by Anne Herries
was near. He sat on the edge of the bed as he had once before, gazing down at her, then she felt the
touch of his lips on hers.
Opening her eyes, she smiled up at him. Very slowly, she reached up and slid her arms about his
neck, pulling him down to her. This time when they kissed, Harry did not restrain himself. His
need was such that she felt the power of it, and when at last they drew apart, both were trembling.
'I love you, Beatrice,' he murmured huskily. 'I love you more than I can express in words. Will you
let me show you in the only way I know how?'
Her eyes darkened and grew smoky with desire. 'I love you, my dear, dear Harry. Show me how
to be a good wife to you. Teach me what you would have me know and be.'
'I do not believe you will need much teaching, my
wanton wench,' Harry murmured throatily as he reached out for her. 'But I promise you, I shall be
a demanding master.'
Then he was pulling her gown over her head, discarding it with his own robe so that she was free
to touch the wonderful smooth skin she had once tended so lovingly while he lay in his fever.
There was no need of tuition on either side, for they each knew instinctively what would please
the other.
'So lovely, so lovely,' he murmured huskily. 'As I always knew you were beneath those hideous
gowns. It is the woman who makes the gowns, Beatrice, but this skin is too lovely to be touched
by anything but pure silk. You are the goddess of my heart, and everything I have is yours to use as
you will,' he vowed, and buried his face in the sensuous satin of her flesh.
Breast to breast, thigh to thigh, they caressed and kissed, playing each other like fine instruments
to make sweet music. Harry's lips and tongue sought out the secret, sensitive places of her body,
lavishing her with such tender, loving caresses that she was swept away with him to pleasure
beyond all imagining. And if there was a moment of pain when at last he entered her, making her
truly his own, she was scarcely aware of it. She was a woman made for love and loving, and she
opened to him with all the warmth of her being, feeling only the joy of being truly loved, of
belonging. They were joined as one: one heart, one body, one mind, one soul, and both knew that
to find such completeness was a blessing from the gods that was not given to all, and believed
themselves the favoured ones.
And after their first coupling was over, they lay entwined, talking long into the night as lovers
will, confessing all their secrets that neither had ever told so that they were irrevocably bound. He
came to her again and again during that night, taking her with tenderness sometimes, at others with
a fierce passion that left them both exhausted, so that at long last they slept deep into the morning.
And their servants crept about the house and smiled to know that master and mistress were still
sleeping.
My Lady Ravensden was sitting up in her bed amongst a pile of silken pillows. She had been
married a month now, and was blissfully content. Her tray of hot chocolate and sweet rolls had
been brought up, together with a small pile of letters.
Beatrice saw that most had come from the villages. There was one from Ghislaine, one from
Olivia, and another from her dear papa. What a feast awaited her, for she knew that both
Ghislaine's and Olivia's letters would be full of lovely gossip, and she was anxious to hear the
latest news and whether anything more had been discovered concerning Lady Sywell's
disappearance.
She opened Ghislaine's letter first. Her friend wrote such a clear precise hand, and her letters
were always so entertaining. If anything had happened at the Abbey, she would be sure to have
news of it. And indeed, it seemed that there were at the moment some very interesting happenings.
'Still abed, you lazy wench,' Harry said, coming in as Beatrice was about to reach the meat of
Ghislaine's letter. 'It is far too good a morning to lie abed. Get up and come riding with your lord.'
'Yes, Harry, in a moment,' Beatrice said. 'I just want to read what Ghislaine says...'
Harry plucked the letter from her grasp. She tried to take it back, but he withheld it, so she sat
back and looked at him, giving in to his mood of playfulness. He would no doubt return it in a
moment.
'Ghislaine says there is news of the Abbey...'
Harry was not attending her. He had begun to fold the paper into a shape that looked rather like an
arrowhead, sharp at one end and flaring out wider at the other. Lifting his arm, he drew back the
paper dart then brought his hand forward and released the paper with a strong thrust. It flew
straight across the room and into the open grate, where it was consumed in seconds by the flames.
'Harry!' Beatrice cried. 'I hadn't finished reading my letter.'
Harry's expression was one of astonishment. 'Did you see that, Beatrice? Did you see the way it
flew straight and swift?'
'Straight into the fire,' Beatrice said. 'You wretch.'
'How wonderful it would be if man could build a machine that would fly...'
'You mean a balloon?'
'No...' Harry was still wearing that look of amazed wonder. 'Balloons travel at the behest of the
wind, and are awkward, clumsy contraptions. I mean a machine with some kind of energy that man
can direct and control...' He turned to her, suddenly excited. 'I recently bought a collection of
papers from the estate of a man who had travelled widely; he was a scholarly man, well versed in
ancient scripts—and among his papers I saw a fragment of parchment with what looked like the
beginnings of a design for such a machine. I do not know where the paper came from, or who
scribbled the few details upon it, but I believe it might possibly be made to work. I must write to
Mr Roade at once and tell him of my idea before I forget.'
'A flying machine, Harry?' Beatrice looked at him in amusement. 'Would that not be rather
dangerous?'
'Slightly less so than a stove that overheats and blows holes in the kitchen wall,' Harry said
wickedly and bent to kiss her. 'Just think what fun Papa and I will have trying to discover if the
contraption will fly.'
Beatrice smiled at his enthusiasm. She had little doubt that this would be the first of many
inventions that Harry and dear Papa would waste their time on in the years to come, but as long as
they were content, what did it matter?
'Now what is going on in your head?' Harry asked and bent to kiss her. 'I am going to write my
letter; will you be long, dearest?'
'I shall join you in half an hour,' Beatrice promised. 'Go down now, my love, and let me finish my
letters—what there is left of them.'
'I am very sorry that I threw your letter into the fire,' Harry said, and kissed her hand. 'Will you
forgive me?'
'You are already forgiven,' she said and smiled as he kissed her hand once more, then walked over
to the door. 'I shall not be long, Harry.'
Beatrice picked up her remaining letters as the door closed behind her husband, but she did not
attempt to open them. She was so very lucky...but the letter from Ghislaine had reminded her, and
she could not help thinking of the young Lady Sywell. They had not been able to find a grave, and
the mystery of the Marchioness's disappearance was not yet solved, but Beatrice could not forget
the unhappy young
woman.
What had happened to her? Had her wicked husband murdered her—or had she left Steepwood
Abbey of her own accord? Beatrice had no way of knowing. She would no doubt hear from one of
her friends if there was any news, but she was no longer living in the villages and it must be for
others to discover the truth.
Beatrice shook her head, dismissing the shadows as she rang the bell to summon her maid. It was
time that she got dressed and went down to go riding with her beloved husband!
Document Outline
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
