“You are not painting me.”
He undid the bow holding her nightgown gathered at her décolletage. “And you are not the blushing maid of the shires, if you ever were.”
She studied him for a long moment, seeing in his eyes both desire and a challenge. “I am not the blushing maid of the shires, and I am not a coward either.” She drew the nightgown over her head, threw it at him, and stood before him, allowing him to inspect her more closely than she’d ever inspected herself.
Oak’s body knew exactly what the next steps should be.
He should toss Vera onto the bed—gently, of course—then fall upon her in a mad passion and thrust his way to glory. Recent self-indulgence meant he probably had enough restraint to ensure Vera traveled with him on that lovely road.
Probably wasn’t good enough. Not for the goddess standing before him, as naked as she’d arrived into the world. As the past week had rolled along, Oak had gradually come to appreciate what taking a lover would mean to Vera, how it would mark a turning point in the progression from wife, to widow, to an independence few women ever negotiated.
She was, in essence, leaving home, as Oak had left home. When she’d tossed her nightgown at him, she’d tossed him a challenge: Be worthy of my courage, for you’ll not have an opportunity like this again.
“Never,” he said, “has the need to sketch so thoroughly challenged the desire to copulate.” Vera was sturdy, as countrywomen were sturdy, with defined musculature on her legs and arms. But ye gods, she was also curved. Her hips flared generously from her waist, and her belly wasn’t quite flat, but rather echoed the contours of Renaissance nudes. Her breasts were full and pale, and indeed, rose alabaster would have done them justice.
The whole of her was lovely, and Oak had the ungallant thought that if Dirk Channing hadn’t painted his wife nude, Channing had been an idiot.
“What?” she said, chin coming up.
Oak draped her nightgown across the foot of the bed. “You kept your nightgown on when you slept with your husband?”
“I did, and he blew out the candles.”
Oak took a step closer. “You asked him for those sops to modesty?”
“No. If he’d expected differently of me, I would have accommodated him. He was my husband.”
“He was a fool,” Oak said, sending up a prayer that Channing was at least resting in peace. “My guess is, he was self-conscious about his own less than youthful appearance by the time you came along. He pretended to defer to your nonexistent maidenly vapors rather than risk coming up short before his lovely wife.”
“He was proud. Most men are.”
Oak was ready to have done with any mention of the late, great, vain Dirk Channing. “You loved him. You did not care if he was a picture of manly vigor. You wanted only to please him and build a life with him. He could have held you through the night, skin to skin, but instead—nightgowns and nightshirts. He was a brilliant artist, and he was an idiot.”
For an older husband to yield to the limitations of vanity was understandable. Male sexual prowess did not fare well in close proximity to self-consciousness. For an artist to deny himself the sheer beauty of Vera unclad, though, was harder to understand.
Oak didn’t bother trying. Not now. He turned Vera by the arm so the firelight illuminated the long lines of her legs, the exquisite geometry of her back, the delectable swell of her derriere.
“She maketh me to rejoice in my soul,” Oak murmured, misquoting some old line of poetry. He could gawk at her until the sun rose and sketch her naked form until the shire was blanketed in snow. But he could make love with her for the rest of his life. “Shall we to bed, Verity Channing?”
“I liked sleeping with you,” she said, climbing the step beside the bed. “I look forward to sleeping with you again. Should we have warmed the covers?”
“We’ll warm them well enough.” Oak banked the fire, extracted a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and blew out all the candles save one that he left burning on the bedside table. The moment to join Vera under the covers had arrived, and yet, Oak hesitated.
“Why me, Vera? I assume various friends of Dirk’s have called upon you. The neighborhood probably has its share of merry widowers. Why me?”
She held up the blankets, and Oak took the place beside her. His arm went around her shoulders, she tucked up against his side, and the fit was so sweet and right, they might as well have been a married couple years past their vows.
“Because you are who you are.”
What did that mean? Vera’s hand drifted across his belly, and Oak lost track of the question. “Touch me, please. However you like, wherever you like.”
She wrapped her fingers around his shaft. “Here?”
“A fine place to start.” And—if he didn’t get himself under control—also a place to finish.
The demented woman made a study of him, mapping his every male attribute with hands and fingers, and a few locations with her lips too. She was relentless in her curiosity, and as Oak battled to keep his desire in check, he realized yet again that he was becoming the lover of a woman of considerable courage.
Dirk Channing had put his pretty young wife on a domestic pedestal and promptly forgotten not that she was a woman—they’d had a child, after all—but that she was a person. A person with needs, with a vigorous intellect and a vivid imagination. A person full of curiosity and passion, full of dreams and hopes, and exceptionally bold caresses, given half an opportunity to indulge them.
And heavens above, her tongue. “Vera, if you keep that up, I will not be able to answer for the consequences, because I’ll be a panting heap of mortified, wilting male.”
“You’ll spend?” She eased away from her mischief and lay back down beside him.
“I will spend.”
She cuddled up, her fingers trailing idly across his nipples. “Am I too bold?”
He hated the uncertainty behind the question and loved the trust it embodied. “No, love. I am too frail. Kiss me so I can kiss you back.” He wrestled her over him, ready to seek happy revenge for her earlier explorations.
Vera looked about, as if surprised to find herself atop a naked male, then she pulled the covers up and folded down over him. The kissing progressed from sweet, to playful, to passionate, and all the while, Oak let his hands wander over feminine perfection.
Without Oak planning the moment, Vera slipped her body over his cock and went still.
“I didn’t—” She mashed her nose against his shoulder. “I wasn’t, that is, I hadn’t intended… I want you so.”
“Hush.” He stroked her hair. “You should have what you desire. I want only to please you.”
That simple truth seemed to be what she needed to hear. The mood shifted from the slightly awkward erotic teasing of new lovers to a profound, unlooked-for intimacy. Vera moved slowly, and Oak let her set the pace.
When she raised up on her arms, he kept his eyes closed rather than allow himself the visual provocation of her breasts. She sped up, and he vowed to expire of unsatisfied passion before he took control of the timing from her.
Eternities passed during the next few seconds, while Oak grasped the spindles of the headboard in a desperate grip, and the bed ropes creaked in a soft rhythm.
He had formed the thought, She needs me to make this happen… When Vera abruptly came at him like a female tempest battering herself against the Channel cliffs. She bucked, she rocked, she flailed, and quite thoroughly pounded him, until Oak was blasted free of his self-restraint and cast loose upon the gale.
The result was the most disorientingly thorough pleasure he’d ever known. He clung to Vera and she to him, fused by passion and wonder, then fused by the sheer inability to move.
And why would he want to move, when bliss itself defined him? Vera’s heart thumped against his as she sprawled on his chest. Her braid was an itchy rope against his neck, and his balls were humming, a peculiar novelty.
Vera moved enough to extricate
her braid from between them. “I have no words.”
That was all right, then, if she had no words too. “Rest,” Oak said. “We’ve earned it.”
“Handkerchief,” she muttered, reaching to the nightstand.
Oak gave the nipple hovering above his mouth a friendly nip. “I did not do justice to your breasts. Remiss of me. I promise to remedy the oversight.”
He sounded and felt drunk. All out to sea on long overdue satisfaction and something else, something dangerously tender and unique to Vera.
She lifted her hips, and he slid free of her body, even that small, sweet friction causing a surfeit of sensation. She tucked his handkerchief between her legs—lucky handkerchief—then flopped to the mattress beside him.
“Come here, you.” He got an arm under her neck and drew her against his side.
Vera was soon breathing in a soft, relaxed rhythm, while Oak lay awake, the fog of pleasure gradually lifting to reveal a landscape as beautiful as it was unfamiliar. Tenderness toward Vera bathed him in light, while the mocking voice of common sense painted jagged peaks on the near horizon.
What fool had spoken to Vera of an intimate friendship? What fool had thought he could romp with this woman and go whistling off to London with his heart whole?
Oak drifted off to sleep, wrapped around his lover, not an answer in sight.
“Catherine is quite taken with Mr. Dorning,” Miss Diggory said. “That distraction aside, she continues to make progress with all of her subjects. She is particularly adept at mathematics and might benefit from time spent with Mr. Forester.”
Vera met with Miss Diggory once a week to discuss Catherine’s studies, though the reports had taken on a sameness.
“If Catherine is excelling so consistently, might she be in need of a more challenging curriculum?” Vera asked.
Miss Diggory poured herself another cup of tea, which was a bit presuming, though only a bit. “She’s at a difficult age, Mrs. Channing. The purpose of her studies now is to keep her from boredom, for a bored young lady finds trouble. She can read, write, and sketch. She has parlor French and some basic geography and natural science. Even those subjects aren’t the usual for a girl in her position, but she does well in them, so I continue to provide her material beyond what she needs.”
Who was Tamsin Diggory to say what a young woman in Catherine’s position needed? Richard Longacre had recommended Tamsin personally, and she was an agreeable addition to the household. That did not mean her judgment was flawless.
“I am contemplating sending Catherine off to school,” Vera said. “She has sufficient intellect to fare well academically in such a setting, and she’s—”
Miss Diggory was shaking her head. “I went off to school, Mrs. Channing, while—if I may be blunt—you apparently did not. That is the last experience you want to inflict on your step-daughter.”
“You are confident in this opinion. Why?”
“Because young girls left to their own devices are a petty, nasty lot. Catherine’s lack of breeding would be thrown in her face at every turn. Even the instructors would make passing references to it, and her life would be a misery. I saw this with my own eyes, time and time again. She belongs here, with you, with the neighbors who’ve known her since birth. Trust me on this.”
A month ago, Vera would have been glad to have such firm guidance. She’d had the benefit of Oak Dorning’s companionship, though, and last night she and he had become lovers. The person she’d always known herself to be would not have taken a lover, and yet, she had, and she was glad of it.
She’d risen from her bed and donned familiar half-mourning, but in her heart little of mourning remained.
Not today, anyway. “Catherine will face censure her entire life because her parents weren’t married,” Vera said. “I cannot protect her from such mean-spiritedness much longer, and you are right: If she grows bored here, she’ll get up to mischief. Tom-Treeble-mischief, possibly.”
Miss Diggory wrapped a pair of tea cakes in a table napkin and slipped them into her pocket. “Perhaps Tom Treeble—in a few years—will be more of a solution than a problem. Find her a lad with some acres, and she’ll be happy enough.”
“Miss Diggory, I hope you aren’t pilfering tea cakes when Catherine is on hand.”
Tamsin looked up, her expression not that of a governess found in a slight misstep, but of a naughty schoolgirl who’d broken a rule and resented being caught. The mulishness was fleeting and out of character, but Vera trusted the evidence of her eyes.
Now—after waking up in Oak Dorning’s arms, after hearing him describe her hair as a blend of mahogany, garnet, ironwood, night, and gold—she could not discount what she’d seen. Oak claimed to sketch what he saw. Vera lacked that skill, but she could do a better job of seeing what was before her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Diggory replied. “I thought Catherine might appreciate a treat. She and Mr. Dorning ramble all over the property looking for subjects, though if you ask me, he ought to be sitting her down before a proper easel and helping her refine her skill with watercolors.”
Catherine’s first set of watercolor brushes had been put in her chubby little hands at the age of three, according to Dirk. Oak claimed she was ready for oils.
“Because Mr. Dorning’s skill as an artist eclipses that of the rest of the household put together, I will trust his judgment regarding Catherine’s instruction with paints. Please don’t mention a finishing school to Catherine. It’s not a plan I’d act on anytime soon, but it’s one I’d like you to keep in mind.”
Miss Diggory took another tea cake onto her saucer. “If you think she needs a challenge, perhaps Mr. Forester could supervise her education in mathematics. It’s not as if instructing one six-year-old boy fills his day, and Catherine has a natural aptitude for the subject matter.”
“You don’t enjoy maths?”
She shuddered. “A lot of squiggling and scribbling, numbers everywhere. If a girl has enough math to not be cheated in the shops, she has enough math.”
You sound like my step-mother. That insight popped into Vera’s head, the solution to a riddle. Tamsin Diggory was pleasant, soft-spoken, good-humored, and she came well-recommended. Catherine got on well enough with her.
Vera had been slow to warm to Miss Diggory, attributing that reticence to the fact that the household hadn’t had a proper governess before. Old Mrs. Tansbury had been a glorified nursery maid who’d loved books and children. The truth was, Tamsin and Jeremy shared a faint streak of insolence, and that was not a quality Vera wanted her children emulating.
“I’ll have the kitchen send a tray up for Catherine when she returns from her art lesson,” Vera said. “And as always, I thank you for your efforts to educate her. I do believe she’ll need a professional drawing master, though.”
“And is the handsome Mr. Dorning applying for that post? He’s pleasant company at the card table, and I think Mr. Forester enjoys having another fellow at supper.”
“Mr. Dorning will soon be leaving for London. His assessment of Catherine’s abilities is both informed and disinterested.” Not quite true. Oak clearly liked Catherine and enjoyed teaching her. He was equally well disposed toward Alexander, which did not seem to characterize Jeremy’s attitude toward his sole charge.
“Will you be sorry to see Mr. Dorning go?” Miss Diggory watched Vera over the rim of her tea cup as she posed the question.
Vera’s first reaction to that query was horror, for Miss Diggory’s tone implied that she knew exactly who had been in Vera’s bed for most of the night. Except nobody knew. Oak had been discreet, as he would always be when a woman’s reputation was at stake. He’d not come to Vera until the footmen were all abed, and he’d left for his own quarters before the maids had stirred.
So Tamsin Diggory was speculating, or insinuating, or trying to start mischief. The conclusion was disappointing, suggesting that one of the mean girls at Tamsin’s finishing school had been Tamsin herself.
And this was the person with whom Catherine spent most of her waking hours? Perhaps Richard Longacre wasn’t as good a judge of people as Vera had hoped.
“I will miss Mr. Dorning when he leaves,” Vera said, “as we all will. You are correct that he’s good company. He’s also a perfect gentleman toward Catherine, a good influence on both Mr. Forester and Alexander, and he makes you smile over a hand of piquet. I’m very much indebted to your uncle for recommending him.”
“Uncle Richard recommended him? I suppose that makes sense.” Miss Diggory rose without being excused. “I’ll return to the schoolroom and look for some French poetry Catherine might enjoy. If you’re giving Mr. Forester charge of her mathematics lessons, please let him know. I would rather be spared his grumbling when he’s asked to take on that responsibility.”
Vera hadn’t made that decision, nor would she be manipulated into it. Bad enough if Catherine was developing a girlish tendresse for Oak, worse yet if she turned her nascent wiles on Jeremy.
“Miss Diggory?”
She paused by the door. “Ma’am?”
“Your grumbling is no more attractive than Jeremy’s. You are paid a generous wage to look after one reasonably pleasant young woman who deserves every advantage in life I can give her. I will instruct Mr. Forester to take on Catherine’s math curriculum, but I expect you to help her with it.”
Miss Diggory’s expression became a blank mask. “Yes, ma’am. Of course, ma’am.” She curtseyed and lifted the door latch. “Oh, I did have one question, if I might ask it?”
“Of course.”
“I went searching for a penknife the other day and thought I might find one in Mr. Dorning’s studio. Did you know he keeps those chambers locked unless he’s working there?”
“Of course he does. Some of the pigments needed to render a subject in oils are dangerously toxic. Mr. Channing was adamant that any room used as a painter’s studio, whether his own or a guest’s, be kept locked when not in use. Mr. Dorning is exercising the basic prudence I expect of any household member.”
A Lady's Dream Come True Page 18
