Theresa Romain

by It Takes Two to Tangle

  He was as deep within her as the ocean, and they moved like the tide, back and forth in waves, lapping, pounding. They were one vessel, one craft, borne ever higher on the surge. Together they crested, breaking and exploding like water dashed against rocks, and he cried out as if he was drowning—or maybe being saved.

  She clung to him afterward, shivering as if she was chilled through, and he shuddered with the slow ebb of a wave going back to sea.

  She had taken him, all of him. She had let him empty himself into her.

  For the first time since Quatre Bras, the hollow inside him began to fill.

  Eighteen

  The sun was far too bright.

  Frances pressed her hands to her eyes as she lay in bed the following morning. The thin fabric of her chemise grazed her nipples, still sensitive from unaccustomed play. Henry had devoured her body as if he had hungered for her, just as she had for him.

  She sat up and wrapped her arms around her chest, willing the flare of remembered lust to vanish. She had no patience for it right now.

  Nighttime breezes had left her room chilly, but before long, the summer heat would force its way into the house and turn her bedchamber into a wood-floored oven. It would be best to get dressed now, to act as if this were a normal day, with nothing to do but help Caroline divide and conquer the men of the ton. The day before already seemed a vivid dream, and it might be better if it had been. Real-life passion had never ended well for Frances.

  She hadn’t expected to tumble into Henry’s arms after his confession. She hadn’t known whether she was reassuring him or distracting herself. So much truth, he gave her. All she had given him in return was her body.

  She had tricked him with the letters, confused him and caught him under false pretenses. She had done so to Charles too, and in the end he had slipped away from her. What, then, could she expect from Henry?

  She rose from her bed and tied a dressing gown tightly around herself with impatient gestures. She had already won more from Henry than she had expected: his professed devotion, his trust. He’d stripped himself bare for her, in more than one way. She hoped he would not notice that she did not give him so much in return. One day, when it was too late for him to pull away from her, she would trust him with the full truth.

  Or maybe she would not. Charles had proved this much to her: it was never too late for a man to pull away.

  ***

  Henry’s newfound buoyancy lasted all night and through the endless early day, until the reluctant clocks in Tallant House struck through the morning hours and told him he could call on Frances again.

  Not that he needed to stand on ceremony. But he wanted to do everything right. He would court her honorably.

  Such was the power of happiness, to make the commonplace seem delightful. No wonder Jem had fallen for Emily and her sense of joy. Henry felt a positive slave to Frances, who had heard him, accepted him, taken him in.

  Just as he was.

  This time, when he knocked at the door of the Albemarle Street house, the flowers he fumbled with were for Frances. He had chosen damask roses, taking his time to find blossoms the same lush pink as her nipples. Pink for perfect happiness. With a flourish, he would hand them to her. Maybe drop to one knee to make her laugh. He loved her throaty laugh. Or he would whisper in her ear the significance of the color and watch her blush. He loved her blush too.

  As soon as the butler admitted him, he saw Frances lurking at the top of the stairs from the ground floor. She paced back and forth before the drawing room door, which was flanked by life-sized statues of Mars and Venus.

  The troubled lovers. How apt, considering how much of love and how much of war took place in Caro’s drawing room. For Henry’s part, he was done with the latter and ready for the former. So, so ready.

  Frances’s warm eyes widened at the sight of him; her lips parted. Her hair was not confined primly, but had been allowed to spring into curls the color of coffee. Altogether, she looked as though she had been kissed thoroughly and wanted to be kissed again.

  In that, he could oblige her. “These are for you,” he said as he bounded up the stairs and thrust the bouquet toward Frances, utterly failing to make a grand gesture or even say something romantic. He wanted the flowers out of his hand, out of his way. They were petals and sticks, nothing compared to the feel of a human body in his grasp.

  She scooted back out of his reach. Her soft slippers shushed on the polished marble floor.

  “You shouldn’t have,” she said quietly. She smiled, but her eyes darted to the drawing room door, which was resting slightly ajar. She looked… well, a little guilty, if he was reading her expression correctly.

  “I should have, indeed. I don’t even mind that you don’t have any flowers for me,” he teased. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “Shall I tell you why I chose the color? It reminded me of the shade of your—”

  “Thank you, I think I can guess.” Her cheeks grew as bright as those of a girl meeting her lover behind a stable for a grope. She shuffled her feet and looked toward the drawing room door again, as though she didn’t know what to do next. The blooms lay awkwardly in her arms.

  “Why are you standing out here? Is something happening?”

  “I was waiting for you,” she said, and he felt light again, flying foolishly high. Surely he had the right to be a little foolish today.

  How love makes young men thrall and old men dote;

  How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty…

  Something like that. Shakespeare. Henry had not read literature for years, but he knew England’s greatest poets and scholars had long ago agreed that foolishness and love were irrevocably and inevitably intertwined. This was a good time to be a fool, to tell Frances of his wish to court her honorably, while he was in her thrall and the memory of their folly was sweet on his skin.

  “There’s something I must tell you,” he said. His voice sounded raspy, abraded.

  She laid her roses at the feet of Mars and took Henry’s hand. “Then come upstairs with me,” she said, looking relieved, “for there’s something I must tell you too.”

  ***

  The last time she’d said such a thing to Henry, Frances had pulled him to the Blue Room, pinned under an eagle’s stare. She’d been unsure of what to say; she only knew that she needed to give him comfort and comfort herself.

  She was slightly better off this time. She knew what she needed to say. It was just so damnably difficult.

  It should be easy. Quick. Henry, I wrote the letters. But she did not want to say the words. She couldn’t take the risk.

  So she brought him to her bedchamber instead.

  “It’s private here,” she excused herself. “I thought we would be able to say whatever we needed to one another without being disturbed.”

  Henry booted the door shut behind him with his heel. His mouth was grave, but his eyes were wicked and merry. “Very private, indeed. I shall do my best not to disturb you if that is what you wish.”

  Frances watched his lips move, but she barely heard his words. She could think only of how they had pressed at her mouth, her neck, her breasts.

  Henry suddenly seemed very tall and the room very small. There was nowhere to sit where she would not be close to him, nowhere to stand where she would not be within his reach. Nowhere in the world she could go and not remember his body within hers, filling her, joining with her, making her realize how alone she had become.

  “It does not matter what I wish,” she said faintly, pressing her knees together. “Would you care for a chair?”

  “I’ll sit on the bed,” he said cheerfully, and sank onto the coverlet, his long legs stretched out before him. “Would you care to join me?”

  “I would,” Frances said, enjoying the way his eyebrows shot up. “But I think it best we say what we need to first.” How admirable. How wholly against her inclination.

  “Fine. I’ll speak, then.” Henry cleared his throat. “Ah—I wanted to tell you that
I’d like to court you.”

  Oh.

  It was everything she had longed for. Yet rather than glee, the statement evoked a sick feeling of guilt. “You… want to court me.”

  “Yes.” He hitched one foot across the other thigh, and Frances drank in the long lines of his body. “Maybe it seems a little anticlimactic after we—well.”

  “‘After we—well?’” Frances teased, stalling. “I think that was quite climactic. Twice climactic, wasn’t it?”

  He grinned. “You’re trying to terrify me again.”

  “I never have managed to terrify you yet.” She gave in and sat next to him on the bed. “So, you want to court me.”

  “Yes, and not just because of the sex.” His voice fell on the last word, and his high cheekbones flushed darker.

  “You are completely darling.” Frances ran a finger down his profile, letting him nip at her fingertip playfully. God, she wanted this man. Already, desire was wide-awake and thrumming hotly through her blood, despite the nagging awareness of secrets untold.

  “Darling?” Henry sounded incredulous. “What a dishwater endearment. I’m going to assume that’s the current London cant for virile and masculine and overpoweringly passionate.”

  “Of course. That’s exactly what I meant. It’s all those things.”

  He shot her a sideways look. “I’m glad you agree. So, will you allow me to court you?”

  A blush of shame heated her, and she looked at her lap as she replied, “I’ll allow anything from you, Henry. Anything at all.”

  He choked. “That’s a statement full of intriguing possibility if I ever heard one.”

  She could feel him relax, the mattress shifting as he leaned back on one elbow, started to swing his booted feet up onto the bed before thinking better of it. Up his legs swung, then down, and he was left at an odd angle with his torso twisted to one side behind her, supported on his left arm. His right arm subsided onto the bed, out of the way.

  “Does this mean you agree to my suit?” he pressed.

  “So it’s become a suit already, rather than a courtship. Much more formal, isn’t that?” Frances curled her toes in her slippers. The big toe on her left foot snagged on a hole in her stocking. If this were a dream, surely her stockings would be perfectly darned.

  And surely he would allow her to stall, to find a way to draw out their pleasure again, instead of watching her with those bright blue eyes and waiting for her to reply.

  “All right, yes. I agree to your suit.” She felt somehow dimmed as she replied, her words casting a shadow over the room that only she could see. “I’m honored, Henry. I care for you greatly.”

  This was the truth cut down to its very heart, though she was beginning to think she felt far more than she dared admit. This man who judged his own courage so harshly, yet interpreted her every kindness so generously.

  She could become very, very foolish about him, indeed.

  Instead of saying more, she busied her hands. With no quills to trim, nothing to sew, she twined her fingers in Henry’s hair, rubbed his scalp, tugged at the roots. His short-cropped hair was a metalworker’s ecstasy of bronze and gold and copper, but fine and smooth as embroidery floss. She liked the look and feel of it.

  He leaned his head into her hand and closed his eyes. “I am very glad you said that. You’ve no idea how uncertain I was.”

  “About asking to court me?”

  He opened his clear eyes. “No. About what you would say in return.”

  Frances stilled her hand on his head. Silly of her. It was not as if he could read her thoughts through her fingertips. “You must have known how I felt about you.”

  “I hoped. But I wasn’t certain.”

  “You weren’t certain.” She could almost laugh. “Well, it seems I am good at keeping secrets.” How close she skated to the edge of disaster. He had no idea.

  In one fluid movement, he sat upright. The ropes under the mattress creaked a faint protest. “You are, Frances. I’ve known that about you ever since we met. You kept a smile on your face though your toes hurt; you handed over your fan to Caro; you let a complete stranger bother you with impertinent requests.”

  “Oh. Well. That was—”

  “That was Applewood House, the day we met. You show a pleasant face to the world because you feel that’s your duty.”

  Frances shoved herself against the headboard and wrapped her arms around her folded knees. “I’ve never been pleasant to you out of a feeling of duty.” She frowned. “Actually, I haven’t even always been pleasant to you. I was quite horrible about that fireplace screen you painted.”

  “No more horrible than the screen itself.” He shrugged, his expression rueful. “But never mind that. I love your teasing, your wicked humor. That’s how you show me who you really are.”

  “Of course,” she said faintly, wishing she could wad herself up more tightly. Love, he’d said. Not I love you, but I love something about you. It was close—dangerously close. And farther than he knew, for how could he love anything about her when she hadn’t told him everything?

  He looked at her with eyes of trust, and his words stacked upon her like stones.

  She could not take that trust from him. She could not take away his hope, and hers, for the slightest possibility that he would change his mind. She wanted him too badly to betray his trust by letting him know it had already been betrayed.

  And surely it was a very small matter to have sent a few letters under someone else’s name. Or to have lived a different life once, which had by now been left quite behind.

  Surely that was so.

  “What did you want to tell me when we came in here?” Henry’s voice was gentle. His fingers roamed the curves of her face, exploring her contours with an artist’s worshipful attention. Each faint touch plucked a cord of wistful desire, resonating through her whole body.

  She ran a thumb over his mouth, silencing him. He caught it between his lips and grazed it with his teeth. The pull of his mouth on the sensitive pad of her finger squeezed her insides, sent a bolt of heat to her center.

  The war had walled him off, divided him, more than he even knew. The past had divided Frances as well, from many people.

  But she need not let it divide her from Henry. Even the walls of Jericho had fallen, given enough faith and the work of a fine soldier. Had not she and Henry agreed to be soldiers together?

  Besides, she never had cared about walls between her and her desire. She rushed headlong, willing to be crushed. She grazed his earlobe with her teeth and murmured, “Let’s do it again.”

  His whole body jolted, galvanized, and his face turned wondering and wicked at once.

  It was easier to tumble into his physical thrall and ensnare him the same way.

  So she’d thought. But as she held his face in her hands, kissed his mouth, murmured she knew not what into his ears, she could have cried with loneliness even as she turned for him to slip her dress from her body.

  Nineteen

  A finger traced the line of Henry’s cheekbone, then drew along his jaw. His skin prickled and woke at the touch.

  He was not asleep, but drifting as he lay. His body was full and satisfied. His thoughts sank under a glossy foam of sensation.

  He would never get tired of the way Frances touched him. Her fingers, slim and strong, skated over his skin with gentle certainty. It felt as if she knew what she wanted, and the knowledge was precious to her. He was.

  Thank God.

  He’d had much to be thankful for in recent weeks. More than he had expected, certainly, when he’d taken on a rash quest for a noble wife who would serve as a prize of war, proving that he was still whole and unchanged.

  He wasn’t, though. He’d been broken apart in a storm, but the pieces of him that survived were the strongest.

  And now he had everything he wanted, did he not? It was difficult to credit. Yet he lay in Frances’s bed; she was curled against his side, and her fingers mapped the contours of his b
ody, tracing his boundaries, seeking another adventure.

  He turned his head away. “I owe you everything,” he murmured into the soft press of her down pillow, letting the feathers smother his words. He wasn’t sure he wanted her to hear him. His debt was shamefully great.

  The questing finger traced down his neck; then the whole hand splayed over his chest, and Frances pulled herself more closely to him. “What was that?”

  Um. “I said, ‘I’ll go this evening.’” How was he to think properly with her touching him?

  She stroked his chest, nails raking lightly through the dusting of hair. “And what does that mean? You’ll stay in my bed all day?”

  “That plan suits me if it does you.”

  “Certainly.” Her hand slid down his chest and stomach, found his already-waking shaft. His hips jerked at the touch. “Before you go this evening, would you like to come this afternoon?”

  Henry groaned. “Brilliant and witty. There is no matching you.”

  “I think we match rather well.” Her mouth began to wander downward, curious and hot, and his toes clenched.

  “I will agree with anything you say when you—oh, God. Yes. God. I do believe I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  She lifted her head and gave her kiss-swollen lips a lick. Henry shivered. “You seem so perfectly correct all the time, Frances. No one knows what wicked depths you have, do they?”

  Her smile tipped sideways. “No. No one knows.” She slid up the bed and nestled behind him again, her body a comma against his. Her voice was muffled against the damp skin of his back. “I was still correct, though, wasn’t I?”

  “You have no idea how much. But it’s my turn to correct you now, I think.” It was difficult to turn on the narrow confines of the bed without pinning his nerveless arm at an awkward angle. He could hardly tell when it was trapped beneath him.

  But all things seemed possible now. He pushed himself upright and looked at his lady, tangled in the sheets.

  There were deep shadows under her eyes, fragile and ashy as ground peach-black. He had not noticed this earlier. Obviously his vision had been too fogged by lust.