It Takes Two to Tangle (27 page)

Jem choked on a bite of eggs. “Not in the dining room, surely.” Stuffed into the corners of the dining room, the three musicians were beginning to look uncomfortable.

Henry didn't feel uncomfortable at all. At last, he felt a blessed certainty. He'd returned home at last, and he'd carry it with him always.

“No, indeed,” Emily said. “When everyone's eaten their fill, we'll return to the drawing room.”

Frances lifted her eyebrows at Henry, and he nodded. Certainly, he could dance today.

“All right,” she agreed with a wicked half smile. “If Mr. Middlebrook cares to invite me to stand up with him, I suppose I'll agree.”

Caro looked equally mischievous. “Bart, we can have that waltz at last, since you won't be pressed into service at the pianoforte this morning.”

Bart fumbled his fork. “Yes. Yes, absolutely we could. I'd be—it would be my honor.” He turned the pale pink of a tomato's inside.

“Glad you stayed for the wedding?” Henry murmured to his old friend, and Bart shot him a sideways glance, a smile.

This room contained Henry's family, the people most precious to him in the world. Jem and Emily. Bart, close as a second brother. And today it had grown to include Caro, and—dearest of all—Frances herself.

Twang
.

Oh. And those three musicians too. One of the violinists had shifted his instrument, clearly wondering when the quality were going to cease this bizarre, buoyant behavior.

Certainly not today.

“I think,” Henry said, “I'd like to dance with my wife now. Frances, do you agree?”

He held out his hand to her, and she took it at once, pushing her chair back in a swift scrape and allowing Henry to pull her to her feet. Lovely as any painting. Art come to life.

“I do.”

March 1816

“A letter for you, Henry,” Frances called as she carried the post past the east wall of Winter Cottage, trailing her hand on its rough stone exterior.

Henry was, as usual, in the garden. He was to be found there every day, unless the weather was cold enough to thicken his paints into uselessness. His art students found many more subjects for study outdoors than in. Besides, he wanted to spare Frances the smell of the turpentine used to clean his brushes whenever they worked in oils.

She brushed through dried grass and found the gravel path to Henry's favorite spot for lessons, amidst a tangle of winter-sere rosebushes and a view of the ancient stone bridge that crossed the creek to the east of Winter Cottage. A frozen crust still blanketed the creek; it was too early for the damask roses to bloom. Soon, though, they would be putting forth leaves and tiny buds. Frances rubbed one of the rosebush's waxy stems between her fingertips. This would be the first time she saw them blossom in her new home.

Crushed stone crunched under her feet as she stepped closer, alerting Henry to her presence. “Frances. Did you say something?”

He smiled as he turned from his canvas and rubbed his arm across his forehead, shoving wind-ruffled hair out of his face. His hand bristled with paintbrushes, all stained with different oils.

“Yes. You've got a letter, I said.” She held out the folded missive, but he shook his head.

“Go ahead and open it. I'm still packing up from Ellery Todd's lesson. He's got a good eye, but no interest in learning about pigment and paint. He only wants to draw nude women.”

Frances smirked. “Would you have been any different at the age of thirteen?”

“I suppose not. I'm not much different now.”

He set the fistful of brushes down on a brightly painted orange-red baroque table, the ornate piece incongruous in this outdoor setting. “Perhaps I ought to refresh my memory. How long, do you think, has it been since I saw a nude woman? At least seven or eight hours.”

He crossed the few feet to Frances and wrapped his arm around her, pinning her arms to her side. “Mmm.” He pressed his face to her neck, inhaled. “You smell… not like turpentine. Delicious.”

She laughed. “I chose the scent just for you, you silver-tongued charmer.”

After seven months of marriage, they'd fallen into a comfortable pattern that still surprised her with its easy fit. They spent a lazy—or strenuous—morning together, then taught students each afternoon. Jem and Emily had canvassed the
ton
for promising young artists who needed a bit more study before haunting the Royal Academy as Henry had once done.

Considering the inconvenient location of Winter Cottage just outside London—a bumpy carriage ride back and forth, plus the lesson itself, could take a student half a day—it was surprising that Henry had as many students as he wanted and more than he could take. Knowing Emily, Frances guessed that the sociable countess had pinned down interest by embroidering Henry's military past.

That didn't matter, though. Once proud parents got their curiosity out of the way, they left their young artists under Henry's tutelage because of his talent. His own painting was still shaky, but his eye for color and his patience as a teacher were unmatched.

Frances's memory was an unqualified boon, for she taught students in the history of art, and had the pleasure of being right and giving advice every day. When not teaching, she kept everything else running smoothly: scheduling students, checking stores of paints and pigments, arranging for young Cecil Sharpton to come over from nearby Sidcup to mill paints for Henry when he was getting low.

And when life ran slowly, London was not far away. Close enough for Jem and Emily to visit. Even Caroline had come to stay once.

And Frances's father. He'd come for Christmas, settling his rheumatic bones into a squashy armchair for several weeks and spoiling their dogs with treat after treat. The bustle of the holiday had gone a long way toward filling awkward silences and the distance of long years of separation. Frances wrote to him faithfully now. She would not be lost to him again.

Frances broke Henry's hold around her arms and slid them around his waist, pulling his hips to hers. “Are you finished for the day? I can have one of the servants stow all of your supplies.”

He squinted in the afternoon light. Against his tanned skin, his eyes were a startling blue.

“Yes, I've been out here long enough. It's chilly for March. I hadn't noticed before.” He bumped his forehead against hers. “You must have been keeping me warm.”

“Since I was inside our house all morning while you painted with the aspiring nudist, that's not possible.”

“Ah, but every time he asked about drawing naked women, I thought of you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just open your letter, you wicked man.”

He winked at her, then took the fat folded paper from her hand. His brows knit. “This can't be right.”

“What is it?”

He flipped the letter to show her its reverse. “It's the Great Seal. Why would I be getting a letter from the Prince Regent?”

“Because Emily hounded him into calling you to court?”

“She wouldn't be so unkind.” He tucked the letter high under his right arm and cracked the seal with his left thumb. Such gestures were getting smoother, more natural as the months passed.

His sapphire-blue eyes flicked over the lines of the letter, then he raised his eyebrows and pulled his mouth down in the expression Frances thought of as
well-there-it-is-then.

Sure enough. “Well. There it is, then.” He handed the letter to Frances.

She read the finely inscribed lines quickly. “They want to give you a medal?”

“Waterloo,” he murmured. “Always Waterloo.”

“They're calling it the Waterloo Medal. But Henry, it's for
you
. For the men who fought at Quatre Bras and Ligny too.”

“Then why call it a Waterloo Medal?”

She met his eyes over the thick paper. The loosened wax seal flapped in a faint breeze. “I don't know. Maybe just because it was the last battle. Everyone was so glad when the war was over.”

He inclined his head. “That's true. I certainly was.”

He folded over the top of the paper in Frances's hand. “Waterloo.” He sounded amused this time, as if Waterloo were a puppy that kept yanking the draperies down in a bid for attention.

Frances squeezed his hand. “The Prince Regent might just be amusing himself with pomp or seeking to honor Wellington. But it would be impolite of you to refuse the medal. Being so close to London, we could easily journey for you to accept it in person.”

Henry groaned.

She trailed her free hand down his chest, teasing. “And if we give enough notice, Emily could plan a great ball in your honor. You could wear your medal and be the center of all attention.”

“You paint a very vivid picture, my dear wife.”

She slipped fingers between the buttons of his waistcoat. “Is it to your liking?”

“Some of it. This part.” His heartbeat thudded strong under her fingertips, and he flexed his arm to pull her fully against his body.

Frances cleared her throat, tried to summon the companion's brisk voice. “I'm talking about London.” The crisp tone was hardly convincing.

He shook his head. “As you said, I'm just glad it's over. I don't need a medal. I haven't needed one for a long time.” His fingers found hers, entwined with them. “Although I wouldn't mind going back to London. Students would be glad to call on me in a more convenient location. I could even finish ruining Emily's Axminster carpet with spilled paint.”

“She would love that even more than hosting a ball for you.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. When he smiled, it was bright and warm even in the bracing March air. Never that desperate, dented look anymore.

“I would welcome the chance to see Caroline again,” Frances mused. “And you could visit with Bart. He'll probably return to London soon.”

“You're very persuasive. All right. If you want to go, we'll go.” With a quick, fluid gesture, he raised their linked hands and twirled her as if in a scandalous waltz, so that she faced away from him, turned toward the house. He slid a hand down her back and placed a heated kiss just where her neck met her shoulder. She shivered, and not only because the breeze quickened, ruffling her skirts and nipping at her exposed skin.

“Now let's go inside. There's something I need to tell you.”

“What is that?”

“Oh, nothing, really. It's just an excuse to get you back into bed.” He stepped up to walk at her side toward the house. “Wasn't that a favorite trick of yours before we married? You see, I have a good memory too.”

Writing historical romance is a wonderful job for those who like to poke through the details of the past. For this story, I got the chance to study historic paint pigments with fantastical names: orpiment, atramentum, cinnabar. I also asked my medically-inclined relatives questions like, “What kind of injury would take away the use of my hero's arm, but wouldn't require its amputation?” Ah, research.

For the record, Henry has
Erb's palsy
, a type of paralysis due to torn nerves (in the brachial plexus, if you too are medically inclined). Though a recovery wasn't possible during the Regency, if Henry lived today, he could have surgery to correct much of the nerve damage.

Soldiers who fought in the battles of Ligny, Quatre Bras, and Waterloo really did receive a medal. Its name? As Henry says: “Waterloo. Always Waterloo.”

As for the chilly spring at the book's end, the year of 1816 was extremely cold, probably due to a massive volcanic eruption in Indonesia in 1815. But in Winter Cottage, we can assume that Henry and Frances found ways to remain quite cozy.

I always thank my husband first, because he's been a wonderful support ever since I began writing romance. Thanks, hon—I couldn't write heroes without you.

Many thanks to the Sourcebooks team: my editor Deb Werksman; Susie Benton; and the art, marketing, and publicity teams. It's a pleasure to venture into Regency England with you!

Thanks, as always, to Paige Wheeler, for her wondrous expertise and guidance. I also owe a great debt to my brother, who helped me figure out the perfect way to injure Henry, and to my eagle-eyed beta reader Amanda. Gratitude and huzzahs to my darling family and friends, and to the bright and inspiring authors I've had the pleasure of getting to know over the past few years.

And finally, thanks to my wonderful readers for finding my stories. In honor of Henry and Frances, a special shout-out to all you lefties out there.

Historical romance author Theresa Romain pursued an impractical education that allowed her to read everything she could get her hands on. She then worked for universities and libraries, where she got to read even more. Eventually she started writing, too. She lives with her family in the Midwest.

Coming soon from Sourcebooks Casablanca

To Charm a Naughty Countess

by Theresa Romain

Caroline, the popular widowed Countess of Stratton, sits alone at the pinnacle of London society and has no wish to remarry. But when the brilliant, reclusive Duke of Wyverne—her counterpart in an old scandal—returns to town after a long absence, she finds herself as enthralled as ever.

Michael must save his family fortunes by wedding an heiress, but Caroline has vowed never again to sell herself in marriage. She offers him an affair, hoping to master her long-lasting fascination with him—but he remains steadfast, as always, in his dedication to purpose and his dukedom.

The only way she can keep him near is to help him find the wealthy bride he requires. As she guides him through society, Caroline realizes that she's lost her heart again. But if she pursues the only man she's ever loved, she'll lose the life she's built and on which she has pinned her sense of worth. And if Michael—who has everything to lose—ever hopes to win her hand, he must open his long-shuttered heart.

For more Theresa Romain, visit:

www.sourcebooks.com