Another silence; quieter this time, infinitely more intimate. Richard understood what was being offered; she was giving him a chance, a gift, something utterly beyond price… any gambler would play without a second thought. He, six months ago, wouldn’t have hesitated.
But this was Henrietta. No prize, no reward—just the woman he loved, and would love, until his last day on earth. There was no thrill in risking that. No thrill at all.
‘... Please.’ Henrietta’s whisper tugged at his heart, thrilling through him. ‘Please… change my mind.’
Richard gently traced the outline of her lips. He could withstand Henrietta’s anger, or coldness, or teasing… but begging?
No. He could never refuse her, if it came to that. Even if it meant risking everything.
With a hoarse, broken cry that contained as much pain as it did happiness, he brought his mouth to hers. The kiss was raw, uncompromising; there were tears there, hers and perhaps his, along with hands that clutched desperately at any clothing that hadn’t been removed. Anger was there, anger and hurt and need, need stronger than any Richard had ever known—need that took them both, half-dressed and panting, to the four-poster bed that stood in the centre of the room.
How could Richard ever ask her for forgiveness? He could never find the words, but the acts seemed to come naturally. He could ask for forgiveness with his hands, stroking every inch of her bared flesh with infinite tenderness, unbuttoning her gown until she was revealed to him. He could ask for forgiveness with his mouth, lovingly kissing the parts of her he had marked with his lips and tongue the previous night. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me; he said it with every kiss, every touch, as many times as he could, until he saw a hint of the spark in Henrietta’s eyes that he so cherished.
‘Come here.’ Henrietta clumsily helped him disrobe; Richard gasped as her hand closed over his cock, stiff and ready. ‘You will not leave me again. You will not.’
‘I will not.’ Richard ached to say never; he moved closer, his cock nestled between her thighs. ‘But this will hurt, and I cannot stop it.’
‘It will not hurt as much as you leaving me did.’ Henrietta brought Richard’s cock to her entrance; Richard gasped at the hot, tight feel of it. ‘Believe me.’
What could Richard say? Only the truth.
‘I love you.’ He whispered it, heart overflowing, as he slowly slid inside her. So tight, so perfect—Henrietta gasped, tensing instinctively, and Richard kissed her temple as he moved deeper. ‘I love you.’
He lay for a long time entwined with her, deep in her, allowing her to get used to the feeling. Stars could have fallen, seas could have risen; it mattered not. He lay there, whispering his love, his constancy, until Henrietta began to move beneath him; her hips rolling, encouraging a slow, deep rhythm. Until she began to sigh, the sound more contented than pained.
Now came the same sweet, sinful journey as the previous night; Richard would bring her to her peak, his thrusts deep but minute, if it were the last thing he did. Lovingly, letting time slip through his fingers, he delighted her with kisses and strokes and sighs; his hips moved slowly, gathering speed as the minutes passed. As Henrietta began to sigh with him, her body starting to tremble as her climax approached, Richard felt a rush of love so strong it was almost blinding.
‘I love you.’ He gripped her tightly, merciless as she cried out in helpless, overwhelmed pleasure. He would give her no quarter; she would take all the bliss he would give her, every ounce of it, even if the urge to finish inside her was all-consuming. ‘I love you, Henrietta. I love you, and you will hear it.’
He held her, kissing her with unchecked passion as she tightened and pulsed around him, his shaft so deep he could barely tell where she ended and he began. His pleasure was hers, her pleasure was his; Richard felt it whenever another wave engulfed her, bringing another cry of satisfaction to her lips. He had been correct, last night at Rowhaven; he would never get used to Henrietta like this, naked, panting, his. This, if it ever happened again, would remain the greatest surprise of his life…
… But it had to happen again. He would die if it didn’t. Richard held her tighter still, an unexpected tear in his eye, murmuring sweet nothings as another shiver of pleasure ran through Henrietta. This would be every night of his life, every single night, from dusk to dawn—and if it wasn’t, God help him.
Only when he was sure that the last after-trails of sensation were fading did he begin to move again. Henrietta’s gasp spurred him onward; there was no pain in it, only a fierce, animal delight. Richard began moving faster, his gentleness tinged with urgency; there was a wave building inside him, large enough to devastate everything in its path. The primal urge to mate, breed, claim her as his own; Henrietta, inscrutable Henrietta, his for evermore.
‘Yes.’ Henrietta’s whisper in his ear was all he needed; Richard thrusted deeper, harder, sparks bursting behind his closed eyes. ‘Like this, yes—I love you. I love you.’
They lay together, sweat cooling on their bodies as the fire crackled. Richard couldn’t stop looking at Henrietta’s face; her half-closed eyes, the slight curve to her lip. Every so often she would sigh, or curl a little closer, and Richard would kiss her with a feverish, ardent passion quite disproportionate to the size of her movement.
He knew that trapping her with kisses and embraces was unfair. The decision now lay with Henrietta; she had asked him to change her mind, and he had done his best… why, in the heat of the moment, she had even told him that she loved him.
No man could ever trust anything a woman said in the throes of ecstasy. But then, the same was said for men—and Richard knew that he had meant what he said when he was deep inside her. The act of love had only solidified what he had already known; saying it had felt as natural as breathing.
‘... Well.’ Henrietta placed one hand under her chin, staring at him with her usual cool, penetrating expression.
‘Yes?’ God alone knew how he was expected to reply; all Richard wanted to do was lay his head against her breasts and have her stroke his hair. ‘Is there anything you require?’
‘I believe so.’ Henrietta’s voice was grave. ‘But you must promise to do what I say.’
‘Anything.’ Richard’s heart sank; she was going to ask him to leave her, to never see her again. He knew it.
‘Do you promise me?’
‘Yes.’ The word tasted like ashes in Richard’s mouth. ‘I promise.’
‘Good.’ Henrietta rested her head back against the pillow, flinging a sleepy arm over Richard’s chest. ‘Because it is very important. On no account—on absolutely no account—can you tell anyone, even in jest, that seducing me was enough to change my mind.’
Richard stared at her, a disbelieving smile spreading across his face. ‘Does that mean—’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Henrietta tutted, as if astonished at his ignorance. ‘But no-one will ever know why. Or I shall have to punish you most severely.’
‘I see.’ Richard ran a slow, exploratory finger along the curve of her waist, his heart full of a gratitude so strong he feared it would shatter him. ‘I was never going to give that as the motive, my little tigress.’
‘Really?’ Henrietta raised an eyebrow. ‘That sounds a little too gentlemanly for you.’
‘Oh, no. Not at all.’ Richard gently kissed Henrietta’s raised eyebrow, until it settled back into place. ‘I would insist on telling everyone the exact, unvarnished truth—that I won your heart with a display of bravery, wit, and potent personal charm.’
‘Oh, Lord.’ Henrietta laughed quietly, her eyes full of quiet happiness. ‘This is to be my life, as soon as the banns are read.’
‘You trapped a tiger, Miss Hereford.’ Richard’s answering laughter became a soft growl as he kissed lower and lower, his lips soft on her neck. ‘And you haven’t tamed him yet.’
THE END
The Peony Prince
It had all begun with a peony. A white peony; one that had nestled in Agnes’ Hereford’
s hand as snugly as a jewel, or a sleeping animal. That, although she hadn’t know it then, would be the beginning of everything.
‘Are you coming, Agnes?’ Susan Colborne beckoned her impatiently as she stood on the edge of the rose-garden, her arms folded. Agnes had to smile; Susan was a somewhat formidable creature at the best of times, but particularly terrifying in the Longwater gardens. It was if she were queen of the lawns and beds, every inch of them—and woe betide any commoner who moved more slowly than she did. ‘I must have a helper before the storms arrive, and your sisters insist on getting married before I’ve had any decent work out of them.’
Agnes nodded, trying not to giggle. It was true that her sisters kept marrying; she was the only Hereford left single, and Susan maintained the unusual belief that only unattached females had enough good sense for gardening. ‘I will attempt to do good work.’
‘Good would be the minimum.’ Susan huffed frostily. ‘I expect the best.’
‘Of course.’ The ever-present question hung on Agnes’ lips; the question she had tried to avoid asking. ‘And if there is a job that is beyond our capabilities…?’
‘One of the gardeners will attend to it later.’ Susan tossed her head, speaking absent-mindedly. ‘Or Isaac will help, of course.’
Isaac.
Isaac Anderson; Head Gardener. Isaac; the reason why Agnes had spent so much time in the Longwater Gardens, with Susan, alone… waiting.
She thought of her green folio hidden upstairs; the one filled with the flowers he had left for her. Flowers picked from the length and breadth of Longwater, all of them with meanings that she had gasped to read in her well-thumbed copy of Hattonby’s Language of Flowers.
Sweetness Without Parallel. Unmatched Beauty.
Faith Everlasting.
They had never spoken a single word to one another. Agnes knew that others would find that odd. She also knew, with a conviction so strong it sustained her, that she and Isaac knew the secrets of one another’s hearts without the need for conversation.
Unfortunately, other knowledge marred the purity of she and Isaac’s understanding. There were so many difficult, uncomfortable things to remember; she was part of the aristocracy now, thanks to her sister Anne’s marriage, and Isaac was a servant. They would never be allowed to converse freely, dance together, court one another openly; they would certainly never be married. Not if Agnes did all of the things that she was supposed to do—attend balls, dance with gentlemen, and marry one of them.
Agnes hated balls, blushed at the thought of dancing, and couldn’t bear the idea of marrying anyone but the gruff, dark-complexioned Isaac Anderson. She was also becoming bored—dreadfully bored—with doing only what she was supposed to do.
Deep in her skirts, hidden in her reticule, her letter burned. Agnes, remembering what was written there, tried to restrain a blush as she walked onward.
‘The hunting party has left horrible footprints at the entrance of the wood. Quite why they ride their horses so harshly, I cannot fathom.’ Susan’s voice dripped scorn on the nameless members of the hunting party; Agnes tried to look similarly disdainful. ‘At this rate, the land will be a poppy-meadow by autumn. You will have to criticise them most severely at the ball, Agnes.’
‘Of course.’ Agnes didn’t even know who was in the hunting-party; she had paid barely any attention to Longwater visitors ever since the flower exchange had begun. Isaac Anderson was now the sole occupant of her mind—and much to her wistful frustration, it seemed her mind was as close as he would ever get to her.
She had even taken to waiting for him, out in the gardens; inventing a landscape to sketch, or a particular bird’s egg to collect, dressed in her very best day-gowns. Sitting, waiting, dreaming of what could be…
But he never came. She knew he watched her, there in the undergrowth. But he never approached.
‘We will need to cut the flowers for the ball today, if the almanac’s prediction of the coming storm is anything to go by. We will keep them in the ice house, and arrange them in their vases—that way, even if the rain destroys any chance of outdoor games the night of the ball, we will have perfect decorations.’ Susan looked at the rows of blooms, a contented if serious look on her face. ‘Are you ready to work, Agnes?’
‘Yes, Susan.’ Of course she was ready to work; she was ready to dig ditches, muck out stables, swim to the bottom of the river. Any of it, all of it, if it meant seeing Isaac Anderson.
He would have to come to her in the end, wouldn’t he? Even if he was a servant, even if he was older, even if he was as shy as she was, he would have to approach her in the end. And she, with an excess of bravery that she could hardly imagine in daylight, would give him the letter that she had been carrying around for weeks; the one written and rewritten at great pains, expressing things she blushed violently to even think about.
No more silence. I love you; I have loved you for as long as I have known you, brief as that time has been, and wish for nothing other than your constant presence, your most passionate—
‘Agnes, is the wind becoming stronger?’ Susan looked at Agnes, frowning. ‘You are growing rather red in the face.’
‘Perhaps, Susan.’ Agnes bit her lip, trying to keep her stubborn blush under control as the two of them walked onward.
After a half-hour of walking, pruning, planning and trimming of flowery profusions with the neat pair of scissors in Susan’s basket, they drew close to the banks of the river. Agnes’ heart began to beat faster as she saw the cherry-tree; the locus-point of her heart every Wednesday. Every morning, sure as the tide, there would be a bloom waiting for her… a flower placed on the one day that Susan didn’t walk through the gardens in the morning. Placed, with perfect timing, for her to find.
‘The cherry has a most pleasing colour this year.’ Even when Susan said something complimentary, the pleasure in her words never quite reached her eyes. Agnes wondered why the woman always seemed so serious. ‘We will cut some thin branches to display in the tallest vases.’
‘Oh.’ Agnes felt an instinctive horror at cutting something which had become such a symbol of hope. ‘Will we?’
‘You will.’ Susan handed her the scissors. ‘And you will be quick about it.’
Swallowing, gripping the scissors, Agnes made her way to the cherry tree. Her eyes darted from hedge to border, looking for Isaac. The man would be nearby; he always was, toiling at some nameless task. He would be clearing brush, or mending roof-tiles, or—or doing anything, anything at all, other than what Agnes wished desperately that he would do… namely taking her in his arms, holding her to him, and telling her that all of her imaginings were about to come true.
She pushed her way through the flowering branches of the cherry tree—and stopped.
Oh.
Oh, goodness.
Isaac was bathing in the river. He stood shirtless in the rushing water, his breeches slick and tight against his thighs as he poured a stream of water over his head with cupped hands. Agnes’ knees were suddenly weak; she gripped the trunk of the cherry tree, unable to look away.
How was the man so bronzed? He resembled the statues Agnes had seen at exhibitions of classical Greek relics; all height and muscle and strength, strength that would seem brutal if she had never seen him holding a fledgling bird, or coaxing a vine along a trellis. Water gleamed on his sun-worn skin, making every muscle stand out in taut, sharp relief. His face was so concentrated, his dark eyes so ferociously focused on the sparkling water in his hands, that Agnes was reminded of a bird of prey—a hawk, flying high above the world… or one of the jungle cats that Lydia had seen in the Neerhoven Isles, all instinct and swiftness and sudden, overwhelming force.
Isaac turned. His stare seemed to burn through the branches, the very air itself, finding Agnes with the swift sureness of an arrow in flight.
Oh, heaven save me.
His look told Agnes, in no uncertain terms, everything that she so desperately longed to know. Long, wordless, burning in its in
tensity; it was as if Isaac had taken her by the shoulders and whispered in her ear.
I feel what you feel. I want what you want. More specifically, Agnes Hereford, I want to strip you free of every garment you are wearing… and then do things to you that cannot be expressed in flowers.
Agnes swallowed. Every part of her body was alive and singing; her heart beating wildly beneath her clothes, her skin uncomfortably hot as Isaac stared. Her garments had never felt so heavy, so useless; why, her skin should be as bare as his, free to touch… free to feel his breath, his heartbeat, as close to her as her own.
She took a clumsy step forward. She didn’t even know why she had done it; it was hardly as if she could wade through the river to him, as much as she wanted to. Isaac, noticing her small, graceless movement, mirrored it with a step of his own.
Were they to meet at the river’s edge? Were they to stand together under the dappled light of the trees, finally close enough to speak, and look, and caress? Would she finally be able to clearly see the glints of gold in Isaac’s eyes—the way his chest and arms seemed sculpted for her thirsty gaze, her wild imagination, inevitably leading to the slanted lines that sat between his stomach and hips…
Agnes’ eyes widened as she realised what she was looking at. If she wasn’t mistaken—and it was entirely possible that she was mistaken, despite the clear and embarrassingly frank descriptions from Anne, Lydia and Henrietta when the subject of marriage preparation was raised—she was looking, staring, at clear evidence of Isaac’s desire for her. As clear as it could be in wet breeches, at any rate.
Agnes already knew that the blush rising to her cheeks was going to be the most powerful of her life. What she didn’t know, as her hand trembled against the tree trunk, was why she didn’t look away.
Isaac looked down, clearly confused as to the particular focus of Agnes’ gaze had taken. When he realised how evident his desire for her had become, his eyes widened; Agnes expected him to turn away, or at least cover himself. What she didn’t expect was the way he slowly straightened his back, brazen, apparently unashamed.
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