Flaming June

by Emma V. Leech

  She looked around as Gabriel returned, his beautiful wife at his side. Isabella smiled at her. Crecy appeared to be an original and free spirit, full of laughter and surprising comments. Isabella had taken to her immediately and found the way that her terrifying husband melted into a puddle in her company intriguing. Gabriel was a deal less frightening since he had befriended Henry, but he still emanated a dark air that made the crowds part before him.

  “Did you buy it?” she asked, knowing the answer as Crecy beamed and Gabriel returned a what do you think expression. Crecy had fallen in love with a tiny engraving by William Blake, so naturally Gabriel would stop at nothing to get it for her.

  “How is Henry faring?” Gabriel asked, concern in his eyes now.

  Isabella’s smile faltered a little. “The journey here was … trying,” she said, though that didn’t really cover it. Henry was stressed and exhausted, the trials of the journey pitting against his determination to see his work hung in the New Somerset House alongside the others he so revered. To her astonishment, Edward had arranged that Henry have a private viewing, this evening, once the crowds had gone. He’d said there was little point in being a marquess if you couldn’t get your own way occasionally. It had made the entire trip possible for Henry, who could never have faced the great and the good en masse as they were at present.

  The cream of the ton was here on this first showing of the new works. It had frightened Isabella to attend herself, knowing she would face censure and the likelihood of being sneered at and cut in public. Yet through Henry’s work, she had become a rather romantic, if scandalous figure, and to her bewilderment, people were falling over themselves to talk to her about her reclusive husband. Somehow, rumours of his madness and his astonishing good looks had combined to create a Byronic persona which everyone wanted to know more about.

  More than happy to speak of her husband’s hitherto undiscovered talents, Isabella indulged them, despite feeling contempt for such fickle friendships as people would now offer her. Now she had seen Henry’s success, seen his work recognised for what it was, all that remained was for Henry himself to see the work where it sat. Then they could go home. She smiled with relief as the thought buoyed her.

  In a moment of respite, Isabella turned to Belle and rolled her eyes.

  “Good heavens, these people ask the most ridiculous questions,” she said, looking with sympathy at Gabriel, who was looking a little grey and worn. Edward had already gone, the crowds too much for him to cope with, though he’d congratulated Isabella on Henry’s success. Before she could ask if Edward was all right, or if they should return Belle to their London home to check on him, a familiar voice made Isabella spin around.

  “Isabella, darling.”

  Isabella froze, torn between disbelief and fury as her mother bustled up to her, her cousin Jane and the rest of their fashionable coterie in tow. That the selfish creature who had hoped Isabella might die to save her from embarrassment would now try to insinuate herself back into her life made rage a living thing beneath her skin. She would profit from Henry’s fame, when she had denigrated him and called him a half-wit. Well, not if Isabella had any say in the matter. That the woman would believe Isabella shallow enough to want to return to the fold now that she’d retrieved her reputation from utter ruin made Isabella itch to slap her face. The desire was so strong she had to clench her fists to repress the urge to act on it.

  “Darling, I just had to bring a few friends to see your clever husband’s work. He’s the talk of the ton.”

  For a moment, words jostled on Isabella’s tongue, furious tirades full of accusation and gossip enough to fuel the rumour mill and keep her mother in hiding for years to come.

  No.

  She would not detract from Henry’s work and his success. She would not allow her mother to make this about her, no matter how appealing it was to destroy her in public. That did not mean to say she would not punish her.

  “Forgive me, madam,” she said, her tone icy as she stared at the woman who had thrown her from her home to starve along with her unborn child. “You seem to be under the mistaken assumption we know each other.”

  Her mother’s smile set on her face, the colour leaching from her powdered cheeks as her companions made audible gasps of shock.

  “Lady Isabella?” Isabella looked around to find Gabriel at her side. He delivered a scathing look to Lady Scranford before turning back to her. “I believe Thomas Lawrence would like to speak with Henry and visit his studio. Come, you have a more convivial company awaiting you.”

  Isabella turned without a backwards glance, leaving her mother mortified and alone as her companions disappeared. Her fair-weather friends vanished in an instant, keen to distance themselves from her disgrace, and to dine out on the story.

  There was no victory in her triumph, no glory in vengeance for Isabella, though, only a sense of sorrow that her mother had never loved her. The longing to return to Henry and Marie was an ache beneath her skin. Still, she allowed Gabriel to present her to the famous Mr Lawrence, her pleasure in Henry’s triumph only tinged with the regret she could not leave at once to be with him.

  ***

  Henry stared up at the vast walls of New Somerset House, the paintings skied one of top of the other, side by side with a bare inch of space between them. Each work of art jostling for space and attention as light flooded in from the huge windows in the ceiling. He sucked in a breath, finding it overwhelming, too many great works clamouring to be noticed, as his eyes tried to settle.

  “I wish I could look at them one at a time,” he whispered to Isabella, whose hand he was clutching so hard he must be hurting her. He tried to unlock his fingers a little, his palm sweaty with nerves, but Isabella just held his hand tighter still. “It makes my head spin.”

  “It is rather overwhelming,” she agreed, sounding somewhat breathless. “But magnificent, too. Oh, Henry, yours is by far the best work here.”

  Henry smiled, sending her an indulgent look that spoke of his adoration. Isabella would think anything he did was the best in the world. It was a humbling feeling. Just as well, as seeing his work displayed so might go to his head. Already Gabriel’s reciting of his own words was coming back to him. Art ought to be displayed, enjoyed, not hidden away in the dark. That constant refrain circled his brain and was one he would previously have rejected out of hand. It was too frightening, too outside of the realms of his experience and what he could cope with, yet it lingered. He pushed it to one side for now, content to stand and stare at the hundreds of paintings clamouring for his attention.

  As the light waned, someone came and lit the huge chandelier that the Prince Regent had gifted the academy to illuminate its evening exhibitions. It had recently been converted to gas and Henry stared with wonder at the invention.

  “It smells,” Isabella said, giving the new-fangled device a sceptical glance. “Frightening, too, how it burns with no candle or wick.”

  “It’s the future,” Henry murmured, watching the blue flames for a moment longer, before returning his attention to the artwork.

  “You’re the future,” Isabella whispered in his ear. “You’re famous now, Henry.”

  Henry snorted and ducked his head to kiss her lips. “Famous and eccentric?” he queried, one eyebrow raised.

  Isabella chuckled, having told him the things that were being said about him. It seemed ridiculous and unlikely, but then he’d never understood people. He doubted he ever would.

  “Certainly,” she said with a grave nod and a twinkle in her lovely eyes.

  He sighed, taking one last look around the great building and its works of art. “Good.” He stared around, satisfied and ready to leave. “Then I can go home,” he said, grinning at her and lifting her hand to his lips. “And stay there.”

  Chapter 25

  “Wherein life is picture perfect.”

  Isabella lay back, her head resting on her arm as she stared up at the branches of the apple tree. It was a glorious summ
er’s day, the sun hot yet a light breeze stirring the leaves above her.

  Jack had taken Marie to visit Eli, the two of them thick as thieves now, though Jack complained the boy led his princess into mischief. It was ever thus, Isabella thought with a smile. She looked up to see Henry focused on yet another drawing of her.

  “Will you ever get bored with drawing me?” she asked, staring at her handsome man’s dark head as it bent over the page.

  “No.”

  She smiled, used to his lack of conversation when he was intent on something. It would take something out of the ordinary to break his concentration now. She lay back, amusement tugging at her lips as an idea occurred to her.

  Isabella got to her knees, eliciting a tut of disapproval from Henry as she broke the pose.

  “Isabella!”

  She grinned at him and tugged at the fastenings of her dress.

  “What, Henry?” she asked, her voice low and sultry.

  Henry opened his mouth and closed it again, surprise lighting his eyes.

  She stripped off the muslin gown, tossing it to hang from the branches of the apple tree as she removed each layer. To her delight, Henry’s eyes were dark now, his gaze on her hotter than the sun that gilded the surrounding landscape. As she lay down again, Henry put aside his paper and moved towards her.

  “Ah, ah,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “You wanted to draw me like this, remember?”

  Henry sucked in a breath, the desire to capture her form on paper warring with a more instinctive need that blazed in his eyes.

  “Well, now’s your chance,” she taunted, enjoying her power over him. “Take it or leave it.”

  Henry swallowed, reaching for his paper again with more reluctance than she’d ever seen. She allowed him to work for a while, feeling decadent and scandalous as the warm breeze fluttered over her naked skin. As she turned her head, she saw that the artist in him had won out, intense concentration in his eyes now as he sketched, his hand moving rapidly over the page. She closed her eyes, imagining his hands tracing the contours he now followed with his eyes and his pencil, committing the curves and valleys to paper. Desire rose, a heat that warmed and burned beneath her skin as the month of June heated her from above.

  Isabella allowed her imagination to wander, thinking of what would happen once Henry had completed his sketch. Anticipation thrilled her, shivering over her flesh, tightening her nipples to taut little peaks. Though she was spoiling the pose, she raised her hand, allowing one lazy finger to circle the tight bud. The sound of pencil on paper faltered. She smiled, her eyes still closed as she imagined the rapt expression on her husband’s face. Her finger repeated the motion in slow circles and then drew a line down between her breasts, across her stomach. She reached the springy thatch of curls between her thighs and allowed her fingers to thread back and forth. One finger sought lower, touching the source of her pleasure and making her mouth open with a silent sigh of desire. Henry’s breathing was audible now, though he didn’t move, spellbound by her.

  She opened her eyes, her eyelids heavy as she watched Henry watching her. He swallowed as she parted her legs a little, the warm air still cooling the damp fire of her skin as his breath caught, snagging in his throat.

  He still gripped the pencil, though the paper and board had slid from his lap.

  Isabella tutted at him, amused. “You’re supposed to be drawing me,” she scolded him.

  “C-can’t,” he stammered, clearing his throat as he watched her finger dip in and out of the hidden spot between her thighs. “Can’t concentrate.” She laughed at his expression, entranced as he watched her.

  “That’s a shame,” she whispered, arching her body and allowing the pleasure of her own touch to consume her as Henry’s hot gaze devoured her and sent her arousal spiralling higher. “You so wanted to draw me like this … didn’t you?”

  Henry didn’t answer.

  “Didn’t you, Henry?” Henry tore his gaze away from her caressing fingers and stared at her.

  “What?” he said, blinking as though dazed.

  Isabella chuckled again and then closed her eyes as the pleasure built inside her. She gasped as he pushed her hand aside and a warm, wet heat slid over her, pushing her closer to the edge. As she looked down, Henry’s dark head bent over her, his concentration as absolute as when he painted as he strove to bring her pleasure.

  Isabella closed her eyes, the sunlight turning the world a heated red as pleasure enveloped her and Henry stole her breath, her ability to think, her heart, all over again.

  ***

  Henry looked up, fascinated and enthralled as pleasure shook Isabella’s beautiful frame, her gasping, breathless pants a sound he would never tire of as her fingers clutched at his hair. He kissed his way up her body, painting with his tongue that which he could never reproduce to his satisfaction on a canvas. Nothing would ever replace or capture her ability to captivate him.

  Young men sent poems to her, inspired by the beauty he’d shown the world in his portrait. Sonnets and love poems dedicated to the embodiment of Juno, his fiery goddess. He’d been angry at first, jealous of their ability to put words to their feelings when his tangled up in his head. Isabella had laughed, though, throwing their extravagant words into the fire as she made him remember why she loved him, and him alone.

  She opened herself to him now and pleasure overrode the will to think of anything outside of the two of them, the perfect slide of their bodies in unison. Her hands moved over him, caressing his skin as he looked up and found himself caught in the desire in her eyes. Perfection, this was, she was … perfection.

  A jay echoed his cries, out in the woods, the raucous sound still not as harsh as the exclamation he made as he lost himself inside her, with Isabella holding him tight and urging him on.

  They lay together, sated and indolent, his limbs heavy with heat and the boneless sense of contentment that came after the excess of pleasure she brought him. He ran a hand over her breast, down her side, resting over her stomach. Henry’s eyes were closed as her hand covered his and she turned to him.

  “Henry,” she said, her voice low and as sleepy as he felt. He opened his eyes, smiling and dazed as he found her blue eyes. Ultramarine, like Marie’s.

  “Hmmm,” he replied, too tired to form words. They might have to sleep out here, he wasn’t sure he could move.

  “I’m having a baby.”

  Henry blinked. The words circled his brain and he knew their meaning was significant, important, but for a moment the meaning eluded him.

  “A …?” he began, the words stalling somewhere between his mind and his tongue.

  “A baby,” Isabella repeated, her expression placid, waiting for him to understand what she was telling him.

  He sat up all at once, the movement sliding her head from his arm to the blanket with something of a thud.

  “Henry!” she exclaimed, laughing as he stared at her, appalled by his clumsiness.

  “Sorry!” he exclaimed, rubbing her head and earning another reproach as he mussed up her hair. She fussed, pushing the blonde locks from her eyes until he could take no more. He took her wrists, pinning her hands, one each side of her head.

  “Say it again,” he demanded, not yet daring to believe he’d heard correctly.

  She smiled up at him, the expression beatific and knowing all at once. “I’m having a baby, Henry.”

  Henry let out a breath, releasing her wrists and sitting back, staring at her stomach. There was a gentle curve to it he had noted when he’d sketched her, but he’d not begun to hope that …

  Scurrying backwards, he leant down over her, kissing her stomach. Isabella laughed and squealed, and Henry smiled against her skin while her hands tried to push him away as he tickled her.

  “Henry, stop, stop!” she gasped, laughing and fighting for breath. He obeyed this time and looked down at her, his heart ready to burst.

  “Another baby?” he said, awestruck still. “You’re sure?”

&
nbsp; Isabella nodded, reaching for him. “I’m sure.”

  “A boy,” he said, his tone confident, knowing it would make her laugh. “A brother for Marie.”

  She grinned at him then, pulling his head down for a kiss. “Whatever you say, Henry.”

  Epilogue

  “Wherein … happily ever after.”

  “Eli, no! Don’t you dare … Oh, my Lord!”

  Isabella laughed as Belle picked up her skirts and ran after her troublesome son. At almost eight years old, the child had an independent spirit and a nose for mischief. Little Leo, three years his junior, ran to keep up with the older brother he idolised, refusing to be left out. Marine crowed with laughter, spilling the ice she was eating down the pretty blue dress she wore.

  “Oops, sorry, mama.” She gave Isabella a rueful grin, shovelling down the last of the melted strawberry ice before running off to see what trouble Eli was in now. Isabella smiled, watching as her beautiful daughter ran off to cause trouble of her own, blonde ringlets bouncing as she went. Though Isabella suspected she was biased, the girl was stunning, with the widest, bluest eyes she had ever seen. Marine indeed. Henry had been right again. Those eyes had the power to devastate, something she practised often on both her papa and her adored Jacky, neither of whom could deny the child anything.

  Isabella looked around her with satisfaction. Edward was ignoring his son’s antics in favour of reading the book that Belle had just abandoned. Crecy dozed on a picnic blanket, having been kept up all night by their newest arrival, a baby boy. Henry and Isabella were godparents, and the adorably chubby babe was making Isabella broody. Helping herself to one of her own cakes, Isabella chewed, contented, and noticed Crecy and Gabriel’s eldest daughter, Hope, had climbed to the top of an apple tree. The child was giggling and refusing to come down. Gabriel looked like he would have a heart-attack if she didn’t return to the ground immediately and was dithering at the bottom of the tree, torn between shouting at her to do as she was told and climbing up after her. He was a terrible worrier.