All of her was alive. All of her was sensitive to the slightest touch. All of her was wanting. Desire beat like a soft drum, in her head and in his breaths and through her body. It merged with her very pulse, and throbbed in rhythm to physical cravings. More, yes, more. Joyful, excruciating pleasure. Kisses and caresses both gentle and rough, and madness, wonderful madness, destroying all restraints and reveling in the primitive glory.
That hand now, that powerful hand, sliding lower, too slowly, far too slowly so that moans sounded in her head and ears. Moving down her body toward that pulse. Nothing mattered now except that. It was all there, all the desire and pleasure. She grasped his head and held it to a kiss. Her kiss. Her fury, wanting more, urging more. She spread her legs as that hand neared and she whimpered within the kiss.
“You are too impatient,” he chided quietly. His hand closed on her inner thigh. Her hips rose instinctively, a reflection of the cries in her head.
“Is this what you want?” His fingers brushed against flesh that wept and waited with furious desperation.
A devastating shock of pleasure streaked through her. Then another and another. Madness growing now. Awareness constricting to a small circle in which nothing but need existed.
Finally one profoundly different sensation, starting more intensely and rising sharply, then splitting through her whole body and essence, through her blood and flesh, in one long, deep tremor that stunned all her senses.
He had been waiting for her astonishment. He came over her then, his lower body meeting hers. He pressed into her and she did not know if it hurt or not. The remnants of the tremor still echoed and her awe left no room for awareness of pain. She felt the intimacy, though. The scent and closeness. His body’s dominance of her shouted into her daze.
His masterful hand positioned her legs as he wanted them, then pressed against the headboard to leverage his moves while he filled her and took her and overwhelmed her body and soul.
“Will you always tell me when to leave that door unlocked?” Her voice inserted this practicality into the long silence, but after the power had begun to pass.
He did not mind, although his head was hardly up to discussing logistics. He was accustomed to negotiations of one kind or another with women in bed.
“You should probably do so every night. I do not believe that formal announcements are customary.”
“Then I am never to know? Am I supposed to wait, awake, to be sure I am ready if you choose to do this? If you do not make a visit, I could wait all night when I should be sleeping.”
“I do not think there will be any danger of that.”
“Are you saying that you intend to come here every night?”
He had meant that she would fall asleep, and not really wait all night no matter what her notion of duty. However, her question was a fair one, and her astonishment a timely reminder of her ignorance.
“Probably so. For a good while, yes, I will most likely come to you every night.”
He did not ask if that would be agreeable. He was not inclined to open those kinds of negotiations.
“I do not think that will be so distasteful,” she said. “Perhaps you were correct, and in this one way we will suit well enough.”
He rose on his arm and looked at her puckered brow. It matched her voice, which was full of deliberation. “We will suit more than well enough, if you remain bold and honest.”
“Bold and honest? Is that how you perceived me?”
“They are as good as any other words to describe how you take pleasure.” They also described much about the rest of her too, he decided.
“I was taught by my governess that husbands prefer modest and virtuous.”
“I am glad that you proved such a poor student of the lesson.”
“Then you did not find my lack of restraint shocking?”
“Not at all.”
“I did. I expect you did not because you have experienced such things before with all those other women.”
Rather suddenly she had led him onto swampy ground. He heard no accusation in her voice. She was only being her bold and honest self. He stepped carefully all the same.
“Other women? Oh, from my distant past, you mean. Here I had clear forgotten about them.”
She giggled, then laughed hard. When she had caught her breath, she angled up and gave one of her bird pecks on his cheek, then fell back on the bed. “I thank you for trying, Hawkeswell. Being the bold and honest sort, I have no illusions, however.”
The swamp fairly oozed now. He decided this little conversation had gone on long enough so she would not feel neglected.
He kissed her, and lingered when pleasant memories flowed on the intimacy, then left the bed.
Chapter Fourteen
Hawkeswell’s house on Hanover Square appeared less tired than Greenlay Park. Not the best address, Celia had written in a letter. Fashionable society had long ago moved on. That the Earls of Hawkeswell still lived there reflected their fading fortunes over the last few generations.
Certain chambers encouraged Verity to think that living here would be very pleasant anyway. The library might need redecorating the way his aunt Julia said, but Verity liked its jewel-toned upholstery and dark woods, and the fine, large windows that looked down on the square.
In contrast, the drawing room seemed cold, with its fastidious, fine-boned furniture and severely classical decor. She suspected that the drawing room had not been used often in recent years. She doubted Hawkeswell entertained much at home. If gentlemen friends called, he probably received them in that nice library, or up in his apartment.
“Here is the garden,” Hawkeswell said, opening one of many French doors in the long back gallery that also served as a ballroom. “Promise that you will not scold.”
She stepped onto a fine, deep terrace paved in what looked like rough marble. The garden stretched before her, broad and deep, all the way to a brick wall at the back that masked some buildings that she assumed were coach houses and necessities.
“Oh, dear.”
“The gardener is not the best, you mean.”
“He is incompetent. The yews are ruined, and all the shrubbery poorly pruned. He does not know the first thing about landscape, I fear.”
“I trust that you will correct him.”
She went down the steps and stood amid the disaster. “I am not sure that I can. This may be too much for me.”
“Get whatever help you require. Release this gardener and hire another. Hire three. I leave it in your hands.”
She surveyed the series of silly little flower beds that broke up the walkways. The entire property needed a new design.
They completed the tour, ending at her apartment. As with her rooms at Greenlay Park, these had been treated to new fabrics not so long ago. She wondered if Colleen and Aunt Julia had seen to it at both houses, and not Hawkeswell at all.
Yet it seemed to matter to him if she approved. He watched her finger the bed drapes and look out the window. He strolled behind her as she opened doors and drawers in the dressing room.
She spied a door on the far wall beyond the dressing table. “Another odd passageway?”
True to his word, he had used that passageway every night since the first time. She had begun waiting for him. Sometimes, while she waited, she saw him as she had that first night, walking toward her, naked and aroused, his eyes dark and his expression taut. She would sense her body stirring and her breasts getting sensitive in anticipation of what was coming.
“No passageway this time. The dressing rooms adjoin directly.” He opened the door to show his own, with its wardrobes and tables and some chairs. A manservant stopped hanging a coat and bowed. “This is Mr. Drummund. He has been my valet for . . . How long has it been now, Drummund?”
“It has been my honor for twelve years now, sir. Since you were at university.” Drummund seemed touched by the attention.
“He had his hands full early on,” Hawkeswell said. “Life has become mu
ch duller the last five years or so, has it not, Drummund?”
“Never dull, sir.” He returned to the coat. “There is mail. I was about to send it down to Surrey.”
Hawkeswell turned his attention to the letters. Verity returned to her own apartment and found mail waiting for her as well. It had been sent just that morning.
Audrianna wrote to say that she and Lord Sebastian had also returned to town. Verity sighed with relief at the reassurance that one of her dear friends would be close by.
Hawkeswell dipped the pen and signed the stacks of vellum that Thornapple had set before him. With each scrawl of his signature, he took control of Verity’s fortune.
The solicitor had been the image of professional indifference about the entire matter. However, as the last heavy page turned, he removed his spectacles and examined Hawkeswell while he folded each page just so.
“I hope that you will accept a little advice about this inheritance that your wife received, Lord Hawkeswell.”
“Of course.”
“This is an industrial enterprise. It is more subject to economic vagaries than wealth derived from land. The potential is much greater, but so is the danger. Lady Hawkeswell brings a handsome income to you, and with the dissolution of the second trust that collected her profits while she was a minor, a good deal of money reserved from that period. There is no guarantee, however, that the income will continue.”
“I expect that the need for iron will increase, not decrease. While there are no guarantees, there is also no reason to assume a decline.”
“You are wrong there. The decline is at hand as we speak. The ironworks are solid, but currently are suffering from a postwar depression. Furthermore, over half the amount each year derives from the boring and machining. Currently they have an advantage, due to Joshua’s ingenuity in devising a new method. He never patented it, you may know, because to do so would mean revealing the method itself, and he did not trust others not to steal. Should it become known, however, the advantage would be much depreciated.”
“And if it should become lost entirely?”
“Then they would have no advantage at all.”
The dependence of this fortune on fortune itself had not escaped Hawkeswell. He had been weighing it ever since Verity spoke about that business in Essex.
“Lady Hawkeswell is well? Her adventures have not taken a toll?” the solicitor asked casually.
Of course, Thornapple was as curious as everyone else. Unlike everyone else, he had known Verity’s father and, as her trustee, would be truly concerned for her.
“She is none the worse for those adventures, perhaps because they were not very adventurous. She was not far from London all that time, and living with a widow whom she counts as a close friend.”
Thornapple relaxed back in his chair. “I will say that I am grateful that you told me that. Just as I was relieved to see her walk into that library. My reaction may have appeared harsh, but in truth . . .” He thought better of his intended words, and returned to all that folding.
“In truth?”
“In truth I assumed she was dead. Didn’t we all?”
“Her cousin did not.”
“It was not in Bertram Thompson’s interest for her to be dead. He is not a blood cousin, and would not inherit her share. I can see from your surprise that you did not know that.”
“No, I did not.”
“He was the son of her uncle’s wife by her first husband. Bertram thought he should have inherited more of the business, but an argument could have been made that he should have received nothing at all.”
Interest in that testament had receded, due to those progressing events, but now the solicitor’s reference piqued it again. “Her father still left her the much higher share, however.”
“Seventy-five percent. Bertram Thompson received twenty-five percent. His stepfather, Jeremiah, helped build that company, but that half share went to Joshua when Jeremiah died. Bertram probably assumed he would receive that half back, at least, when Joshua in turn passed away. He was not pleased to learn the truth of it.”
Thornapple stacked the documents neatly in two piles. “According to Joshua’s testament, the property must remain in her name and be bequeathed to her bloodline. I think there may be distant relatives in Yorkshire. No, Bertram would not have liked those strangers coming in and putting him aside. I daresay that even after seven years, he would have argued that, lacking a body, she should be presumed alive.”
Hawkeswell took his leave and carried his stack of documents to his horse. He pondered Thornapple’s revelations while he rode from the City.
They explained why Bertram had been so content with the limbo of the last two years, at least. His hold on that business remained secure only while Verity lived. And, perhaps, he had also prayed that Verity was alive because he knew that she was one of only two people in the world who knew her father’s secret inventions.
“I think it needs to go right here,” Daphne said, planting her feet on a path in the back half of the garden.
“If you want a proper greenhouse for propagating, it must be here, so there is sufficient light.”
“I think that she is correct,” Celia said. “You will need to direct its manufacture too. It should not be an ordinary structure if it is to grace the town garden of an earl.”
Verity eyed the placement that Daphne recommended. No matter where it sat or how lovely its form, it would be a modest greenhouse by the standards of The Rarest Blooms. She would not be growing for commercial purposes, however.
“Are you sure that Hawkeswell approves of this?” Audrianna asked.
“You would not want to strain his temper,” Daphne added dryly.
“I told you that it was his idea,” Verity said. “He has handed both gardens over to me, to do as I like.”
“It sounds as if you intend to be here long enough to see it through,” Daphne said. “Have you reconciled yourself to this marriage?”
“You are prying, Daphne,” Celia scolded with a little laugh. “But don’t let me stop you, please.”
Verity’s own smile turned into a small grimace. “I expect to be here a good long while. I have reconciled myself to the truth that there will be no annulment unless Hawkeswell fully supports such a petition and I produce incontrovertible proof of coercion. Neither will happen, so here I am.”
Celia was standing closest, and gave her an embrace. “It is not where you wanted to be, I know. However, it is not a bad place compared to most others.”
Marriage to an earl and access to a huge fortune is not a bad second best, is what practical, worldly Celia meant.
“That is true, and I am not so stubborn as to be miserable with my circumstances, now that they have become inevitable. I am finding contentment.”
They returned to the terrace and debated the rest of the garden plan from that prospect. Celia drew what they described as it would be seen from the house.
“I should like to make a winding path, that passes by a series of little garden rooms,” Verity explained. “In this way, the greenhouse would simply be one more chamber.”
Celia drew more. “I will leave you to use colors on it, Verity,” she said. “I will make some copies, so that you can plan for different times of the year.”
“Only make one copy,” Daphne said. “Bring it back, and Katherine will make the rest. She is a gifted artist, Verity. I must buy some pigments for her before we leave town today.”
“Will she be staying with you?”
“Oh, yes,” Celia said. “I think she will be with us a good long while.”
Verity’s and Audrianna’s eyes met. They traded curiosity. They had acknowledged during one of their recent private talks that it was much harder to obey the Rule now that they no longer lived under it.
“I trust that she is like us. Not dangerous,” Audrianna ventured. “Sebastian has always had concerns about that.”
Daphne leaned over to see Celia’s sketch. “I expect she
is no more dangerous than you were, Audrianna. She has shown no interest in my pistol, for example.”
Audrianna blushed at this reference to a misadventure with that pistol that led to her alliance with Lord Sebastian.
“Will he be returning soon?” Daphne asked. She meant Hawkeswell. Daphne had only agreed to visit today because Verity had mentioned in her invitation that the earl would not be here.
“Sebastian is meeting him at their club,” Audrianna said. “I expect it will be some hours before either one rides back.”
“Then Verity has time to show me her new wardrobe,” Celia said while she held up her two drawings to compare them.
“I would much rather show you something else. I have need of your good minds.”
A half hour later, all of them were arrayed in Verity’s bedchamber. Daphne, Celia, and Verity sat on the bed, poring over scraps of paper. Audrianna had pulled a chair close so she could see as well.
“I always found your taste for newspapers excessive,” Celia said. “I can see you put it to good use, and had a bigger purpose than I guessed.” She gestured to the stacks.
“Some of these are two years old, from right when you came to The Rarest Blooms. Worker uprisings. Demonstrations.” She picked up a little stack. “Arrests and executions.”
“Here are some about Brandreth and his followers,” Daphne said. “There is trouble enough down here in the South. We even had to enter town other than the normal way today, because of a gathering on the main road. However, we have been spared revolutionaries like Brandreth.”
“I think he was entrapped, the way Mr. Shelley’s poem implies. Many agree with that view,” Audrianna said, perusing the articles that Verity had saved. “I will say, however, that your home county and those near it look to be fairly dangerous, Verity. Perhaps it is wise that you will be living here instead.”
Provocative in Pearls Page 15