Theresa Romain

by It Takes Two to Tangle

  His voice still echoed in her ears, though. Fifteen years ago he had checked her arithmetic with a proud, “Well done, daughter.” Twenty years ago, he explained the rules of chess and whist, sure she could master them as well as any male child. Twenty-five years ago, he bounced her on his knee, laughing as hard as she.

  She had not thought of these things for a very long time. There had been no point. But now—here was the past, right before her face.

  “This is from my father.” She could hardly believe it. But it was his hand. His signature. It sounded like him, all sternness over hesitant warmth.

  She looked up at Henry. “Why did my father write to you?”

  “I wrote to him first.” He looked self-conscious; his left hand played with the brass buttons on his coat. “Because of the letter you sent me, explaining everything. I could tell it pained you to lose everything you’d grown up with. I wish your father had never forced you to choose between love and family.”

  She started to lift a hand to his face, but her father’s letter crackled in her grip and she abandoned the gesture. “I forced the choice more than he.”

  He acknowledged her words with an if-you-say-so lift of his brows. “I wanted to let him know you were well. Caro told me your maiden name and even recalled your father’s direction. He lives in Ward Manor, just as he always did.”

  “After all this time,” she said. “It seems impossible that nothing has changed.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. He feels regret, as you can see. I believe he wishes to have his daughter back in his life.”

  He watched her with raised eyebrows, his expression a patient cipher. “Are you glad for this letter, Frances?”

  She looked at the letter again. She felt as though her eyes could not truly be open, seeing what was before them. This letter itself. Henry, uncovering her deepest hurt. Seeing how thin her skin was.

  But it was real; here was the quaver and shake of her father’s pen over the lines. It offered forgiveness and the chance to forgive. To stitch closed a wound that was almost ten years old.

  It would always leave a scar. The wound was too old, too ragged, for anything less. Yet it was a healing, even if an imperfect one.

  “You wrote to my father,” she repeated. The paper fell from her hand to the floor, and she wrapped her arms tight around him in a quick, crushing embrace. “Yes, I’m glad. I’m very, very glad. I can scarcely believe you did that for me.”

  “I wanted to give you more than myself.” His lips moved in her hair, tickling her scalp. “I wanted to help you regain some of the things you lost over the years.”

  “Is this why you made me wait day after day? For this letter?”

  “Partly. I wanted you to get the other letters first too. I wanted you to have the attention you missed as a younger woman. It’s your due by worth as well as birth.”

  Her head reared back. “All those letters I’ve been pestered with. You sent them?”

  “No, not at all. I merely mentioned to a few influential people how enjoyable your company was. The rest was simply the ton doing what it loves best: following a good story to ground as surely as a hound scents a fox.”

  “That is a terrible analogy if I’m meant to be the fox.” She rested in the hollow of his neck and shoulder, liking the scratch of her jaw against the fine woven wool of his coat. “You are fortunate that I am stupid with surprise right now. I’m not even going to chastise you for not sending me the one letter I truly wanted.”

  He rested his hand on her back, and she breathed into its comforting weight. “What will you do, Henry? Now that you’ve conquered the polite world?”

  “That depends on you. I have a small estate not far outside of London, but I’m willing to stay at Tallant House so I might see you every day if you’ll allow that honorable courtship you once agreed to. I’ll understand if you won’t, after my dueling and my taking offense at the letters you wrote. I’ve had enough pride for seven men.”

  “I’ve always thought you extraordinary,” Frances murmured. “The pride of seven men, though—I hadn’t expected that much good fortune.”

  His hand played up her spine, and she couldn’t remember how to tease him anymore.

  His eyes were lapis lazuli, deep and clear. Even Frances knew how precious that color was, and she was no artist. “You’ve told my father I already accepted you.”

  “And so you did, once. You agreed to my suit just before we had our exceedingly memorable encounter with Lord Wadsworth. But if you wish to part from me, I’ll still do what I can to make things right between you and your father. I’ll blame everything on myself. Former soldiers can be unpredictable bastards.”

  “So can artists.”

  His mouth twitched, and he released her and took a step back. “There’s no hope for me, then. But I’ll tell you this. Your letter gave me much to think about, Frances. I believe honor is not an act of a day, and it is not destroyed by one failure. It is a matter of intent as much as success. As is trust.”

  “So the means to the end do matter, even if the end is what you wish.” She swallowed, but there was a lump in her throat that would not dislodge.

  “The means always matter because they tell the world what type of person you are.”

  His eyes fixed hers, deep and true. “As I said, it’s a matter of intent. I was too hasty before when I criticized yours—too hurt, really. But I know you acted out of great kindness. I understand you, past and present, and I trust you for the future. You loved me enough for two women—in person and in letters. If you’ll only let me, I’ll love you enough for two. It’s no more than you deserve.”

  “It is more,” she said. Her throat caught. “Damn. I’m not going to cry. That would completely undermine my dignity.”

  “We can’t have that.” He patted his chest. “But if you decide to toss dignity aside, I have a handkerchief.”

  “Because a soldier is always prepared?”

  “That, and an artist always has paint on his hands.” He cleared his throat. “So. Whether we’re artists or soldiers or… I don’t know… pig farmers, I believe we’ll make excellent allies. If you agree to my proposal, that is. You haven’t actually said the words. I may have the vapors if you prolong the suspense any longer.”

  She smiled. “I almost feel I ought to write it down, given our history. ‘HENRY IS TOO DEMANDING.’ Though I am too.”

  They had overcome the weight of loss, the depth of need, the high wall of pride. Compared to those obstacles, love seemed fragile in its beauty.

  But when shared by two, it was not fragile at all.

  She wrapped her arms around him again, breathing in his clean heat, drawing his solid body as close as her strength could manage. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes to it all.”

  ***

  Relief flooded Henry’s body. He’d not known how their treacherous reunion would go, whether Frances would want to reconcile with her father. Or with Henry himself.

  Now she was nestled under his chin, right as right could be. If he focused, he could feel the shuddery beat of her heart against his own ribs. It was as if they were one body. Thank God, she was willing to forgive.

  Although… this didn’t quite feel like forgiveness anymore. Forgiveness didn’t rub itself against his body with a low, throaty sigh. Forgiveness didn’t toy with the buttons on his dove-gray waistcoat. Forgiveness didn’t slip them free from their holes.

  This was far better than forgiveness. It was love. With a fair smattering of passion to brighten the tone.

  Frances slid her hand beneath one layer of fabric, then another. “Madam,” Henry said in a mock-surprised voice. “Are your intentions entirely honorable?”

  She laughed. “Not at the moment.”

  “Perfect.” When she tugged at his coat sleeves, he flexed his shoulders forward to allow the snug garment to slip free.

  With sharp, hungry tugs at his clothing, she undressed him. He helped when he could, twisting his way out of layer after layer, even a
s his own hand fumbled with the buttons of her bodice. He touched the laces of her stays, and she shook her head.

  “Better leave them on. I can’t imagine asking Lady Tallant’s maid to come help me dress, can you?”

  “She’s Emily to you now, since you’ll be sisters.” He tilted his head. “But perhaps you’re right about the stays. I’ll have to be creative.”

  He let his eyes slide over her body; at last, he just looked and looked and looked.

  Someday he would paint her. Maybe even like this: a secret picture, just for them. Light burnishing her coffee-dark hair with glows of red; her creamy skin warmed by the morning sun. Through the translucent linen of her shift, the form of her body and the shadow between her legs faintly visible. Peeking over the edge of her stays, a semicircle of damask rose—the edge of one nipple, wanting to be touched.

  “Henry,” she admonished, crossing her arms over her chest as the moment drew out long and slow. But she smiled. And when he touched her forearm, pressed it down, she chuckled and lowered her arms to her sides, giving him an unobstructed view of her again.

  Except for those dratted stays. Without removing them, he couldn’t take off her chemise either.

  When restricted in some way, find another route.

  He couldn’t quite shed the habits of the military. Right now, they gave him a marvelous idea.

  He would find another way in. “Spread your legs,” he murmured in her ear.

  A flush delicate as a new blossom spread over Frances’s cheeks and bosom. She breathed quickly, sharply as she slid one foot along the carpet until there was nearly a yard’s span between her feet. Her stocking-clad toes dug into the weave of the rug.

  “Perfect.” Henry crouched on the floor at her feet. Balancing carefully on the balls of his feet, he lifted the cotton chemise and exposed her sex to his view.

  Soft brown curls rich as earth, folds like a budded rose, flushing darker red, drawing his eye. His mouth. He needed two hands, damn it. He released her chemise, allowing the fabric to fall atop his head, and used his freed fingers to part her, opening her for his tongue.

  He barely got a taste before she writhed, hips bucking. “Good God, Henry.” Nails dug into his scalp, raking the sensitive skin.

  “Do you enjoy this?”

  “I enjoy it so much that I’m going to ignore how ridiculous we both must look. Will you do a bit more? Or a lot more?”

  Laughing, he pointed his tongue, found her hottest part, and licked at it with the gentle pressure he would use on the smallest paintbrush, for the most delicate coloring. The most precious, detailed part of a painting.

  This time, there was no subsiding. This time, her fingers wove into his hair, pressing him against her hot flesh; this time she grew wetter for him, and her breath came in gasps. She trembled on her feet, and then she began to tremble all over, and as he tongued her, harder and faster and hungry and thirsty, she came apart in his mouth with shudders and cries.

  She sank to her knees at once, wrung out. Henry rocked onto the balls of his feet then sat on the floor and folded his legs before him. They must look even more ridiculous now, facing each other on the morning room floor with their clothes half off.

  To his eyes, though, Frances looked beautiful: hair tangled, cheeks flushed, lips inviting.

  He just wondered one thing. “Why did it please you that time?”

  “What we just did?”

  He nodded. “Last time we tried that, you didn’t like it.”

  Frances let her head loll back. “How could I not like that? It’s… well, you can guess. You saw how much I liked it.”

  She folded her arms and rubbed her hands over them again, shivering with a final spasm of pleasure. “Last time, I felt I was doing wrong by you, keeping secrets, and I couldn’t forget that.” She spread her hands. “So I couldn’t forget myself.”

  Henry brushed tangled hair back from her forehead, traced the straight line of her nose, bumped over her lips, the indentation below them, then her chin. Whisked down her neck. Stopped.

  “No more blame. That’s all in the past.” He leaned forward, kissed her furrowed brow.

  “But the past… it doesn’t go away,” Frances insisted. Henry could feel her tension under his lips.

  He sat back. “You’re right. It doesn’t.”

  He shrugged his right shoulder, allowing the dead weight of his arm to swing and dangle. “The past is here with us. It shapes the present. It matters.” Of course his arm mattered; it would always matter. He would always regret the loss.

  Yet without it, there was so much he would never have gained. His life had been routed onto a whole new path—one with obstacles and stumbles, but one he would not have to walk alone. He took a deep breath. “But it mustn’t prevent us from finding joy.”

  Frances looked at her hands in her lap. She smoothed them over the translucent fabric of her chemise, then took both of his hands in her own and pulled them to her heart.

  “Can you feel this?” she asked, her eyes deep as a forest.

  Henry wanted to. He really wanted to. He longed to. But in his right arm, as always, there was nothing but a blank where feeling used to be.

  But in his heart…

  “Yes,” he said, and he knew she understood.

  She smiled, a bit sadly. “How did you get so wise?”

  A short laugh popped out. “Wise. Well, I haven’t been called that in a while.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, holding his hands and pulling them toward her. “You are. Very. Wise.”

  When she opened her eyes, they were almost nose-to-nose. They breathed the same air, smiled the same smile.

  She released his hands. “Very wise. So wise, I think you deserve a reward.”

  The air of the room was still and warm on his skin. Frances pressed at his shoulders until he was laid out, flat, and his back ground into the coarse wool of the carpet. Sun cut through the window and filled his eyes, and he closed them against the dazzling brightness.

  The world was nothing but touch, nothing but the sun, and her fingers gliding over his skin. And then it was her mouth, hot as a fire and wet as a lake. Impossible, yet it was happening. He was buried, and he was flying. He could not stand it; he could not bear for it to end.

  His back arched in a silent cry.

  His eyes snapped open. “Come with me.”

  She leaned forward, the tip of her tongue peeking between her lips. “Now?”

  “Yes.” He could not manage more than one syllable. He could only pull her atop him.

  They would go through life together. They could come together too.

  He laughed, and that made it even better.

  Twenty-Eight

  Their marriage was set to take place in two weeks’ time at Tallant House. As a wedding present to the couple, Jem helped Henry obtain a special license. He also sent a reluctant Sowerberry to Winter Cottage for several days, to install a few servants and make sure the small house was ready to receive the newlywed couple.

  Four days before the wedding, Henry sat in Jem’s study looking over an account book for Winter Cottage. The usual assortment of post littered the broad desk, and Jem whistled as he sliced open invitations and notes and bills with swift flicks of a penknife.

  As the knife slit paper after paper, the whistling grew louder, until there was no chance of concentrating on the accounts. As of three years before, Winter Cottage had seemed to be in solid shape, but for all that Henry could tell amidst Jem’s auditory barrage, it might have been conquered by mermaids since then.

  The whistling stopped for an instant, then drew out long and slow in a piercing fall. Then silence.

  “Jem?”

  Getting no reply, Henry snapped the ledger shut. Standing, he faced his brother over the back of his chair. “Has something happened?”

  Jem’s mouth was hanging open as he stared at a paper in his hand. Henry’s voice seemed to jar him back to awareness. His face grew faintly pink. “This must be some kind
of maggoty humbug. Here, take a look, Hal.”

  He released the inscribed paper from an unsteady hand before Henry could take hold of it. It flipped open as it drifted slowly to the floor, and from its folds a paper rectangle fell next to the desk.

  “What is this?” Henry crouched to pluck up the smaller paper. “A bank draft?”

  “I shouldn’t have opened it except that it was mixed in with my letters. Sorry about that.”

  “Wait. It’s for me?” Henry rose to his feet and squinted at the paper, wondering if the name was a mistake. “Someone has sent me a bank draft for a thousand pounds. This can’t be right. What on God’s green…”

  Sussex. It came from Sussex, he noticed. “Was there a letter with this?”

  Jem handed it over with a nod.

  Dear Mr. Middlebrook,

  It is my pleasure to send a portion of my daughter’s dowry to you, as a sign of my esteem for you and my faith in your honorable intentions. The remainder of the amount—a further eleven thousand pounds—I will gladly transfer to you upon receiving news of your marriage.

  This amount has been set aside for Frances since the time of her birth, on the condition that she marry in accordance with my wishes. Please do not think ill of me for having withheld it from her at the time of her first marriage. I hope it can be of use to you as you build a new life together during what I hope will be many long years of peace.

  All my best regards for your happiness.

  Sincerely,

  Sir Wallace Ward, Bart

  P.S.—I should be pleased to receive a letter from Frances if she would care to write me.

  “I say, Hal.” Jem had sidled over to read the letter over Henry’s shoulder. “A dowry for Frances. Who’d have thought you were marrying an heiress?”

  Henry shook his head and folded the draft back inside the letter. “Not I.”

  Well. First a father, now financial security. This was a very fine set of wedding presents for Frances.