Her nose wrinkled. She was not one to tread the boards, even in private gatherings. “You may. The only performances I give are with an instrument.”
He frowned. “But without a partner, a performance is merely a reading.”
“You’ve acted multiple parts by yourself before. I am witness to your excellent portrayal of Countess Ashleaf.”
He chuckled. “It need not be Romeo and Juliet. Perhaps we should perform from a comedy rather than a tragedy? You could be the Queen of the Fairies. Could I be Bottom to your Queen Titania?”
“Certainly not!”
“Benedict and Beatrice?”
“My lord, I do not take the role of an actress.”
She did not want to speak of several miserable experiences she’d had with her cousins in family productions at Arne Park. She was not a good actress—wooden, they said. She was not willing to expose her deficiencies.
His face took on an expression that could be called nothing but a pout.
“But you’d be wonderful. You have such presence. How about—”
She raised her hand. “No, kind sirrah, no. And if you suggest Kate and Petruchio, I will retire immediately and shall not speak to you for a sennight.”
He stifled a laugh and his face lightened. “What? But is not Kate’s soliloquy of being a ‘tamed’ wife your favorite of all Shakespeare’s words?”
“Heaven forbid,” she said with a dry note in her voice.
He grinned outright.
“But I will gladly watch you perform.” She inclined her head.
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Very well.” Then he turned a mischievous smile on her. “What would you have me play for you?”
She smirked, glanced at the book and back at him. “Titania and Bottom.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Very well! My lady has spoken.”
She grinned through his ridiculous performance as he read both parts from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, putting a gauzy piece of silk over his head for love-struck Titania, and a horse-tailed whip over his shoulders for donkey-headed Bottom. Every line was given in the most exaggerated fashion possible, and several times she had to bite back giggles.
He grinned at her in delight when her laughter broke through.
An unaccustomed levity lightened her step as Daniel escorted her late that evening to her bedchamber door. She kept catching herself giggling and had to stifle the undignified noise.
He lingered before the threshold, candlelight flickering over his flirtatious half-smile. “You may kiss me now if you wish.”
She lifted a brow. “Is that how it’s going to be between us? You begging me to do what you’d like to do yourself?”
“Would it be better if I stole the kiss?” He leaned close with a teasing look, but alarm spiked through her.
“Don’t steal kisses!” She pulled away.
His expression became serious. “Forgive me. I won’t steal anything. I realize how much destruction a stolen kiss wrought in your life.” He backed a step but kept her eyes locked in his with a searching gaze. “Whatever you need, Eliza. I am here, I am waiting.” The side of his lip tugged upwards. “And I’m not above begging when it comes to you.”
She dragged in a breath, swallowed, willed her jumping heart to calm, as she ran her eyes from his curved lips to his tender eyes, and back down. Everything about Daniel drew her in, even when she wished not to be drawn.
Acting on impulse, she lifted on her toes and kissed his cheek. She lingered there, and his warm breath hit her ear. Chills ran over her body and her heart picked up its racing again.
“Thank you for this evening. Goodnight.” She retreated quickly, closed the door, then leaned her back against it, her breathing too rapid. But the chills . . . they were not as unpleasant as she would expect chills to be.
* * *
The next evening after dinner, Eliza paused her playing upon the harpsichord.
“Daniel?”
He looked up from the book he had been reading as she played.
She put her hands in her lap, her shoulders feeling tight at the subject she was braving herself to broach. “I have not seen you with your sketchbook since . . . that day a week-and-a-half ago. You never finished the portrait you were drawing of me.”
“No.” He watched her, caution in his expression. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”
She looked down at her hands. “That portrait you started was most promising. I think you should finish it. Perhaps tomorrow you could work on it again while I play?” She risked a glance at him. His eyes had widened. “Or I could, perhaps, even sit formally and still, if you’d like me to pose for a proper portrait.”
He stood, took two steps towards her. “You would sit for me?”
“Yes.” She fought a blush. “Tomorrow, in the daylight?”
“That would be wonderful.” A wide smile broke over his face. “I would be most happy to draw you.”
“Good.” She ducked her head, her cheeks hot, and started up her musical performance again.
He escorted her to her room at the close of their evening and caught her eyes as he stood at the threshold of her bedchamber. “May I kiss your cheek tonight, Eliza?”
She steeled herself and gave a silent nod.
He stepped forward, lowered his face to hers, and hovered there, his breath hitting her lips too close to her mouth. Would he kiss her there? Did she want that? He’d promised not to.
Why were her lips tingling as if in anticipation? Did she actually want him to kiss her fully?
He moved to the side and kissed her cheek. Softly. The lightest of touches.
Chills erupted around her body, disproportionate to the lightness of the pressure of his lips. Her body did not care that it was the barest of glancing touches. She brought in a shaky breath.
“May I kiss the other?”
Oh, her heart was thundering too hard. More might endanger it. But this was the progress they needed to make if she was ever to be his wife fully.
She lowered her head in a nod.
His eyes were alight. He came for her left cheek and lingered there, pressing more firmly. She breathed in, trying to control the nervous butterflies in her stomach, and the chills that beset her neck and arms. But the inhale merely filled her nose with his scent, a heady mix of bay rum and spice. It made her head spin.
His hands were on her neck, the tips of his fingers sending chills at each connection point. He held her as if she were something precious.
“Thank you, my lady.”
She was his. His lady. Should she not give her all to him?
She backed away, her heart full in her throat, curtseyed, struggled to give him a smile, failed, and fled to the safety of her private bedchamber. An awkward discontent disturbed her night’s rest, an impatience with herself.
Chapter 33
It was much more intense being under Daniel’s artist’s gaze as his wife than Eliza remembered it being when they had been only young acquaintances.
He was doing a simple bust portrait in chalks, the same as he had that long-ago summer, but his intense scrutiny left her flushed, her breathing uneven. She tried to stay still, to calm her breathing and her heart.
What was the difference? Was it that this time he’d asked to draw her facing him directly? Was it the locking of their gazes as he drew her eyes? Was it his meticulous attention to every detail of her face? Was it how she was able to follow his eyes as he traced her nose, her ears, the loose tendrils of her hair, her neck, her collarbones, her shoulders?
Was it how he lingered on her lips?
Was it just that she was able to watch him as his hand moved across the paper before him? That she could study him as much as he studied her?
He had pulled out a large pad of paper, clipped it to a board, and bemoaned not having a proper easel. But that did not seem to hamper him as he worked.
She followed his eyes, as they went to his paper, then back up to her, back and forth, his large
hands moving with delicacy. Then he changed to deft strokes, altering his technique at his own whim depending where he was in the portrait, like she would change expression and tempo to match the mood of a piece of music.
She watched him as he seemed to reach a point where he no longer saw her as a person, but only as an object before him. He fell deep into an artist’s trance. She recognized his state from her own experience.
Eliza relaxed into her sitting posture, released some of the tension in her shoulders as his scrutiny became less personal.
But he was the only subject she could look at with this pose, him sitting before her and her before him as he worked. She traced his interesting face, his strong, long limbs, his large hands, all full of life and energy—all these glorious parts of him were completely focused on her.
As Artist, but also, as Husband.
Daniel abruptly sat back, interrupting her own concentration. “I feel it is time for a break.”
She nodded, stood, shook out her numb arms, and stamped her feet to bring feeling back.
He stretched his long, heavy body, reached his arms up, his wide ribcage and narrow hips highlighted by his posture. She found herself staring just as she had been as he drew. She forced herself to look away, to focus on his face.
“May I see?” she asked, with a worry that he’d say no.
He gave her a lazy smile and gestured for her to come look.
He didn’t move away as she approached, but stood near as she gazed down on his efforts. Her skin pricked with awareness of him.
Was that more than nerves, but something else? Attraction? Desire?
She let out a long breath as she looked at the incomplete drawing.
It was her, the face that stared back at her in mirrors, more accurate than any he had yet drawn. But he had also caught an expression in her eyes she was familiar with.
Tense wariness. Worry. The look that she had been sporting for months. It was accurate, she could not deny, but she found she did not like it.
* * *
After dinner, Eliza opened the French doors of the drawing room out onto the veranda and took a deep breath of green-scented night air—the cool freshness of evening in spring in the Cotswolds. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and willed her nerves to calm.
After her restless night, and the drawing session today, she had come to a conclusion. She didn’t like what she was right now. She wanted to move forward. Tonight she would act. She wouldn’t let rising panic close her throat, would ignore the fear that tightened around her ribs, and wouldn’t let her resolve crumble.
Nevertheless, her palms sweated and her heart rate increased in nervous anticipation.
“Daniel,” she said, turning to him. “It’s a beautiful night. Perfect for a walk. Would you join me?”
He smiled and came up to her. “Gladly.”
He offered his arm, and she took it. They walked out into the deepening dusk, the sky still streaked with gold-tinged pink and violet clouds, early stars beginning to peek through and glimmer. They walked in the dark, a moonless sky of stars stretched out above them on a rare, clear night.
“Daniel.” She swallowed to steady her voice. “I realize you are waiting for me. You’ve been the perfect gentleman, and I thank you for that. I’ve . . . I’ve needed that.”
His clothing rustled as he walked, but he didn’t interrupt.
“But now, I . . .” Her heart jumped into her throat, blocking her words. “I don’t know how to move forward.”
She stopped walking. Tears pressed the back of her eyes, clouded her view. How humiliating. “You are my husband. But I don’t know how to move forward. I . . .”
“Whatever you are comfortable with, Eliza.” His voice was soothing, conciliatory.
Frustration flared. “I’m afraid I’ll never be comfortable, never get any closer to being comfortable . . .”
“Then let’s start small.” He faced her. She blinked rapidly to clear her gaze. “And simply. You’ve taken my hand before. Will you take it again?”
He extended his hand. She stared at it.
And put her hand into his. It engulfed her palm, felt warm and secure. Neither of them had donned gloves after dinner.
He lifted his brows, inquiring if this was all right.
Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave a nod.
They walked hand in hand in companionable silence.
They reached the edge of the well-maintained path, the sloping wilderness of grasses and shrubs beyond barely discernible in the darkness.
“May I kiss your hand?”
She nodded. These were comfortable familiarities.
Daniel brought her closer to him, lifted her hand in his, and kissed her knuckles.
“Now we could move to the next step.”
“What is the next step?”
“You’ve let me hold you before. Can I again?” He opened his arms.
She looked away, took a deep breath, and entered his embrace. He held her close, her forehead resting against the side of his jaw. They stood still, his arms around her, secure, not too tight.
His chest expanded with each inhalation. His exhalations whispered through her hair. His warmth surrounded her, overcoming spring’s evening chill.
She closed her eyes, lifted her arms, and wrapped them around his waist.
He let out a long sigh. “Ah, my darling.”
His hands stroked up and down her back with gentle, soothing motions.
With each pass, she relaxed further, leaned into him more.
She drew back, looked up into his soft eyes. “There is more that we’ve done. You’ve kissed my forehead.”
His expression brightened. He leaned in and kissed her there again.
“And I’ve kissed your cheek.” She rose up and kissed his prickly cheek, his evening’s beard growth tickling her lips. She kissed the edge of his jaw. She pulled back.
His gaze on her was intense. “May I as well?”
She nodded, heat rising in her face.
He placed a lingering kiss on her cheek, moved down to press a kiss to her jaw. She arched her neck to allow him access. Her breath quickened at his nearness. He pressed his lips to her temple, lingered there.
“Eliza,” he breathed. “May I . . . may I kiss your lips?”
A shiver went through her. She gave a sharp nod.
He drew back, looked her in the eyes. Her gaze went to his wide mouth. Her lower lip trembled as she breathed out. She looked up to him again, and his breath had quickened as well.
She tightened her hands on his back, the memory of her last kiss—the only kiss she had ever received from a man, that unwelcome, disastrous kiss—intruded on her thoughts, stiffening her shoulders.
But it was Daniel here before her—her husband, her protector—Daniel who held her, whose face moved close to hers, whose lips hovered a breath away. He lingered, and she almost cried out for him to just do it!
Finally, he closed the distance and his lips touched hers. He retreated, let her breathe.
It was different. So different. Gentle. Not hard or demanding. No teeth clashing, or rough hands in her hair.
She blinked, pushed her body closer to him, and he pressed his mouth to hers again. Sensation rushed over her. His lips moved against hers, and all thoughts of anything else, anyone else, flew away. Just rushing blood, breathless movement, consuming warmth washing over her. A heady, exquisite feeling.
When they finally parted, she was lightheaded and panting. She gazed up at him with dazed wonder.
“Oh,” she breathed out. She backed up, touched her hand to her tingling lips. The cool night air hit her at once, sending gooseflesh over her overheated body.
His great chest expanded and contracted. His eyes searched her face.
She breathed in and out, waited for her heart to calm.
His lips pinched with a hint of worry, his brows lifted in concern. His arms hung empty, slightly outstretched before him, as if begging her to reenter them.
She half-turned from him, needing her heart to slow.
He let out a pained sound. Her dazed brain realized he was feeling distressed. She turned back, took one of his hands in her own, and led them back to the house. He followed behind her without complaint.
Her mind churned on everything and nothing.
When they reached the front doors, she opened them and walked through, barely noticed that he caught the doors behind them, and closed them.
She took his hand again as soon as it was free and walked to the drawing room where they spent most of their time and the settee there. She moved his sketchbook to the side, sat, pulled him down with her.
“Eliza?” His voice was tentative.
She looked up at him but only got to his lips. Her focus refused to go higher.
Her heart had mostly calmed, but not entirely. Her breath had become regular again. His lips were tightly closed and quiet. His hand was clasped in both of hers.
She lifted his strong, calloused hand and pressed a kiss to it. Her eyes went to his lips again. She leaned forward, tugged him closer to her, and kissed him.
He gave a shaky gasp, put his other hand to her jaw, and kissed her back.
His arms pulled her closer. He held her and kissed her till their lips were tingling.
What could have been long hours or mere minutes later, he drew back, his lids heavy, his breathing ragged.
A hot lethargy had overtaken her. She reached for him again.
He stood. “Ah, my love. That’s enough for tonight.” He pulled her up beside him.
She wanted to protest.
He put her arm through his and led her upstairs to her bedchamber door.
With only her eyes, she mutely begged him for . . . for what? What did she want from him?
He lifted one corner of his reddened, full lips, pulled her in, and gave her one last, lingering kiss.
He let her go, stepped back, gave her a smile so brilliant it was almost shocking, and left her there.
She stumbled through her evening routine, gave one-word, distracted answers to Betsey’s inquiries, and stared at the canopy for too long, her brain still unable to do more than churn on the simple words: Want. More. Please.
Beneath Spring's Rain (Ashton Brides Book 1) Page 20
