Rolling his leg over hers, he parted her thighs with his knee. He slid his torso across her, wanting her to feel all of him and he all of her as he nestled between her legs. He slipped a hand between them. When his fingers caressed the wet curls of her mound, it was the final enticement he needed. Harold positioned himself, rubbed against the sweet nectar for but a moment, then entered her with a steady albeit lustful thrust.
His moan of pleasure as groin met groin was answered with a startled cry. Mrs. Hobbs went rigid, her body tightening around him, her fingers grasping his upper arms, nails digging into skin.
He went still.
They remained locked in an embrace of confusion and shock. Harold tried to think, tried to rationalize her response, but his body’s needs overpowered his mind’s ability to form coherent thought. All he could concentrate on was the titillating sensation of being buried in the heaven that was Hazel Hobbs and the sudden pulse of awareness that he was her first and only.
His eyes met hers, but he could not read anything beyond the shadow of his own form blocking the firelight from her features. Holding himself still, he waited for a sign. Withdrawal? Continue?
She relaxed beneath him. The next thrust was slow, tender, tentative. Her moan was soft but permissive, encouraging him to continue.
If he could have started the night over, he would have. If he could have lasted all night, he would have. Alas. She intoxicated his senses. The velvet of her skin, the sound of wet suckling, the scent of musk and roses—it was his undoing. His thrusts quickened until the wonder of release surged through him, blinding and paralyzing.
Hazel stared at the underside of the bed’s canopy. At least an hour had passed since Mr. Hobbs returned to his room. So shocked was she when he asked if he could remain the night that she had shaken her head an emphatic no. Had she hurt his feelings? She hoped not. No one had mentioned that two people could share a bed the entirety of an evening. The thought excited her as well as flustered her. Would he have taken her again had he stayed? Would they have conversed? Would they have held hands again?
It was too late now to ask those questions.
The canopy was coffered. Or maybe that was considered paneled. Sixteen squares. Rectangles? No, they were squares. Each with a centered, carved diamond, or perhaps that should be with an angled square. Yes, if she tilted her head just so, it was another square. Thirty-two squares if she counted the smaller ones. Oak? Mahogany? Cherry?
At the end of the room, a log shifted in the hearth with a crackle, the fire nothing more than glowing embers.
Her nightdress stayed bunched around her hips. She could not bring herself to lower it as though the evening had not happened. Not that her body would let her forget. Between her legs throbbed and ached in pleasant memory. Was it pleasant? Yes, she believed it was. A pleasant intimacy. And yet…
Was that all there was to it?
Earlier that evening, she had waited for so long that she had lost track of time, worried he would not come to her. The worry stemmed from fear he was displeased with the forced marriage, distress he would not want what he believed to be used goods, concern that he would wait to ensure she was not with child. Bottom line: had he not come to her, she would have known he believed her a whore.
But he came.
From the moment he stepped into the room, her heart knew hope.
Although she had no experience on which to base her assumption, she believed he enjoyed the encounter. She was not disappointed herself, not really. It had not been enjoyable, but neither had it been unpleasant. The trouble was, she knew there was more. Was there not? Outside of this evening, she had no knowledge of what occurred between a husband and wife, for her married friends never divulged details, but they had shared enough that Hazel was positive there was more to this intimacy.
Passion. Would she not know if it had been passionate?
Silly thoughts for a wedding night. What she should be feeling was contentment. If this was all there ever was, it was enough. The family had come to her rescue. He had come to her rescue. Even knowing she had been involved in a scandal with another gentleman, he had been gentle—of that much she was certain.
Was he thinking the same as she, that had it not been for their parents pressing the match since childhood, had it not been for the circumstances of the scandal, they might have courted of their own volition? She would never know if they would have, but she thought they might. Those brown eyes she had spied on the wilderness walk had promised passion, even love, those irresistible eyes of Mr. Hobbs.
She wished she had not told him to douse the candle.
Chapter 11
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Harold tucked the handkerchief in his waistcoat pocket before stripping off the garment and rolling his shirtsleeves above his elbows. Abhijeet would curse him out of the dressing room, he mused.
With a grunt, he hoisted the sledgehammer, arced it overhead, and drove the fence post into the ground.
A short distance away, Patrick and Mr. Jones, one of the tenant farmers, worked together to fit a rail into the corresponding mortise. It was not every day the heir of a barony and a viscount mended fences, but on this day, that was precisely what they found themselves doing. When Mrs. Jones directed them to the paddock, she had failed to mention Mr. Jones was tackling a fallen fence. They could not very well tip their hat to the man and canter back to Trelowen without offering assistance. At least the morning air was chilly. Not that it prevented the evidence of hard work: perspiration.
His post set, he lent a hand with the next rail.
Mr. Jones wasted no time in asking, “When do we have the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Hobbs? My Effie is champing at the bit to see who’s stolen the heart of our own Mr. Hobbs.”
Harold chuckled while lifting the next rail in place for Patrick to secure. “Give her time. The wedding is only three days past.”
“With a new bride, you’ll be staying on home soil, I expect.”
Mr. Jones hedged at the very question Harold had been asked by three different families that morning: would he be returning to India? While he could be mistaken, and he did not believe he was, there was a restlessness among the tenants, each witness to, recipient of, or rumored about the recent decisions of Lord Collingwood and his financial straits. When staff were dismissed, lands left barren, and repairs ignored, tenants noticed. Their own livelihoods depended on the estate as much as the estate depended on them.
“You have my word,” Harold said, turning to Mr. Jones. “I won’t be returning to India or leaving England anytime soon.”
It would not be long before his father sent him to London to sort the investment, but London was a far cry from Calcutta. He had no intentions of leaving England, not now that he had a wife to care for and an estate to rebuild, even if he had to do the latter with his bare hands and no money.
Half an hour later, they steered their horses towards Trelowen. Patrick would part ways for his own home, not but ten miles away, once they reached the lake.
“Well?” Patrick prodded.
“Well, what?”
“You know perfectly well what I’m welling about.”
Harold considered his reply. As much as he wanted to share the finer details of his marriage with his friend, if for no other reason than to help him work through his own thoughts of the situation, such topics were best not aired outside of the bedchamber. He wondered at how much to say and how to phrase his words.
“I’m resolved to help her feel comfortable here,” he finally said. “While I can’t control her sentiments on the marriage and can’t turn this into a love match, not if her heart belongs to another, I can and will do my part to see to her comfort.”
“I see.” Patrick was silent for a stretch, as though considering his own words. “She’s given you reason, then, to believe her heart remains with Driffield?”
“No, actually.�
�� He cast a sidelong glance at his friend. “To be honest, she’s more akin to a scared rabbit than a lovesick mourner.”
“She came for a party only to end up trapped. Dreams dashed with a flash of a scandal.”
Forcing his company on her seemed a disservice, so he had, admittedly, been avoiding her outside of the obligatory meals, not that she had made herself available outside of those meals. Even the evenings were quiet. He vowed not to return to her bed until they knew each other better and until she invited him. Granted, it was only the third day. Three days, however, felt like a lifetime. Harold’s struggle was how to help her accept Trelowen as her home.
Patrick snapped his fingers. “Better said than thought. You’re wasting a good ride by brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“Yes, you are. Best say it before I launch an interrogation.”
Harold tossed a smirk at Patrick. “Right. You brought this on yourself.” He took a deep breath then said, “I need to know how to turn a stranger into a lover. The trouble is that each time I attempt conversation, she becomes more of a stranger. There’s a chasm between us I don’t know how to bridge.”
“I see,” Patrick said again. “Let us revisit the lovesick mourner. If there’s no indication she’s longing for lost love, that should give you hope, yes? No secret letters? No murmuring of the wrong name in, ahem, intimate moments? No wistful stares out rainy windows?”
“Take this information with you to the grave, for if you don’t, I’ll put you there myself. Understood?” He narrowed his eyes until Patrick nodded. “She and Driffield were not intimate. At least not intimate enough to beget a child.”
“Oh. Oh, that is interesting.” One hand guiding the reins, Patrick rubbed his chin. “What do you suppose that means? If anything. While you’ve been away too long to know Driffield’s character, allow me to educate you. He is not known for affairs of the heart. A first-rate rogue. Think it was her first meeting with him rather than a lovers’ tryst?”
The memory of catching her in the wilderness walk haunted him—Driffield waiting for her in the underbrush, stripped of his coat.
Unwilling to part with the memory, Harold said, “Perhaps he had not yet had the opportunity to inflict more damage.”
“Perhaps.”
“Be honest. Do you think there’s a chance there was a misunderstanding? He targeted her, but she had not yet fallen in love?”
“It’s possible.” Patrick slowed his horse as they approached the lake. “I say that for your sake because I want you to have hope you can win her. You will win her. My sage advice? Stop worrying about the rogue. Focus instead on winning your wife.”
Idle was not a word in Hazel’s vocabulary.
So busy had she been that she had not seen Mr. Hobbs except at mealtimes, an unintentional avoidance that nevertheless guilted her conscience. The first day after her wedding was filled with letter writing. The guests had departed that morning, and although she had only wished farewell hours before to her family, Agnes, and Melissa, she set out to write each a letter to thank them for their love and encourage them to visit again soon. Only for the eyes of her two friends, she added a brief mention of what a kind and gentle soul was Mr. Hobbs—not that she knew this for certain, but she wished to reassure them this would all work out for the best.
The second day after her wedding, she had toured the house in its entirety, met the staff, and spent a great deal of time with her new mother-in-law Lady Collingwood. Bless, the baroness was the height of fashionable prettiness but had not a thought in her head outside of being decorative. If Hazel’s new husband wanted a wife such as that and expected Hazel to be decorative, he had quite the surprise in store.
Mr. Hobbs remained a mystery to her, but she had gleaned information from her lady’s maid who subtly plied answers from downstairs. According to her lady’s maid, his days had been equally as busy, all estate business, paying calls to tenants, taking tea with his grandmother, and any number of other tasks. Industrious fellow, to be sure. His busyness helped ease her guilt.
On this sun-shiny day, Hazel decided to call on the Dowager Lady Collingwood, affectionately referred to as Nana by all in the household. Not since the wedding breakfast had Hazel seen Nana, the same woman she recalled bursting into the drawing room in her nightdress the first evening of the hunting party, and the same woman who insisted Hazel was Helena. From Hazel’s estimation, the woman needed a friend, possibly more than Hazel herself did.
A friend would be lovely. Better than lovely. Keeping busy was in Hazel’s nature, but it also held the shock at bay, the shock that she would never return home. This was her home now. She had come for a party but would never leave. With both her father and brother she had a strong bond, but rather than leave with them to Cornwall, home to Teghyiy Hall—no, no longer home—it was Agnes who traveled in the family carriage. Hazel had with her the belongings she brought for the week’s party, nothing more. Her things would be sent by her papa to arrive within a week or two. Fretting over her circumstances did no one any good. She owed it to this family to be the best Hazel she could be, to prove they made the right decision in saving her and her family.
With a smile on her lips and a tune hummed under her breath, she stepped out of the house and across the lawn for the wilderness walk. The dower house, the butler had directed her, was on the left path.
Hazel made it all the way to the split in the path before stopping in her tracks.
Walking straight for her from the lake path was Mr. Hobbs.
A feeling she had never before experienced swept through her. Raw desire. The fluttering in her stomach, the throb at her apex, and the warm, desperate need gave it away in an instant. Desire.
He halted as abruptly when he saw her. They stared at each other. With a sweep of hungry eyes, she took in his dishabille. His shirt, with open vee, clung to his torso, soaked through. His coat and waistcoat were slung over his forearm. His breeches were dusty and splotched with damp. His boots were caked in dirt. When he took the first steps forward, she inhaled a whiff of his cologne—sweat and lake water.
However disgusted she ought to be with a man who had heretofore been the poshest toff she had ever laid eyes on, she instead was struck by another rush of desire.
“Good afternoon,” he said with a bow. “Pardon my state. I must look a fright. My only excuse is I hadn’t expected to see anyone.” He ran a hand through his hair, the curls tangled, unbound, and clumped with wet but determined powder. “I mended a fence at the Jones’ farm, then after seeing my horse to the stable thought I would visit the lake before being reprimanded by my valet. You don’t want to know any of this, do you?”
Swallowing, she nodded. “On the contrary.”
Keeping her eyes from roaming was becoming a challenge. She pressed the palms of her cold hands to her cheeks to hide the blush.
Mr. Hobbs gave a curious half-smile, his brows puckering as though he were sorting out a puzzle. “Are you available?”
Her mind flashed to their wedding night. Could he mean… “Now?”
He swept a hand over his wet attire and chuckled. “I need to change. But I thought you might walk with me to the dower house. In an hour?”
“Oh.” How silly that she thought he meant—well, never mind. “I was on my way there now. I can wait.”
“Meet me in the entrance hall?”
Only after he proceeded to the house did she realize she had never removed her palms from her cheeks.
Hazel’s heart skipped a beat when Mr. Hobbs made his way down the stairs. The posh toff had replaced the irresistible rogue by the lake. Starched linen, crisp and well-tailored satin, hair combed and bagged, eau de rose, and a serious expression. All that was missing was the hair powder, but given he had only taken an hour, there would not have been time for his hair to dry. The russet color offered a glimpse of sensual rusticism. Her lips cu
rved up at the corners.
He stopped at the bottom step, his hand on the newel post. “You’re exquisite, Mrs. Hobbs.”
His words stole her breath. His first compliment to her. And as unexpected as if he had announced they would be riding an elephant to the dower house.
Exquisite.
No one had ever called her exquisite. Never pretty. Never beautiful. Never anything save slightly plump and petite.
Exquisite.
“As are you,” her lips formed in reply.
His expression was as startled as she imagined hers must look. With a curious frown, he approached the silently waiting Mr. Quainoo, accepted the coat and gloves, then offered Hazel his arm. She slipped a hand in the crook of his elbow.
The day had warmed since that morning, so much so that one would never guess it was September. Earlier in the morning, a cold, grey haze had shrouded the lawn surrounding the house, the fog so dense Hazel had not been able to see past the garden. Each hour brought a brighter, hotter sun. So warm it had become, Hazel wished she had not worn her pet-en-l’air. The additional layer was overwarm. Or maybe it was the company.
They made it all the way to the tree line without speaking. Every passing minute after the auspicious start chipped away her hope that they would say more.
Her disappointment was short-lived.
Once under the cover of naked tree branches, he slowed their pace. “How are you settling into your new home?” he asked.
“Far better than I expected if I’m honest. Your mother has been welcoming, as have the staff.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” He turned to her with a shy smile. “And duly chastised. I’ve neglected you.”
“Oh, but you’ve been busy! Calling on tenants, mending fences—” She clamped her mouth shut before he realized she had been gathering information on his whereabouts. At least he had admitted as much when they met earlier.
“Trifle excuses. We’re newlyweds, and I should be lavishing you with attention. Even my failure to bring you to call on neighbors has been remarked on. Much to my chagrin, Patrick heard every word of my dereliction of duties.”
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