He kissed the top of her head. “What do you think?”
The unfinished sketch was of her. Surprised, she sat up, her shoulder leaning against his. In the sketch, she lounged on the chaise in the sitting room, her arm folded beneath her head.
“From this evening?” she asked.
“I had wanted to capture it then, but I didn’t dare disturb the moment, not when I was so enjoying your tale of Miss Plumb’s first visit to the ocean.”
“Liar. You were bored silly.” Hazel pulled her knees to her chest.
Harold chuckled, then began shading her hair in the sketch, the strands unbound and spilling over the arm of the chaise.
It did not take long for Hazel to realize he had slipped back into focus. An idle bit of shading, and soon he was lost in his craft. Did he relive the scene as he drew, focus on the single moment, or recreate a new scene to enliven the memory? She watched him work until he finished the shading. When he began adding background, she decided to be daring. For several evenings, she had wanted to say something but never knew the best moment or the right words. This was not something a lady should think about much less say. After the intimacy they had shared, he could not possibly judge her ill. Surely.
Breaking his concentration with a kiss to his shoulder, she adjusted the blanket. Harold’s hand stilled again, and he watched her out of the corner of his eyes. Hazel slipped the bedcover over her bare shoulder, exposing not just her upper arm but a glimpse of a single breast’s curvature. She rested her chin on the same shoulder and fluttered her eyelashes.
She challenged, “Sketch me like this?”
In a measured tilt, Harold angled his head to face her fully. He caressed her with a look.
“Or…like this?” She let the bedcover slip below both breasts.
However calm she appeared on the outside, she was tumultuous inside. Her heart pounded. Her stomach clenched. Her knees knocked. Feeling exposed would be to state the obvious, but it was more than that. So much more than that.
He wet his lips.
“Or…would this be better?” Motion deliberately paced to tease, Hazel coaxed the bedcovers over her knees to pool at her feet.
Without a word, Harold turned over the paper. His hand worked magic, scratching, rubbing, shading, blending. Hazel dared not move. She watched him, fascinated, nervous, relieved, aroused.
After what felt like a lifetime, she was emboldened. Hoping not to disturb his work but curious all the same, she lowered her knees a tad, arched her back away from the headboard, and tousled her hair. She saw, as she did this, his hand stop, his attention fixed on her movements. When she posed, just so, he adjusted the positioning of his paper and began sketching anew.
Three or four more poses later, each time his paper adjusting so he could start a new sketch in an available corner or edge of the sheet, she angled to see his work.
Harold’s throaty laugh interrupted her curiosity. He turned away from her to set his tablet and graphite on the table. She squeaked, thinking he meant to hide it. Instead, he handed it to her, his hands free to flex and pull the bedcovers up to his chest. Hazel grappled the sheet with glee.
One look and her fingers crept to her mouth.
In the short span, he had covered the page with half a dozen different sketches, each unfinished but each dynamic and emotional. Although she stared at herself holding a pose, she hardly knew herself. Staring back with sultry intensity was a bold and confident woman, a woman with charm and beauty, nothing like the woman she saw every day in the mirror. The woman in the mirror always looked back with courageous resignation. She was what she was, and she accepted that. The reflection knew what she wanted in life but doubted she could achieve it, not a plump country bumpkin. But this woman, the woman in the myriad sketches, oh, she wanted to be this woman yet could not readily admit that she already was, at least from Harold’s perspective.
So enamored was she, she forgot to be embarrassed by her nudity immortalized.
A tickle at her knee distracted her. When she swatted at the sensation, the back of her hand clipped Harold’s fingers.
She had not noticed him move. He sat facing her, propped on one hand, the other hand tracing her kneecap with a solitary fingertip. The bedcovers had been tossed aside. Her eyes widened to see him boldly sprawled, as aroused as she. Absently, she pushed the art aside and trailed a hand up and down his thigh.
Though he sucked in a breath, he made no notice of her attentions, instead continuing his exploration of her knee. For all her curves, she had bony knees. There was nothing remotely sexy about her knees. Yet that same fingertip circled with the barest contact, a tickle, a tease, a flicker to skin. The fingertip turned to four as they drummed light as a feather down and up her shin, then back to circling the knee. Then down the back of her calves and up again to the knee. Fingernails grazed the inside of her thigh, then back to her knee. Her skin became so sensitive that a single circle about that bony kneecap had her clenching and tensing.
Harold leaned his chest against her shin, his chest hair intensifying the sensations. When he pressed his lips to her knee, she thought she might die. Her body throbbed with need. Her apex pulsed with a fiery heat. He was in no hurry, the devilish man.
He pressed another kiss to her knee, just on the outside, then one on the inside, parting her legs as he did so. With a look of malevolence in those dark eyes, he traced the same circle around the knee’s peak with his tongue. She moaned and tried to straighten her leg away from him. How could one knee be so endlessly sensual? He held fast to her ankle, pressing his lips to the inside of her thigh, his fingertips circling where his tongue had just been.
Then spreading her legs wide, he crawled between them, but rather than entering her, as she expected, as she desperately wanted, he leaned over her and kissed her abdomen.
His lips touching her skin, his voice a murmured tickle, he asked, “You remember the brush strokes I used?”
Oh, she remembered. She moaned an affirmative.
“I’ll use the same techniques tonight, but with a different brush.”
She looked down at him, confused. In a long sweep, he licked her from hip to navel. Hazel’s gasp turned into a cry as she braced against the bedsheets.
True to his word, he painted her torso with a mouth made of fire, passion, and sin. She wriggled; she panted; she moaned; she begged for mercy. He captured her skin between his lips, swirling and suckling, covering every inch of her torso. When he slipped lower, she was sure she would go mad.
He palmed her mound, parted her lower lips, and circled her bud with the tip of his tongue before enveloping her in the moist heat of his mouth. With a jerk of her body, she climaxed into a burst of shades and blends, feeling every inch the confident and sexual woman in the drawings. He joined her, skin to skin, and came into her. She drew in his length, tightening around his girth. Looking up to him as he found his pleasure and brought her more, she palmed his cheek. Harold’s eyelids fluttered open. Gazing down at her, he turned his head to kiss the inside of her wrist.
Was it too soon to fall in love with her husband?
Eugene Hobbs, Baron Collingwood, clinked cutlery against his wine glass to capture everyone’s attention at supper the next evening. “I’ve arranged a supper party for the end of the week. Special guests have been invited. Partners of mine. As it is only supper, not all my partners will attend. A select few. My point is, I want to make a memorable impression. The best attire. The best food. The best entertainment.” He stared at Miss Plumb. “Do you play? Sing? Something of value?”
She glanced at Hazel before replying, “I’m tolerably good with music, my lord.”
Hazel’s laugh tinkled with merriment. “She’s modest. You’ll not find a better pianoforte player in the West Country.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “I’ve been told I can carry a tune—should the best pianoforte player in the
West Country care to accompany.”
Harold leaned back in his chair, surprised by Patrick’s admission and willingness to be center stage for Father’s guests. Admirable offer, though. Now, Miss Plumb would not be volunteered to entertain guests alone.
“Good,” said Eugene before turning his attention to his wife. “Perfection in arrangements, nothing less.” Without letting her respond, he cut to Nana. “And you will busy yourself upstairs. This is an important supper.”
When Harold saw Hazel about to protest, he shook his head. His father would not take kindly to dissention.
Nana harrumphed but nodded. “I wouldn’t have attended if you invited me. I don’t like your partners. Greedy gamblers, the lot of them.”
Harold’s mother began to scold, but Eugene held up a staying hand. “Now, if the ladies would care to retire, I’m ready for my port. Lord Kissinger, how is the earl? I had hoped he would join us this evening.”
At the dismissal, the ladies made for the drawing room, leaving Harold behind with his father and Patrick, the latter having been expressly invited by Eugene in hopes of luring the earl, a wealthy man Eugene had yet to snare in one of his schemes despite years of trying. The conversation over port and cigars centered around the Earl of Winthorp. Harold lost interest quickly. Knowing Patrick could hold his own, he stayed only as long as was polite, then bowed out to join the ladies in the drawing room.
Although he did not slip in unseen as he had hoped, the ladies were too deep in a giggled discussion of the supper party to pay him any mind. He took a seat far enough to observe without interrupting.
Observe was a misrepresentation. Stare. Ogle. Drool. Those would be more apt. He watched Hazel exclusively. Her animation. Her smile. Her laugh. Earlier that morning, he had taken her with him to call on tenants, especially Mr. and Mrs. Jones. The experience had been enlightening. Simultaneously, she was friendly, chatting unreservedly with the couple as though they had been neighbors for years, while also emulating the poise and respectability of an aristocrat.
Her behavior with the tenants should not have surprised him. She was, after all, a gentleman’s daughter. He suspected, however, his grandmother had influenced this elegance and maturity, for he did not recall this side of Hazel at the hunting party. She had been friendly, yes, but more youthful than poised. His grandmother had to be the influencer. The Dowager Baroness Collingwood, despite age and infirmity, defined poise and respectability, an earl’s daughter who had been groomed from childhood. How remarkable that Hazel took on these traits with ease, combining them with her natural amiability.
His admiration of her was not because of her behavior, but seeing her in different situations increased his admiration, nevertheless. She was, to him, already perfection. He could not take his eyes off her. He could not stop thinking about her. He was a man obsessed with his own wife. Even now, the way she held herself, the way the light shimmered off her hair, the way she laughed, everything. Perfection.
“What do you think?” Hazel asked, turning to him.
He sat up. All eyes were on him.
After a moment’s consideration, he said, “Your perspective is best.” He had no idea what they had been talking about, but he hoped that would cover his ignorance.
His mother asked rhetorically, “What is it women want in marriage? To have their opinion valued. Aren’t you the lucky woman!” She patted Hazel’s arm.
Hazel’s expression to him before she returned to the conversation was sly enough to reveal she knew all too well he had not been listening.
The remainder of the evening went by in a blur. Conversation turned to card games, embroidery, and reading after the gentlemen joined the group.
Later that evening, Harold sat in the private sitting room, warmed by the fire, his banyan, and his wool stockings. He waited for Hazel to join him. In hand, he held a brief collection of papers. On and off for the past several days, he had worked on this, hoping to finish his plan before presenting it. She should not be disappointed.
Flipping through the papers, he reread the letters.
When the adjoining door to her bedchamber opened, he grinned. Hazel posed against the doorframe, one arm over her head and one foot raised behind her. As concealing as her night wrap and nightdress was, they hid nothing from his memory and certainly not when she posed so provocatively. He forgot the letters in his hand.
She giggled, pulled the door shut behind her, and sat next to him on the chaise, her foot tucked beneath her. “Are those new sketches, or are you ready with blank pages to fill?”
“Neither.” Laughing at her crestfallen expression, he leaned in to kiss her neck. “I’ve saved those for later.”
The papers passed from his hands to hers. She started to read the first letter, cocking her head to the side.
He draped an arm on the back of the chaise. “They’re character references.”
“I see that.” She eyed him askance then turned back to the letters.
“I can hear your thoughts as though you spoke them aloud, my dear. You want to try matchmaking at the supper party. I’m not opposed. I do, however, want you to consider two complications. For one, my father’s partners are exactly what Nana claimed. Greedy gamblers. I don’t mean to paint my father in a bad light, but, well, you know who they are, for most of them attended the hunting party. They’re people like, and pardon me for mentioning his name, Lord Driffield. They’re not the kind who need to be matched with Miss Plumb.”
Her nod was slow, measured. “And the second?”
“After ten soirees, fifteen supper parties, twenty routs, and however many other events you hope to host or use for matchmaking purposes, there remains a slim chance for a good match. Lest we forget, we’re also on a deadline that doesn’t allow time for ten soirees, fifteen supper parties, or twenty routs since Miss Plumb’s condition will become visible soon, despite how well her lady’s maid hides the evidence.” He waved a hand at the letters, feeling a little smug about his genius. “I promised to help. This is my idea.”
“Character references.” Her tone was more incredulous than pleased.
“It’s the best course of action. I’ve listed the few people I know who would consider, in light of an outstanding character reference, employing a woman with child. The work is nothing menial. If employed, she would have housing and a way to support herself and the child. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the most realistic idea I’ve had. If you’ll read the references, you’ll see I’ve taken a few liberties.”
He watched her read over each one, not that they changed much from one to the next. Her brows puckered. Her lips frowned. This was not the reaction he wanted. His smugness wavered.
Pointing at a line in one of the letters, she read aloud, “Mrs. Plumbtree.”
When she did not say more, he ventured, “A liberty, I know, but I thought presenting her as a widow was best. I couldn’t very well recommend an unmarried woman, nor would I advise her to use her maiden name since that would too easily tie back to her family. A different name? I can rewrite these, of course.”
Dash it all. He could tell she hated his idea. It really was the best he had devised.
Rolling up the references, she asked, “But how would we call on her? A former employer and his wife would not visit a former employee as a friend.”
Harold pinched his chin. He had not thought of that. While he had not exactly lost sleep over plotting alternative solutions for Miss Plumb, he had put a fair bit of planning into this. How had he glossed over something so obvious? Of course, Hazel would want to call on her friend.
“What about this…” He drummed his fingers on his chin. “I’ll write to an old acquaintance of mine. Just the one. Same plan. But I’ll ensure he doesn’t ask questions and understands she’s a friend.”
The crease between her brows deepened. “That makes her sound like your former mistress.”
&n
bsp; He exhaled from his cheeks. “Let me think about the wording. I’ll sort it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know how she’ll take to employment either.”
Without a ready response that would pass for polite, he remained silent. Miss Plumb would be fortunate to find employment. No one aside from the few gentlemen he knew personally would take in a woman with a child, widow or not. Without employment, she had no way to support herself. Miss Plumb had no choice. It was lucky indeed she had Hazel or Miss Plumb would have found herself not only homeless, but without the means of employment. Not without references. This was a grand opportunity. The only opportunity.
For how long she would be allowed to stay at Trelowen depended on his father’s charity, and Harold did not consider his father charitable, not without some return for his efforts. It was crowded enough for the man with Nana and her companion under foot. Although Eugene did not blink at adding more debt and making more promissory notes to host parties, he would consider Miss Plumb another mouth to feed that he could not afford. Illogical. One mouth compared to the many he would happily and daftly feed at a supper party, but there it was. Miss Plumb was on borrowed time.
Hazel said, “I like the widow idea.”
“A relief there’s something of value in the plan.”
“Don’t pout, Harold. It’s a good plan. Just not for Agnes. At least not yet. I’m not dismissing this. I’d rather, if we can, exhaust other ideas before we consider this one. What if we set her up not as an employee but as a tenant? A widow letting a cottage. That’s respectable. Not uncommon. We would still be able to call on her. If these people, these friends of yours, would take in a widow as an employee, they would be as likely, if not more so, to take her in as a tenant.”
“An easy arrangement to make.”
Hazel smiled at that declaration. “There. We have it, then.”
Shaking his head, Harold asked, “But without employment, who is paying the letting fees? Food? Supplies? Baby’s needs? She could live frugally, but she can’t live on nothing.”
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