Hadrian

by Grace Burrowes

  Had he been capable of using words, the term transcendent would have accurately applied.

  “Avie.” Some creature dwelling in dark bliss had rasped her name, not Hadrian Bothwell. His body sang fading hosannas as the sky welcomed the night, and Avie subsided onto his belly. “For God’s sake, love, hold me.”

  She obligingly shifted over him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, then buried her face in his neck.

  As he tried to recover his breath—his wits were a hopeless cause—she said something against his throat. Asked a question. He wasn’t sure what. He closed his arms around her in answer.

  Precious , was all he could think. The experience was precious, yes, but more than that, the woman was precious. He’d teased her, telling her he was lonely and needed relief from matchmaking mamas. He’d also told her he wanted to keep her safe, but his words had not been honest.

  He was beyond lonely, for her. Had been for years, and he didn’t want to keep her safe, he needed to, more than he needed to breathe air.

  “You didn’t answer, Hadrian.”

  “I couldn’t hear the question for all the bells ringing in my ears.”

  She tucked her face against him again, but Hadrian was focused now, and he heard her.

  “Did I do it right?”

  “Well, to be honest, no.” He kissed her chin, feeling her brace herself for his judgment. “Not quite, though it wasn’t a bad effort, and one appreciates your enthusiasm. With my selfless and generous cooperation, if you practice diligently at every opportunity and apply yourself assiduously and very frequently to the—”

  She hit his shoulder, and then they were laughing and rolling in a tangle of naked, happy limbs, until he rose above her and kissed the stuffing out of her.

  “If I live to be older than Gran Carruthers,” Hadrian said, “I will never forget the pleasure and trust you’ve given me this evening, Avis Portmaine. You showed me nothing less than heaven on earth, and I will treasure you always for your generosity and courage.”

  He nearly told her they’d shared some sort of baptism of the heart on this outing, but her brows were drawn down.

  “I managed well enough?”

  He kissed her cheek and lowered himself to wrap his arms around her. “No other lady has shown me such consideration. You have ruined me, and I am pleased to be your wreckage.”

  She stroked his hair. “We’re both ruined, then.”

  He angled back up. “You cannot be ruined. You’re to marry me, or have you forgotten?”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Avie said, though clearly, Hadrian had spoiled the moment. “But I’ve yet to accept you, or had you forgotten?”

  “Apparently that detail slipped from what passes for my brain.” Hadrian pushed over to lie at her side lest his unruly parts become inspired. “Trifling with me and tossing me over won’t be well done of you, Lady Avis.”

  “Shame on you, Hadrian.” She rolled away from him, clearly unappreciative of his attempt at humor—if that’s what it had been.

  He spooned himself around her and threaded his arm under her neck so she might use his biceps for a pillow, then drew half the blanket up over them. “I truly want to marry you. Please say yes.”

  “You’re not thinking clearly.”

  She was right—and she wasn’t.

  Hadrian kissed her shoulder. “About this, I am thinking very clearly. I won’t argue with you now. I’m too happy.”

  “You’re sated,” she said, pleased with herself, as well she should be. Every kiss and caress, every inch of bared flesh they shared was a powerful light banishing the shadows left by her past.

  “I’m plotting revenge, silly wench.” He fell asleep, wondering if she’d let him use his mouth on her. That delight had been denied him by his wife, and now he was glad of it. With Rue, such an adventure would have been the result of curiosity and boredom.

  With Avie, his intimate attentions were driven by the need to protect, to treasure, and to love.

  * * *

  “Going somewhere, Lily my love?” Fenwick’s question had the intended result of freezing Lily Prentiss in her tracks.

  “I am not your love,” she hissed, “and I have never given you leave to use my name, nor will I.”

  “Alas for me.” Fen ambled out of the shadows on Blessings’s back terrace, because he intended to detain his prey. “Care to join me for a moonlit stroll in the gardens?”

  “Do you never listen, Mr. Fenwick? Your company is not agreeable to me.”

  “I listen.” Though he often regretted what he overheard. “I look too, and I see a lady out by herself after dark. Clearly, you’re bent on mischief.”

  Lily drew herself up, sails filling with a purpose Fen was determined to thwart.

  “I am bent on finding Lady Avie. She hasn’t come in yet, and the evening grows both chilly and dark.”

  Chilly indeed. “After remaining behind to tidy up the ale station, Lady Avis accepted Mr. Bothwell’s escort. You may toddle back to your needlepoint, assured our mutual employer will come to no harm.”

  Lily’s gaze darted up the shadowed slope, confirming that she’d been spying on Avis—again.

  “She’ll need her shawl.” Lily started toward the trees. “She worked too long in the sun today. She’ll take sick—”

  Fen plucked the shawl from Lily’s hands.

  “I’m sure Bothwell will lend her his jacket, gentleman that he is. I’ll hang on to this so you don’t have to loiter here in the night air, waiting for your employer.”

  “She’s not my—” But Lily wasn’t entirely foolish. She and Fen were at best equals, and forcing Avis to choose between them was not prudent—not with Bothwell taking Lady Avis for moonlit strolls.

  “You are insufferable, Mr. Fenwick, but what else should I expect from a half-savage heathen like you?”

  “I believe you’ve commented similarly before.” Fenwick let his eyelids droop, as if she’d offered a flirtatious innuendo. “We heathen have our endearing attributes. Was that why you came out here searching for me?”

  “I hate you,” Lily said through gritted teeth. “You are the furthest thing from a gentleman, and you do not deserve to walk the same ground as Avis Portmaine, much less interfere with my protection of her.”

  “Dearest Lily,” Fenwick drawled, “it’s time you accepted that Avie can look after herself, and took your interfering self off to bed. Shall I escort you?”

  She slapped him, a good hard smack, much as he’d suffered from her on previous occasions.

  He touched his cheek, then his heart, the better to aggravate the silly bitch. “A parting token of your esteem. Good night, sweet Lily. Pleasant dreams.”

  He held his ground, and Lily had the sense to retreat into the house. If she dealt him a blow every so often, it took the edge off her ire. Fen didn’t exactly like being slapped, but violence from her was proof of something besides the towering disdain she affected.

  Some fellow had probably dealt a figurative death blow to her feminine confidence ages ago, but even that thought didn’t stir in him one ounce of pity for her.

  * * *

  “We should be getting back.” Avis rubbed her cheek against Hadrian’s arm, reveling in the warmth and utter relaxation she’d found in his embrace.

  “You’re awake then.”

  “You were the one who dropped off, Mr. Bothwell. Exhausted from your labors.”

  From his passion, which had been beautiful, peculiar, intimate and precious. Avis took risks with Hadrian, not risks to her reputation, but risks to her heart. If at any point she faltered or failed in these intimate endeavors, she had twelve years of self-doubt waiting to collapse on her like a muddy hillside.

  And only Hadrian’s regard to shelter her from harm. That troubled her, for if she became engaged to him, any ill will directed at her could spread to him, and in twelve years, she’d endured ill will aplenty.

  “Making hay is hard work.” Hadrian kissed her ear, and she heard the
smile in his voice, the smile she’d put there. His hand slid down her spine to knead her backside. Thank heaven he couldn’t see the idiot grin his caresses provoked.

  “The stars are coming out. Somebody will miss me.” Somebody named Lily, who would be rousing a searching party and rehearsing a grand scold.

  “Fen knows where we are,” Hadrian murmured against her nape. “Stop looking for excuses to abandon me.”

  “Are you too weak to give chase?”

  “And cease gloating.” Hadrian bit her earlobe, and Avis knew she would indeed gloat, wallow, and glory in her ability to give him pleasure.

  “You’ve created a monster,” she assured him, pressing her lips to the muscular forearm he’d laced over her collarbone.

  “We need to talk before you drag me down the mountain by my hair, my love.”

  “It’s only a hill, and your hair isn’t quite as long as I’d like it.”

  “I’ve received another letter from Harold, Avie.”

  “He’s well?”

  “He’s disgustingly well, but his factors have been watching Collins, and the baron has taken ship for Portsmouth.”

  “In the south?”

  Hadrian’s body remained relaxed and warm behind her, but Avie felt as if she’d spotted the tail of a serpent slithering into the undergrowth of the first paradise she’d known in years.

  Hadrian gathered her closer. “Collins will land as far south from here as an English port can be, but he may be in England even as we speak, or finding a packet to get him to Liverpool from London.”

  Hadrian could think, while Avis could only dread—and regret. “What could he be about?”

  “If he’s intent on money, then he’ll have to meet with his solicitors, and they’re in London.” Hadrian traced a pattern on her back now—the Tree of Life?—so he had to feel the tension his words caused her.

  “If he’s intent on something else?”

  “You’re safe, Avie. You’d be safer married to me and ensconced as my lady at Landover.”

  Hadrian was sweet, dear and wonderful—also ruthless and not in command of as many facts as he believed himself to be. “Then you would not be safe.”

  “From Collins?”

  “From him too,” Avis said, “but from the gossip mostly.” Surely a former vicar had a proper respect for the damage gossip could do?

  “I care naught for gossip, particularly when compared with your safety.”

  His response was gratifyingly swift, also unacceptable.

  “You say that now. When nobody meets your eye at church, when nobody stands up with you at the assemblies, when nobody comes to call even at the holidays, then you’ll begin to understand. I gave my promise to wed to an eligible young man, then refused him the intimacies that usually follow such an agreement. I’m a jilt and a tease, and Collins doubtless made sure I was called every vile name attendant there to.”

  Hadrian didn’t argue, for which Avis was grateful. She’d been so pleased with herself, pleased to bring him pleasure, pleased that not every intimate form of sharing had been taken from her twelve years ago.

  This discussion reminded her that such pleasure was stolen, illicit, and only fleetingly hers.

  “I got a letter too,” she ventured, hoping to turn the subject.

  “From?”

  “Alex. She’s traveling to some earl’s seat in Kent. She describes it as a revolving house party. The earl and his new countess entertain incessantly, but then she’s off to seek another post.”

  “She’ll stay in the south?”

  “To be near Benjamin, yes.”

  “And away from you?”

  Avis felt the blessed protectiveness of Hadrian’s embrace, and even that didn’t obliterate the ache that missing her sister had become.

  “We are sad reminders to each other of unhappy times, Hadrian. So yes, away from me.”

  Hadrian withdrew his arm and shifted her, so he was still on his side, but Avis faced him, her leg hiked across his hips, her cheek pillowed against his shoulder.

  “From a different perspective,”—Hadrian spoke with his lips against her temple—“you and Alexandra are reminders to each other of not only your assault, but also of how you’ve both put your lives back together thereafter, and made something meaningful of yourselves.”

  “She has meaning of a sort. Raising other people’s children. I know she loves both little Priscilla and the girl’s mother.”

  “Running Blessings isn’t meaningful?”

  Something about nudity must engender honesty, for Avis could offer Hadrian only the truth.

  “Fen runs Blessings. Fen and Vim and, from his post in the south, Benjamin. I am merely ornamental, a poor relation.”

  “You’re the lady of the manor. The place would have no heart but for you.”

  “Heart is not accounted very useful, compared to wool, crops, livestock and coin.”

  “None of that other means anything without heart. I have wool, crops, livestock and coin at Landover, but I’d gladly go back to driving a sway-backed gelding in the wilds of Yorkshire if you’d go with me.”

  What was he going on about?

  “As inappropriate as I’d be as mistress of Landover, I’d be an outright scandal as a clergyman’s wife.”

  He kissed her forehead. “You most assuredly would not, though I’m no longer fit for the church myself. Are you getting cold?”

  “No.” Cuddled up with him, naked under the blanket, watching the stars come out, was the closest she’d known to utter contentment.

  “You fit perfectly in my arms, Avie love.” He fell silent, and she was grateful he wasn’t haranguing her. Not haranguing her to marry him, or to allow him carnal liberties, or to move her exhausted limbs.

  Tomorrow evening would be the midsummer celebration, the most difficult milestone of Avis’s year. The village maidens would disappear with their lads, the maids with the footmen and grooms, the wives with their husbands. A child conceived at midsummer arrived in spring, and by May many little babies would be brought to services in their baskets as reminders of last year’s celebration.

  She could not bring herself to reject Hadrian’s proposal of marriage outright. For his sake, she should, but—

  A shaft of insight penetrated her honorable fit of moroseness: She’d be condemned for marrying Hadrian, for tainting a good man with her scandalous past.

  She would also be condemned for turning him away, if anybody got wind he’d offered.

  “You shivered, my love. Much as I wish it weren’t so, we must return from the land of Nod, lest you catch your death.”

  “I’m not cold, but if we stay up here much longer, you’ll be compromised, and then we’ll be dragooned into parson’s mousetrap.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Don’t sound so hopeful.” She rolled from his embrace, and he let her go—which was for the best. “Your shirt is here somewhere.”

  “Shall I rebraid your hair?”

  “I can do it when I find my bed. My heavens, you’re—”

  “Aroused.” He lay on his back, a pagan happy to bathe in moonlight. “Again. I like holding you, Avie, and I love cuddling with you.”

  “You’re in want of something more than cuddling.” Avis wanted more too, but how could she possibly turn her back on his proposal if they shared marital intimacies?

  “Fret not.” He thumbed his erection down and watched it bob back up. “This will subside somewhat as we dress and turn our thoughts to mundane matters. You’ll go to the gathering tomorrow?”

  She gathered her clothes, though the way he handled himself was— “I’d rather not attend, though it’s less formal than an assembly. I make preside every year.”

  He passed her a half-boot. “To prove what?”

  “That the old biddies and small-minded menfolk in this shire haven’t made me a complete prisoner in a tower.” She wadded up his shirt and tossed it over to him, then his boots.

  He didn’t seem in any hurr
y to dress, but indulged in a leisurely sip of the peach brandy. Avis paused with half the bows on her chemise still undone, while Hadrian sat two feet away, a god of the deepening night.

  “I enjoyed this, Hadrian.” More than enjoyed it, for Hadrian’s intimate company put something right for her.

  “You like conquering me.” He offered her the bottle, but she could not risk the maids sniffing spirits on her breath.

  “No, thank you. You didn’t put up a great fuss about being conquered.”

  “You’ll never know what a fuss I put up.” He corked the bottle, a little smile teasing the corners of his sinful mouth.

  “Will you put it up again for me sometime?”

  Chapter Ten

  “I do believe,”—Hadrian got his arms into his shirt-sleeves—“you made a naughty play on words. I am proud of you.”

  “You’re trying to corrupt me.” Avis went back to her bows when she wanted to see to Hadrian’s buttons, mostly as an excuse to touch him. “That has already been seen to. This is yours.” She tossed his cravat at him, considerably wrinkled. He folded it up and stuffed it in a jacket pocket.

  “You are not corrupted,” Hadrian admonished her as he rooted around on hands and knees for his breeches. “But to answer your question, yes, you may conquer me as often as it takes for me to win your hand.”

  She sat back, her dress frothing loosely around her. “I should not marry you, Hadrian Bothwell. I like you too much for that.”

  “You care for me,” he reminded her. “You don’t simply like me. Like is such an insipid word. Have you seen my stockings?”

  “Inside your boots.”

  “So they are.” He crawled over to kneel behind her. “I’ll get your hooks.” His fingers were deft, and she was soon done up, though her hair was a fright, and exhaustion was reminding her of the week she’d put in. Hadrian’s arms came around her shoulders, and she leaned back into him, closing her eyes.