It Takes Two to Tangle (26 page)

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.

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.

For his part, he was happy enough just to have Frances.

***

Henry did not expect any further surprises that day. An enormous bank draft and a country household run by phantom mermaids were surely eventful enough.

Which was why, when he was sitting at the morning room's desk practicing his penmanship in an endless string of AEIOUs and sometimes Ys too, he was only concerned with trying to ignore the feeling of being watched by the painted figures in the room's mural. The goddess Athena had the look of a wretched termagant.

A tap at the door caught him unawares.

“Come,” he called. He sanded his paper, then turned to see who had entered.

“Bart.” Henry blinked. “You're back in London? I thought you'd be shooting partridge around Beckworth by now.”

Bart held a high-crowned beaver hat behind his back, tapping its fashionably wide brim against the backs of his knees. “Oh, well. I wanted to see how things went with the letter. My letter. Ah, the one I wrote to Mrs. Whittier.”

“As well as you can imagine. We're getting married in a few days. Maybe you didn't know, since I sent word to Beckworth.”

“Are you? That's excellent. Well done, Hal.” Tap, tap, tap, went the hat behind his back.

Henry's brow furrowed. “Bart, you've never been a good liar. I can see you've heard the news already. And you're going to mar the shape of what I'm sure is a very fashionable hat if you keep whacking at the brim. What's going on?”

Bart stared at the floor, then said in a rush, “I understand if you don't want me at your wedding—”

“What?”

“—because our friendship's fallen by the wayside in recent years.”

Henry held up his hand. “Bart. Wait. I didn't keep up any friendships in recent years. It just wasn't possible while I was in the military. It had nothing to do with you or our friendship.”

The hat flipped in Bart's hands, fumbled, fell to the ground. “Sorry,” Bart said in a tight voice as he bent and retrieved his hat. His face was redder when he stood than one might have expected, considering he'd only been bent over for a second or two.

As if he'd been rapped on the head with a candle, light dawned in Henry's mind. Bart felt hurt. And if the situations were reversed, Henry might well have felt the same. How else would he react if an old friend returned after years of silence, let him learn of a serious injury by chance, then largely avoided his company in Town?

It had nothing to do with Bart, just as Henry had said. But maybe he understood his old friend better than ever now. Just as quiet Bart always had, Henry now knew the feeling of separation within a crowd, of light pleasantries weighing heavily on a mind distracted.

And Bart, like Jem and Emily, remembered Henry's best self. He gave Henry another chance to reach out and remember it himself. Bart's unquestioning loyalty meant all the more after Henry's long separation from everyone he knew.

“Bart,” Henry said. His old friend had begun to turn toward the door. “Bart, to whom did I entrust the first letter to Frances?”

Bart turned back to Henry, looking puzzled.

“
You
, Bart. I trusted
you
. I knew Frances thought you a kind man, and she would value a letter from you. Your friendship is worth a great deal.” Henry smiled. “To me.”

Bart's face reddened. “Oh, well. It was—I mean, I was happy to do it.”

“Thank you. I am very grateful for that.” Henry nodded. “For everything.”

It was not the most articulate thanks, but he hoped Bart would understand. If Henry was any more effusive, he would embarrass them both.

“I'm afraid,” Henry continued, idly straightening papers on the desk, “that I can't hunt anymore. But I'd still be pleased to go to Beckworth next autumn.”

Bart scuffed a booted foot in the carpet and gave a rascally grin. “That's no kind of a problem, Hal. You can help the hounds retrieve the game.”

Henry chuckled. “I've been a son of a bitch to you often enough. That might be the perfect way to repay me.”

Bart laughed, ducking his head. “Well. I'll see you next hunting season then. I suppose you're busy today.”

“Not so busy. Emily's working herself into a frenzy over my wedding preparations and won't allow me to do a thing. There's nothing in the world that makes her happier than mild domestic chaos.” Henry motioned toward a chair. “Please, sit.”

With another tap of his hat against his legs, Bart sidled to a chair and perched at the edge of it.

“I'll probably see you again long before next autumn,” Henry said. “In fact, if you don't have to head to Beckworth immediately, I'd be honored if you'd stay in London to attend the wedding. It will be just for family, here at Tallant House.”

“Do you mean it?” Bart leaned forward. The chair tipped, upsetting his balance, and he spent a few chagrined seconds rearranging himself into a dignified posture.

“Yes, of course. Though I should warn you, Emily is determined that any gentleman who attends should wear a striped cravat. She insists they are—”

Together, Henry and Bart chorused, “All the crack.”

Bart laughed. “She's right, you know.”

Henry raised his hand in a gesture of surrender. He didn't know these things. But it didn't matter. He'd relearn it all in time, as much as he needed to.

Bart twirled his hat on his forefinger. “Do you have time for one more ride in the curricle before you settle down?”

“I'm sure there's time for that,” Henry said.

“Where shall we go?”

The old question. Henry remembered running free, not caring what the answer was.

He didn't really care now. Anywhere would be just fine.

“I don't know.” Henry let a grin spread across his face. “Where would you like to go? We'll go anywhere you like.”

As Bart grinned back, Henry snapped his fingers in a gesture of remembrance. “As long as we stop at Gunter's on the way back. If we drive hell for leather across Berkeley Square, we might be able to bring Jem home an ice before it melts.”

“So we shall,” said Bart. “I say, would you care to drive the team?”

***

Henry drove the team. They never broke out of a walk, and horses and men all survived, though the ice was almost completely melted by the time it arrived at Tallant House. Still, Lord Tallant devoured it with indecorous glee.

Four days later, Henry did
not
wear a striped cravat. Yet he and Frances still contrived to be married.

Jem manfully choked back tears during the brief ceremony, and Frances beamed up into Henry's face as he clasped her hands together. She was swathed in white satin, pale as cloud. Hair dark as earth, eyes steady as a tree.

He could not help his flight of fancy as he spoke his vows. She was his world.

After they were pronounced man and wife, the newlyweds and their few guests piled into the dining room for a wedding breakfast that Emily assured them would possess all the pomp missing from the ceremony itself.

She was right. Henry looked over piles of brioche and cakes and eggs and sliced meats with a wondering eye.

“What do you think?” Emily said to Henry in a low voice, as Jem began to pour chocolate out of a silver pot as neatly as any footman.

Henry thought there was far too much food for only a half-dozen people—the same half dozen, in fact, who'd come to dine at Tallant House, cheat at cards, and criticize Henry's fireplace screen.

How much they had been through since then.

“Thank you, Emily. You are very kind.” He offered her a smile, knowing she would consider his gratitude the best repayment for her efforts.
Not
just
now. Always. You are very kind
.

“Chocolate, Em?” Jem held out a cup. Emily pulled a face and shook her head. “Lady Stratton, then?”

Caro took the cup from him as they all arranged themselves around the laden table. “I simply have to tell you all something, though it may not be dignified enough for the occasion.”

“Ah—do we have to be dignified today?” Frances made a mock frown. “I hadn't planned on that. After we're done with breakfast, I thought we would all dance a hornpipe on the table.”

“Or a minuet,” Henry said, nudging his foot into hers under the table until rose stained her cheeks. Henry felt her toes flex within her thin slippers, as if they were turning together again in the center of a ballroom, with eyes only for each other.

Caro set her cup down on the table with a hollow clink. “Dance if you must, but for heaven's sake, hear me out. You'll all
adore
this. Two days ago, I was looking through the sweetest china shop, trying to find a vase to replace the one I was unfortunately required to throw. And who should walk in, just as I was lifting the vase up to look at the potter's marks?”

Bart spluttered into his tea. “Not Wadsworth.”

Caro nodded. “Exactly. As soon as he clapped eyes on me—well, I've never seen a man turn so pale or spin on his heel so quickly.”

Henry laughed. “Jittery, is he?”

“Awfully. I don't suppose he'll be able to look at a tree for some time either after what you did to him, Henry.”

Emily took a dainty bite from a slice of brioche. “I can't say I've got any sympathy for the man. He's had undeserved good luck, timing his humiliations for the end of the season. By next spring, everyone will have forgotten them.”

“
He
won't forget,” Caro said. “I will do my utmost to make sure of that. Nearly every house has a vase in its drawing room. I only hope I happen to call on someone at the same time as Wadsworth. I shall draw my fingers across the vase and watch him turn pale as a fish belly. It will be…” She bared her straight teeth. “Smashing.”

Before Henry could reply, Sowerberry ushered in two violinists and a man carrying an ivory flute. “As you requested, my lady,” the butler said with a bow to Emily.

“What is this, Em?” Jem asked.

“A little surprise for our newlyweds,” Emily said, failing to keep a pleased smile from her face. “You've only ever had one dance. You simply must have one more before you leave London. It's my wedding present to you.”

Frances set her cup down so quickly that a drop of coffee sloshed over the edge. “I was only joking, my lady—Emily. I really didn't plan to dance a hornpipe this morning. Especially not on the table.”

Emily dismissed this protest with a wave of her hand. “Not
that
. But you haven't danced for weeks. You simply must dance on your wedding day.”