Flaming June

by Emma V. Leech

  “Can’t breathe, Henry,” she gasped, pushing at his huge chest.

  “Sorry.” He released his hold, just a little, looking sheepish. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

  “You can’t possibly be as glad as I am,” she retorted, resting her head against him. “Oh, Henry. What a day. I missed you.”

  “You did?”

  The surprise in his voice tugged at her heart and she tutted him. “Of course I did,” she said, shaking her head. “How can you think otherwise?”

  He shrugged, ducking to lean his head on her shoulder and avoiding her eyes. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.”

  Isabella frowned at him, forcing him to lift his head and look at her. “You think that of me, Henry? You think I would run off and leave you?”

  Henry swallowed, anxiety in his eyes now as he heard the annoyance in her voice. Isabella remembered what her plans had once been as she saw that anxiety, her plans to run off to France when the baby was old enough to travel. Shame flooded her, and she held Henry tight.

  “I’ll never leave you, Henry. Never.”

  She reached up, her arms about his neck as she pulled his head down for a kiss and felt the tension leaving his heavy frame.

  “Promise,” he whispered against her lips as she smiled at him.

  “I promise, with all my heart.”

  She held him, stroking his face, his hair, as stared down at her. “Where’s Marine?” he asked.

  “She’s sleeping,” Isabella said, an amused smile curving over her mouth. “Jack’s looking after her.”

  Henry sighed with relief and took her hand, tugging her towards the door. “Good.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, though she didn’t need to hear the answer.

  He didn’t even turn back but dragged her into the hallway, heading for the stairs. “I missed you, Isabella,” was all the answer he granted her, but she rather thought it was enough.

  ***

  Later that evening, once Marine was bathed and fed and sung to sleep, Isabella turned to find Henry waiting for her in bed.

  She clambered in beside him, collapsing against his chest. “Babies are tiring,” she murmured. Henry tugged at her nightgown with a scowl.

  “Take it off,” he said, trying to tug her arms free.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Isabella grumbled, knowing better than to argue with him.

  “Yes, but I want to hold you,” he protested, grumbling. “Not a nightgown.”

  She snorted, struggling out of the capacious garment, and then thought he had a point as she snuggled into his chest with a sigh.

  “That’s better.” The words were contented, smug, and Isabella smiled, tangling her fingers in the hair that trailed down his abdomen.

  “It is,” she said, happy to agree with him. “Blissful,” she added, turning her head to kiss his skin. Unbidden, her mother’s face drifted before her eyes, the cruel words and the taunting laughter that had followed her down the street. Her eyes blurred a little, though she said nothing, but Henry turned onto his side, moving down the bed so he could see her face.

  “What is it?” he asked, cupping her cheek with one large hand. Isabella covered it with her own, turning into it and kissing his palm. She shook her head, not wanting to talk about it, but she could see Henry growing anxious, and so she took a breath.

  “I saw my mother today.”

  Henry frowned, his thumb stroking her cheek. “She wasn’t kind to you.” It wasn’t a question. Henry knew well enough. Isabella found her throat too tight to reply, so she returned a smile that quavered, and shook her head.

  “They laughed at you,” he said, tension and desperation in the words now as he moved away from her. He sat up, against the headboard, clutching his knees to his chest. “They laughed at you for marrying me.”

  Isabella opened her mouth to deny it, realising at the last moment she couldn’t. That wouldn’t work with Henry. She couldn’t lie to him. He knew what people said about him. That they were so wrong made her heart break. That it hurt Henry made her furious.

  “Henry,” she said, her voice soft and coaxing as she moved to sit beside him. She tried to lift his arm, to get close enough to hold him, but it remained rigid, and he refused to move. “They don’t know you, they don’t know the slightest thing about you.”

  He put his head on his knees, his face turned away from her. “They know I’m mad.” The words were muffled, heavy with misery, and Isabella’s heart clenched.

  “No, they think it because they don’t know you, because they don’t understand you and they’re too ignorant to try.” Isabella could not keep the rage from her voice and Henry turned towards her.

  “Am I mad, Isabella?” The fear in his words broke her and she threw her arms about him.

  “No!” she said, the word fierce and honest. “They’re the mad ones for not seeing the shallow world they live in.” She pressed kisses to his lips, his cheeks, holding his face between her hands. “My mother is mad. She’s alone and miserable, despising everyone and wanting more, always more, though she has so much. We could have been happy, she and I, but she will never know what that means.” She took a breath and pressed another kiss to his lips. “You were right, Henry. She will die alone and unloved because she lives only on the surface of life. She lives for lies and material things which will never satisfy her. You told me that, Henry, and you were right.”

  He sucked in a shaky breath and Isabella prayed that he would heed her words.

  “Before I met you, I was just like her.” Her voice trembled as she heard the truth and remembered all the cruel things she’d said and done. “I was hateful, Henry, full of spite, and I hated myself as much as everyone else.” She stroked his hair, wanting to tear anyone apart with her bare hands who would dare to hurt her husband. “You taught me kindness and showed me I didn’t have to be that person, that I could be better. You did that, Henry, you made me a better person, you taught me how to love.”

  He looked up at her, his eyes shining, and Isabella held out her arms to him. He came to her then, clinging to her as Isabella stroked his back, wondering at the gentleness in this powerful man.

  “I love you,” she said, kissing his lips. Henry sighed, a heavy shuddering sound as he allowed his fears to fall away. She feathered kisses along his jaw, down his neck, determined to worship him as he deserved. Henry showed his devotion to her in his work, with the beauty of his skills. Isabella would give him hers with her body.

  He reached for her and she smiled at him, shaking her head. “Lay still,” she whispered. “Let me love you.”

  She kissed her away across his chest, teasing his nipples into taut little peaks with her tongue. With satisfaction, she watched the rise and fall of his chest increase, his eyes darkening as he watched her. Isabella smoothed her hands over his body, revelling in the warmth of his skin, of the muscles that twitched and grew hard with tension as her lips and hands moved over him. She didn’t have much clue about what she was doing, guided only by instinct, by a desire to please him and chase the sadness from his eyes, by the need to love him. He moved, restless now, his breathing growing harsh as she followed the coarse trail of hair across his stomach.

  Henry gasped as her mouth found him. She pressed kisses down the length of his erection, still surprised by the silk of his skin. Returning with her tongue sliding over him, he groaned, and it thrilled her, making her own desires burn hotter. Emboldened by how he clutched at the bed clothes, by the increasing desperation of the sounds he made, she took him in her mouth.

  “Isabella.” Her name tore from his lips, a harsh cry on the heated air, the summer night still and silent around them. Isabella smiled against his skin, exhilarated by his reaction to her touch. She repeated the action over and again until he was writhing, helpless, his skin slick. That his release was close was obvious to her and she moved to take him again, but he pushed her away, onto her back. Henry sought her hands and pressed them into the mattress at either side
of her head as he found his place between her legs.

  Isabella arched as he slid inside her, a sense of completeness, of perfection with this man, that she refused to believe most people found. It was too extraordinary, and that was because of Henry. He tensed, his hands gripping hers harder as he cried out, his body hot and heavy as he shuddered with pleasure, collapsing on top of her.

  Isabella smiled, content, as she stroked his shoulders, his skin overheated and sweaty, not that she cared. He was faultless. His breathing evened out and he moved, bracing himself on his arms and looking down at her.

  “That was nice,” he said, the devilish grin at his lips suggesting nice didn’t quite cover it.

  “Was it?” Isabella asked, all innocence.

  Henry nodded and sat back, kneeling between her legs. “I want to do it to you.”

  Isabella’s eyes grew wide. That hadn’t occurred to her. “Oh, but … but, Henry, I don’t … d-don’t think … oh!”

  The rest of the night was a revelation. They forgot thoughts of cruel mothers and vicious people as they remembered what was true, and truly important.

  Chapter 17

  “Wherein Henry faces a battle of sorts, and a villain raises his head.”

  Isabella stared at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that. She hadn’t tried this gown on before, deciding the order for it ought to wait until after she’d regained her figure, or as near to it as she thought possible. Not that she minded the loss of her rather angular form. Henry seemed pleased with her fuller curves, and if she kept up her baking skills, she saw no chance of them diminishing any further. The bustline had been underestimated, though, and her breasts pushed against the bodice, spilling over like freshly baked loaves. Well, this was for Henry alone to enjoy, so what did it matter.

  It was Henry who had asked her to wear it, though it was midmorning and unsuitable for the hour. She suspected the large canvas he’d been hiding from her had something to do with it.

  He confirmed her suspicions as she entered the studio, to discover Jack helping him to move a red velvet chaise longue. All his work, his tables crammed with paints and brushes and oddments which he collected on his walks, were shunted to one end of the ballroom. They had swept the floor and polished it, too, which likely accounted for the fact they both looked sweaty and dusty and irritable. The easel now stood at the centre of the room, tables bearing painting materials arranged to one side.

  Both men sighed as they lowered the heavy piece of furniture and Jack pulled out a hanky, mopping his brow. “Bugger me, it’s too damn hot for this malarkey,” he grumbled. He looked up as Isabella walked towards them and gaped. A moment later Henry spotted her, and an identical expression crossed his face, too.

  Jack cleared his throat. “Right, well, I’ll … go check on Marie,” he said, hurrying off.

  “She’s still sleeping,” Isabella called after him, amused.

  “Let him go,” Henry said, still staring at her, a hungry look in his eyes that made Isabella smile. “I want you to myself.”

  “As you wish, husband.” She moved towards him, her smile growing, but Henry held his hand out, stopping her in his tracks.

  “No,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically stern as he shook his head. “I want to paint you and I’ll won’t be able to if you come any closer.”

  Isabella tilted her head to one side, observing the desire in his eyes. “Perhaps I’d prefer if you didn’t paint me,” she said, her voice teasing.

  Henry sucked in a breath, rubbing the back of his neck, and she laughed.

  “Oh, all right, I’ll be good, but I expect you to make it up to me.”

  He shot her a grin, pleased and mischievous, and she knew there would be no problem holding him to that. She sat on the chaise longue, assuming it had been placed there for her, and Henry moved forward to arrange the skirts of her dress. It was the colour he had chosen for her, a vivid, blazing orange silk that flickered gold in the light. Isabella would never have dared to wear the colour out, but for Henry, it was a pleasure, to see the awed look in his eyes.

  “I love this colour on you, Isabella,” he said, sitting back on his heels and staring up at her. “I knew it was right as soon as I saw it. You are the goddess Juno, queen of the gods, and this is your month, named for you.”

  Isabella laughed, looking down at her handsome husband. “I think Mrs Isabella Barbour is enough for me to live up to.”

  Henry moved closer to her, shaking his head. “No,” he said, his voice grave now. “You are my warrior goddess, come to save me from the dark. You burn like a flame, beautiful Juno.”

  Isabella stared at him, tears prickling at her eyes. “You make me feel like a goddess, Henry, that’s all I care about.”

  That smile came again, swift and as devastating as ever, and she leaned forward, unable to resist pressing a kiss to his lips. The touch of his mouth was enough for desire to burst to life, and he moved closer, crushing the skirts he had arranged with such care, deepening the kiss. Eyes still closed, he sighed against her mouth before trailing his lips down her neck. Henry brushed his lips over the creamy flesh that spilled from her dress, setting fires beneath her skin. His tongue painted their own masterpiece as her heart sped and she gasped as he dipped into her décolletage. With a ragged sigh, he moved away, casting her a look of reproach.

  “Stop distracting me.”

  “Yes, Henry,” she said on a sigh, the words laden with disappointment as he rearranged her skirts. If she had any say in the matter, he’d have to do that often. He was smiling as he returned to his easel, though, and Isabella decided that tormenting her husband was an enjoyable pastime.

  ***

  Isabella looked up from Marie’s smiling face, across the carriage to her husband. He was as white as a winter sky despite the heat of the day.

  “Henry?”

  He looked up from the ribbon he was threading back and forth between his fingers for a moment, and the determination in his eyes tugged at her heart. They were christening Marie today. Belle and her husband Edward would be godparents, a gift that Isabella could never have hoped for. Having such a powerful man as the Marquess of Winterbourne stand for Marie would go some way to diminishing the stain of illegitimacy she would always bear. That Henry had to endure the ceremony, however, was a problem they could not get around.

  He was determined to do it, to christen his daughter, and Isabella wanted to weep for the effort he was making.

  “I have something for you,” she said, reaching one-handed for her reticule and tugging out the silky length of ribbon she had bought for him. Isabella moved to sit beside him and placed it across his outstretched palm. The bronze ribbon glinted in the light, shades of copper and bronze catching the sun.

  “That’s the colour of your eyes, Henry,” she said, smiling at him.

  Henry looked up at her with surprise and pleasure in his expression before returning his attention to the ribbons. He folded the blue one with care and tucked it in his pocket before resuming threading the silky bronze length back and forth between his fingers.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice low. Isabella leaned over and kissed his cheek, praying the day would pass without causing him too much distress.

  Jack hurried inside the church as soon as they arrived, while Henry and Isabella waited in the carriage. Henry was sweating now, his breathing harsh as he cast anxious glances out of the window. Isabella moved Marie to her other arm, reaching out to clasp his hand and finding his palm damp.

  “Henry, I’m here, love. Marie and I are both here. There’s nothing to fear.”

  Henry made a sound of anguish and shot Isabella a look filled with panic and shame.

  “I know,” he said, the words angry, as he took his hand from her and wrapped his arms around his chest. “I know, I know, I know … but …” The but was the crux, that one word filled with terror and dismay, and Isabella didn’t know how to comfort him.

  Marie whimpered, perhaps sensing Henry’s agita
tion, and Isabella looked up with relief as Jack ran back to the carriage. They needed this done, and fast.

  “Belle and his lordship are inside already,” he said, giving Henry a worried glance and turning back to Isabella. “We’d best get it done.”

  Isabella nodded and allowed Jack to hand her down before he turned back to the carriage to coax Henry out.

  “Come on now, lad. I know you don’t want to go in there, but Marie is depending on you. Can’t let your little girl down now, eh?”

  Henry sucked in a shuddering breath and nodded, climbing out of the carriage as Isabella moved closer to him, taking his arm.

  “Jack and I are here, love, and Marie. We’ll all go in together.”

  Henry stared at his feet, silent, but allowed Isabella to move him towards the church. As he got to the door, he dug his heels in, wrenching his arm free and shaking his head.

  “C-can’t,” he said, fighting for breath as he stared at the door. He made a sound of distress and paced, casting glances at the church, his hands clutched in his hair. To her dismay, Isabella saw a husband and wife walk from the graveyard, perhaps having paid their respects to a dead relative. They stopped and stared at Henry, open-mouthed and whispering as they walked away, casting him horrified looks over their shoulder as they went.

  Jack and Isabella exchanged anxious glances, both wondering how best to calm him, when a deep and commanding voice came from inside the church.

  “Mr Barbour?”

  They looked around to find the marquess on the doorstep, Belle holding his arm. She smiled at Isabella, her expression full of sympathy and understanding.

  Henry froze, and for a moment Isabella thought he might run, but he remained.

  “I’m Winterbourne,” the man said, holding Henry’s gaze. He was neither as tall nor as broad as Henry, but he exuded strength, a figure men would follow into battle.

  Henry nodded, sweating and trembling but holding his ground.