Leaning forward, he deposited her gently on the turned-down sheets, then climbed in next to her and took her into his arms. He traced a finger down the side of her face. “So, my lady.”
“So, my lord.”
“Do you think you can bear such attentions in the future?”
“I think so.” She felt warm and happy, her usual edginess dissipated by the power of her orgasm. “Yes.” Definitely. He made her soft and warm and wanted.
“This can’t be new to you.”
It was. “You mean this part?” She hugged him. “My late husband preferred to perform his duty and leave. Marcus and I never had a peaceful moment. We were driven, both of us.”
“Hmm. I thought I was,” he said. “Driven, that is.” He sounded drowsy.
“Not like that.” She and Marcus had fallen on each other the minute they could. Towards the end they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They had to touch. Society saw it as a scandal. At the time she’d found the experience exhilarating and shockingly exciting. Now she saw it as sordid and unfortunate.
Perhaps this time she would get it right. Surely Venus was allowed a few successes.
She dozed off in his arms only to discover him kissing his way down her body a few hours later. Darkness shrouded them, so she could not have been asleep long. She responded, held him close, stroked his skin. She loved the flex of his muscles as he licked her, then lingered at her crease to tease and suck until he returned to her. Once more he entered her body.
Already she knew the feel of him, the way his thick shaft stretched her as he eased his way in. She marked his care, the way he slid inside her, her silky inner channel closing around him. She welcomed him, and lay back, letting him take her as he wanted and work her to an almost leisurely peak. Except that she panted and clutched him when she came, and his groan of satisfaction gave the lie to the leisurely description.
In the morning she woke, feeling better than she had in weeks. Months, perhaps, since a sense of well-being suffused her. Although it reminded her of something, she couldn’t immediately discern what it was.
As she opened her eyes, her husband came into the room. He had his trusty silver-topped cane in his hand, breeches and stockings in place, but nothing else.
He leaned over to kiss her. “I will work you to skin and bone if we stay in bed and our revered mamas will not find our desertion of them amusing.”
“I have no intention of abandoning my mama,” she murmured, hooking an arm around his neck. “But I will not abandon you, either. We are performing our marital duty.”
“That is one way of putting it,” he said with a grin. “However, I’d like to reacquaint myself with my estate and my property.” He kissed her. “And I’d like to eat.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but her stomach rumbled, belying what she was about to say. “Then let’s eat. Then we should use the energy the best way we can.”
Chapter Seventeen
Harry let himself relax into the hammer blows. He was working on a piece of fencing. Sheer physical strength was required to beat out a straight post to repair a stretch of rough fencing on the park, where the sheep were getting into the gardens. His mother had bitterly complained about it at breakfast that morning, as if he’d never been away. A sense of unreality had taken hold.
After a week of marriage, his wife was doing her best to settle into the routine of the house. She was hampered by both of the older ladies, who had taken each other in mild dislike. Nothing to worry about, though, not yet.
In the bedroom, and out of it for that matter, their attentions to each other had increased, if anything. They couldn’t get enough of each other. Just as a honeymoon should be. After his relief when she’d seen his leg and not recoiled in horror, he’d allowed her to see him totally naked whenever she wanted to. Although he found an appeal in catching her unawares and throwing up her skirts sometimes. They’d kept each other very busy.
Lord, he’d missed this! The rhythm of smithing suited him like few other things in life. When he swung the hammer he felt complete. The activity wasn’t just his god speaking through him. Harry would have loved this steady, pounding rhythm on his own. The heat called to his god, the wild part of him that he had never conquered and now knew better than to make the attempt. He pounded in a steady pattern. Up the red-hot post and down, making it broader at the base, ending both ends in a point, the top end sharper to deter intruders, animal or human. The way the seemingly intractable material came to life under his efforts never failed to fascinate him.
He continued to strike the metal with unerring accuracy until some extra sense gave him the knowledge that someone else was in the forge with him. And he knew who it was. Already he could tell his wife’s presence immediately.
He worked until he was satisfied, and then plunged the post into the tub of water set by the side of the anvil. The iron hissed gratifyingly.
He straightened and lowered his hammer before picking up the cloth laid ready and wiping the sweat from his forehead and hands. Turning, he confronted his wife, smiling.
Although dressed for the country, her clothes were very fine. Dark green silk covered her today, in a relatively simple gown but cut well. Her apron was one of the decorative ones, fine white lawn embroidered with white. He’d seen women in London in delicate lace aprons that wouldn’t have survived a morning’s real work. That was the point, of course, a kind of thumbing of the nose at real work, a defiance.
He would not get too close to her. He wore true workman’s clothes, rough breeches and an unbleached shirt that were both eminently washable. Over those he wore a leather apron. At least he could remove that, and he proceeded to do so. “Is everything all right?”
“Perfectly,” she said, moving forward. Stepping back, he held up his hands. “Don’t come too close. You’ll ruin your pretty gown.”
The heat in the forge, something he barely noticed when he was working became apparent as she came closer until she stood a hairsbreadth from him. “This old thing? A little dirt doesn’t frighten me.”
“Does anything?”
She gazed at him, her clear blue-grey eyes steady. “You know some things do. But not you.”
“Maybe I should.” He gave her his best menacing expression, frowning, his mouth turned down and fire in his eyes.
She only laughed. “Not you.” When she moved to touch him, curving her delicate hand around his neck and pulling him down to her level, he gave up resisting. Their kiss was as passionate as always. After seven days he was wondering if he would ever tire of her. He doubted it. His desire for her was only increasing.
She licked his tongue, the merest flicker, making him chase hers for another taste. Then she cupped his balls through the rough fabric of his breeches and moaned. He was already erect. He was positively priapic around his wife. Growling, he pressed close to her, and reached for the hooks at the front of her gown.
“Master.”
At the quavering voice, he stepped back, releasing Virginie. The abrupt ending of their embrace left her arms outstretched, and for a moment she appeared lost, her expression bewildered.
For the first time since they’d begun sharing a bed, Harry paused. What was he doing? Every moment of every day he thought of her, and when he was in her presence, they made love and slept, and precious little else. He hardly knew her decently clothed.
He turned to his assistant. The lanky boy stood in the doorway to the forge, his hat in his hands, turning it nervously. “Sorry, sir. You told me to come back at half past two…” His voice trailed off.
“And I meant it. The post is done. Take it down to the field. There are a couple of men there seeing to the sheep. Once they put it in place they can get on with something else.”
“Aye, sir. Fred and Morris.”
He nodded, letting his senses return to normal. Virginie inflamed him, made him think of nothing but her—
The realisation hit him with the strength of one of Jupiter’s thunderbolts.
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What if this addiction was catching? What if she was passing the same fever on to him?
To give himself time, he helped the boy take the post outside and load it on the cart. The boy stood between the shafts and took the weight. But the cart was cleverly balanced and he should have no problem, even on the bumpy ground between the forge and the field where it was needed.
He stayed outside, leaning against the wall, breathing in the fresh air. Even the atmosphere of Cheshire was different to anywhere else. Here, at home, he could think properly, sort out his feelings.
Yes. What Virginie had described, as far as he could tell, was happening again. Each encounter they had was more frantic, needier. At first he’d enjoyed discovering her. But his early resolution to discover more about Virginie the woman was dissipating in the strength of their allure for each other.
That was wrong. Lovers might have a passionate attraction to each other, but that was infatuation. Lust. It never lasted, or it should not.
While he was in such a state of mind, he was weak. He could be conquered. Worn down by nights of lovemaking and no sleep, obsessed with his new wife, he was vulnerable to anyone who wanted to attack him. Was he foolish to think this way? He’d just married the most beautiful woman in the world. Was this, then, merely a result of that?
No. He shoved his hands in his pockets when she emerged from the forge and he forced himself to analyse his feelings. He saw her, smelled her, sensed her, and his senses rioted. Nothing else but getting her naked, driving into her body mattered. Nothing else. He’d come close to taking her in the forge, a place where people came in and out all day. He had a blacksmith for when he wasn’t here, and messengers would enter. They never knocked because when he or the other blacksmith was busy, they wouldn’t hear him. They would walk within his vision and wave.
But he’d thought of none of that when Virginie was in his arms.
She stepped closer, a winsome smile on her face. He forced a smile that was more fond than lustful. “I should clean up.”
She glanced down at her gown, now smudged with the dirt from the forge, and grimaced. “I never thought of that.”
“Virginie, doesn’t that strike you as strange?”
Cocking her head to one side in an adorable gesture, she frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are a fastidious woman. It’s part of what you are and difficult for anyone to miss. And yet in there, you didn’t care.” She took another step towards him. One more and he’d risk hurting her by moving away. “Think, Virginie. What could it mean?”
“That I’ve thrown caution to the winds? That I’ve found someone—” She stopped. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. She closed it with a snap as her teeth clicked together. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”
He didn’t have to say what. “It might be.” Trying to soothe the horror he felt emanating from her, he added, “Of course, it might be us. We might be so passionate about each other—”
When she shook her head, he stopped talking. The rough stones of the forge wall bit into his back. He welcomed the friction, reminding him of something other than Virginie’s beautiful, silky skin. Reality lay here, in this place that he’d helped build with his own hands. Not in the oblivion of her arms.
“Is it me?” she asked in a voice he’d never heard before. Small, afraid and doubting.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Is it my attribute?”
He could shake his head at that. “Venus is never caught by her own devices. I don’t think you are doing this, Virginie. There is one way to find out.”
“How?” she asked eagerly.
“We have separate beds and we do not spend the nights together. We avoid touching each other. If it’s love, or even passion, then we will be uncomfortable, but we can bear it. If not, it will become unbearable.”
“So what do we do then?”
“We resist.” It was the only way he knew to combat addiction. Withdraw from whatever was causing it. He’d seen women caught in the laudanum trap. They took the drug for their headaches, then took more because the headaches increased. Laudanum was the only drug that helped. And gamblers, unable to leave the table for the fever of betting higher and higher amounts, to the extent of losing everything they owned.
“Can we not learn to live with what we have?”
“No. We need to be free of all of it.”
She blinked and held out her hand, as if she needed support. He nearly fell into the trap and took her to steady her, but he clenched his fists, holding them firmly by his sides.
Virginie nodded and dropped her hand. “If we succumb, we are weakened.”
“That’s it, my dear. Our particular obsession is so effective because it feels so good. I can think of nothing I want more than to have you in my arms. The trouble is, I am neglecting my duties. And when did you speak to the servants, as you said you would on the first day?”
She frowned. “I haven’t. We’ve only been here—”
“Exactly. I came here to think. It hurt to spend time away from you. Virginie, I always enjoy the time I spend here. It’s my attribute, and something I’m good at doing. I can’t imagine doing work more delicate.”
“Like my rose?”
He nodded. “Exactly. I have a workshop where I make those things. But I can’t concentrate enough.”
She stepped back and his heart ached. Actually ached. He longed to pull her into his arms, to hold her tightly.
“We only have one bedroom.” She frowned, thinking. “I will talk to my maid. We can put it about that we have had an argument and I’m sleeping elsewhere.”
“No.” If what he suspected was true, then that might not help matters. “I think someone is doing this to us.”
“What?” Her brows came together.
“I have an alternative to discuss. I have a small property in the Lake District where the Simpsons live. I promised to call on them about Rhea, and I feel obliged to do so.”
“You mean to take the journey?” Her fear rose to choke him.
“Yes. But I want to take you. I do not want to leave you here alone. You’ve been affected for longer than me and you might find it more difficult than I do.”
“I want you,” she moaned. “If you go, just once. I just need you one more time.”
Her offer tempted him almost beyond bearing. Now he took a step towards her, but he stopped. “Virginie, no. We cannot. I’ll ensure we have separate rooms, but I will not leave you.”
Why would he do that? Wouldn’t it be easier for both of them if they separated while they rid themselves of this curse?
All his instincts rioted against that. No and no. He cared too much for her to let her go through the agony to come on her own. He would not do it.
“Virginie, don’t bring Fenton.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“She is with you all the time. She brings your breakfast tray, she helps you disrobe, she performs all manner of acts for you. Leave her here.”
Virginie’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “Will you help me undress every night? How am I to manage?”
“With another maid. We have maids in the house that we may use instead. Give Fenton a complex task, maybe compiling a new inventory of your clothes. Tell her I have taken a dislike to her. Tell her anything, but not that we suspect her.”
“Do we?”
He shrugged. “We have to be ruthless. The seeds to the addiction could be in you, or someone else could renew it. I suspect the latter. Eros could not remove the enchantment because his arrows had lost their effectiveness long before d’Argento called on him.” A breeze grazed his cheek. White clouds scudded across the sky, everything reassuringly normal. Except this.
She sighed. “We do. Fenton has an assistant, but I assume she is suspect too? Then you choose someone. I cannot even think of remaining here without you. What will you say?”
“Watch.”
For the first time pleasur
e crept into his mind as he considered how he would accomplish this feat.
Chapter Eighteen
After coping with Fenton’s distress when Virginie told her she planned to leave without her, fatigue hit her hard. Especially when the maid cried as she helped her mistress undress for bed that night. That was when Virginie added her soothing caveat.
“This is a brief visit, Fenton, and I will not be dressing finely. My husband has requested that I wear only simple clothes. Therefore, while I am away, I wish you to make an inventory of everything I own. Compare it to the one I made before I left France and discover any discrepancies. I want to know where all my personal possessions are. I may send for some. I would not trust anyone else with this task.”
How could Fenton, at the moment with eyes red-rimmed from crying, be responsible for the addiction that had attacked her anew? And how could it have passed to her husband?
At dinner that night, both their mothers disapproved of the haste of the planned visit. “To be truthful, Mother,” Harry said, shaking out his napkin and placing it over his lap, “I have been deferring this visit. I wished to enjoy the estate, but I cannot in all conscience leave it any longer. We shall travel to Yorkshire in easy stages and be there in a few days.”
Virginie opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again. They were not going to Yorkshire. That was to the east. They were planning to travel north. Even she knew that and she’d never been this far north in her life before. She glanced at her husband, sitting at the top of the table but he didn’t look her way. Neither did he contact her mentally.
Without touching him, or even contacting him mind-to-mind, would she come out of her ordeal intact? Or was he imagining things? She picked up her knife and fork and started to eat her chicken and almonds. Normally she loved the dish, but tonight she could not find enthusiasm for anything. Except the exhausting passion her husband spent with her. She could stop thinking, stop being anything but a woman.
If he was wrong, a few nights spent apart would do no harm. If he was right, she would not enjoy the time to come. But the trial would free her. She recalled the edginess when she had decided to break with Marcus. How easy had he found the separation?
Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 Page 18
