counsel.” He took another drink of ale then poked the air with his fork. “How the devil are you going to pay for it?”
Harold cringed. “Since London, I’ve been studying the accounts, working and reworking figures. If I can lay out the plans and numbers, maybe Father will listen.”
“And maybe fish will learn to walk.”
“I know. I know. But I have no control over the accounts. The best I can do is craft a proposal that will help him see reason.” Harold stabbed at the last piece of his fish, his good mood plummeting.
After spending an evening, a full day, and another evening sequestered in his bedchamber with Hazel, he thought nothing could dispirit his mood. Splashing him with cold water was talk of his father and account ledgers.
Patrick asked, “What about the money from Trethow’s estate?”
“The extorted funds, you mean? I’d rather Father not touch it. I’d rather strike it from the settlement.” Harold set aside his cutlery, his appetite going the way of his mood. “In the end, we may not have a choice. At least not until we get the estate earning a profit again.”
“Harold, I say this as a friend. You need to handle your father. He’s destroying not just his own life, but yours. It’s time to take control. Handle him.”
Anger pulsed through his veins. “Like you’re handling yours?”
Patrick looked up, his expression first registering shock then in equal parts anger. “That’s different, and you know it.”
“Is it? I don’t see you putting your foot down. I don’t see you telling him to sod off. Young lady after young lady you allow them to invite for supper, yet you say nothing. Here’s a deal for you. You handle your father, then I’ll handle mine.”
Patrick pushed his plate away and crossed his arms over his chest. He made to speak several times but swallowed the words, choosing instead to shake his head and glower at his plate.
As quickly as the anger rose, it diminished, leaving Harold chagrined and guilt-ridden. He should not have lashed out. Patrick had only said what needed to be said. The trouble was Harold had no footing to handle his father, and that was the most infuriating part, for he could do nothing but watch the man sink the ship. He had not, as his father often and so eloquently reminded him, even reached his majority. Harold was not the head of the household. He had only prospects, plans, and pleas, a soundless voice against his father’s greed.
Harold cleared his throat. “I had no right. Forgive me.”
His friend continued to shake his head. “No, you are right. It’s time I spoke honestly with him.”
After a minute of silence, each staring at the table, Harold chided, “Or you could marry one of the young ladies your mother has picked out.”
Patrick chuckled hollowly. “Nothing says masterfully clever like appeasing the sire while simultaneously making the bride and bridegroom miserable. Think Miss Plumb would consider a lifetime of misery?”
Harold gave that the laugh it deserved. “If you deprived Hazel of the opportunity to play matchmaker, she may not soon forgive you.”
Patrick winked, harsh words of earlier forgiven.
After the meal, Harold returned home for vis-à-vis tea with Nana. He had looked forward to this conversation all morning, but he dreaded the thought of endless biscuits after his meaty meal. When he joined her in the parlor, the tea tray did not disappoint those expectations. He sighed, resolving himself to the inevitable stomachache.
A kiss on the cheek. An accepted cup and saucer. A curious glance at the leather portmanteau.
Nana unbuckled the straps and flipped open the bag, extracting a stack of paper. “I want you to come to my bedchamber. The paintings adorn the walls. I had Mr. Somners and Mr. Quainoo arrange between them to move every single frame from the dower house to my new room. When I die, I want them all buried with me. It’ll require a mausoleum, of course.” She chortled at her morbid jest. “These are a few of the sketches.”
Harold set aside the saucer to take the stack. Nana began rifling through more paper in the portmanteau, but he focused his attention on the sheets in his hand.
Page after page, front and back, corner to corner, were chalk sketches, the style similar enough to his own to startle him but individual enough not to be mistaken for his work. Most of the sketches were landscapes of the lake and estate grounds, a few of the house, but there were some portraits of people, mostly house and grounds staff. The majority remained unfinished. These represented an artist’s eye, the interpretation of the artist’s world. A great deal of experimentation could be seen, namely with shading techniques and perspective.
Harold studied each page, critiquing, admiring, in awe that these were the works of his grandfather.
He turned over a sketch of the boathouse to find a corner of the wilderness walk drawn on the backside of the page. “Why did you never tell me?”
Nana waved a hand. “You were only a boy. You left for India not a day over fifteen.”
“I was days away from my eighteenth birthday.”
“Too young. Art is serious craft, not to be unappreciated by youth fancying Grand Tours and girls.”
Harold frowned. “I went to India on business at Father’s command, not for a tour or recreation or…girls.”
“And look how you’ve grown. I shouldn’t have recognized you.”
“You didn’t.” That was unfair. Her mistaking him for his father could not be entirely her fault.
“But you see,” she said, “now you can appreciate your grandfather’s craft with the eyes of maturity.”
He stopped himself before mentioning he had appreciated art since his youth, since as far back as he could remember. Harold was here to learn about his grandfather and spend time with his grandmother, not argue. Truthfully, she would not have had any reason to know him appreciative.
A pity. From the moment his hand gripped a writing implement, he had been drawing in some form or another, even if he had never shared his passion with his family. Had he shared, would she have told him? He would have liked to, but his mother had been too absorbed with her own life to notice him, his father too busy losing the family fortune in schemes to care, and his grandmother too focused on entertaining her friends at the dower house to attend to a child. His nanny was attentive. His tutor was attentive. The short stent he spent at Eton produced an attentive friend or two before his father sent for him to return and resume with the tutor. And then India. His art had been his own, a passion he never thought a family member would share.
“Yes, Nana, I can better appreciate his work now. Thank you for sharing.” He traded the stack for a new stack.
What he would not give to have known his grandfather, to have shared this with him. So much he could have learned. Would his grandfather have critiqued his sketches, taught him more? The little bit he knew of his grandfather was in such stark contrast to the man he felt etched into the pages. He ached to ask his grandmother more questions.
“Will you come to see the paintings?” she asked, her tone more needy than curious.
“I would be honored.”
“I had planned to show you. I thought you’d return after a few months, but you were gone so long. I worried.”
He covered her hand with his.
She could not have worried more about him than he worried about her. Having her living in the main house was a relief. Here, in the house, she would be safe. No one could deny she was doing better. Her episodes of forgetfulness and confusion were less frequent, though not gone altogether. From what he had ascertained, she kept busy. She also socialized more, especially now that Miss Plumb was in residence.
While he could happily expre
ss many reasons he was thankful for his grandmother and Miss Plumb’s attentions to each other, he would never vocalize some of those reasons, namely his infinite appreciation that Miss Plumb had been so distracted the day before by his grandmother’s need for company, she had not once come to knock on Hazel’s bedchamber or burst through the door to see why Hazel remained in bed all day. Harold almost laughed aloud at what a chaotic moment that would have caused.
Ah, yes, but above all, he was thankful his grandmother was safe and content.
A scratching sound awakened Hazel. She blinked at the darkness. The sound was akin to arms arcing angel wings into sand, something she had not done in years. A muted lap of ocean wave. A gentle tap-tap of feet on hardpacked beach. Unsure if she was dreaming, Hazel blinked again. As her eyes adjusted to the black, a glow became visible, a teardrop shape outlined on the wallpaper. When the glow flickered, she realized it was candlelight. The fire had long since died to embers. Giving her legs a firm stretch, she rolled over.
His back against the headboard, Harold sat next to her in bed, his knees bent to prop up his drawing tablet. Sweeping across the page in swift motions, danced the graphite.
For all her stretching and turning, he had not noticed she was awake. She kept it that way for now. The moment offered an intimate glimpse of her husband enjoying a different kind of passion than they had shared for nearly a week. His attention riveted, Hazel could unabashedly admire not only the bareness of his flesh, but the fixed focus of his brown eyes, always slightly wild when sketching. This was the rawness, the ruggedness she had found so attractive. Now, it was within her reach every evening, physically and emotionally.
Inching closer, she propped herself with her elbow and laid her head against his chest, the skin cool from exposure, the hair tickling her cheek. His heartbeat sounded thump thump in her ear.
Harold’s hand stilled. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
She nuzzled him. “Who’s to say I wasn’t planning to wake you?” Her tone had intended to be teasing and implicit, but the grogginess of her voice gave away the truth.
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