“I’m not. I’m only giving you space to breathe.” He smoothed her hair and looked to the side, at the remains of the shattered swan. His shaft was still half inside her as he moved her away from the mess and cradled her in his arms. “I was too rough with you,” he said.
“No.”
“I was.”
She shook her head. “It felt marvelous, even if you were a little rough.”
He lifted her face so she was forced to meet his gaze. Did he see everything she felt? The pleasure and relief, the tremulous adoration? The fear that he might still dismiss her as a child?
“Was I all right?” she asked. “You must tell me if anything was lacking. I’m eager to learn what you like best in these matters, if you would like me to be more vocal, or less vocal, or more active, or less active, or learn any sort of tricks that might add to your—”
He silenced her with a kiss. His leg came over hers and he drew her closer so his manhood nestled between them. To her shock, it was hard and stiff again. As he kissed her, he parted her legs and eased his way inside.
“Oh, you would like to...again,” she breathed against his lips.
“Yes. Oh, God.” He sounded like he was praying. “Absolutely. Again.”
*** *** ***
August came awake in the morning with a start, disarranging the cushions he’d piled before the fireplace. Somehow, in last night’s passionate endeavors, they had never made it up to bed. A hearthside blanket preserved Minette’s modesty as she slumbered in his arms, her head cradled against his chest. He hugged her closer before he realized what had awakened him. A tall, blond visitor stood staring at them just inside the door.
“Warren. Jesus.” August angled his body to shield Minette from her brother.
“Everything’s in order, then? Very well.” Warren turned on his heel to leave. August’s irritated exclamation had roused Minette to half-wakefulness.
“Is it morning already?” she sighed, wrapping her arms about his neck.
“No, darling. Don’t wake yet. I’ll be right back.”
He extricated himself from his drowsy wife and jumped into his breeches, and chased Warren down the hall.
“You might have knocked,” he said to his friend’s back.
“I wish I had.”
“What are you doing here?”
Warren turned. His eyes flicked with distaste to August’s bare chest. “You’re not dressed.”
“Why are you here? What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?” he snapped. “I wanted to check on my sister. I wanted to ask her again if she wouldn’t rather leave. And then I find you...and her...” His lips twisted in a grimace.
“You ought to be happy.”
“That you bedded her in the front parlor, in the middle of the floor? You’ve always been such an elegant fellow. Just what I hoped for my sister.”
August had made a mistake when he ruined Minette, and made a whole world of mistakes since then, but he was getting damned tired of Warren’s contempt. “When are you going to forgive me?” he asked, throwing out his hands. “Five years? Ten years?”
“My wife is waiting in the carriage.” Warren moved toward the door. August followed, disregarding the butler who stood holding Warren’s gloves and hat.
“Will you never forgive me? It would be helpful to know. Talk to me, Warren. Out of respect for our friendship, talk to me.”
“You want to know when I’ll forgive you?” Warren said, turning on him. “I’ll forgive you when I forget the look on my sister’s face as you foisted her off onto me and my wife. ‘
Oh, it’s Josephine’s first baby. I think you ought to go.
’”
His unflattering mimicry made August’s fingers curl into fists. “You’re the one who encouraged her to go,” August reminded him.
“After you begged me to do so. Let’s not rewrite the bloody farce.”
This was the frosted glass persona August had wished to possess, the persona Minette had stubbornly thawed last night. Warren had mastered it, and was freezing him to the bone. The man took his gloves from the butler and pulled them on with irritable haste. “I’m leaving my sister with you because she would want it. I’m traveling two days’ journey away, to be with my wife and await the arrival of our child. But if I hear the barest whisper of suspicion that you are mistreating her, from Arlington or anyone else—”
“Arlington won’t spy on me for you,” August interjected.
“He already has been, you idiot. And if he reports that she’s not chirpy as a goddamned summer lark, I’ll bring her to Warren Manor and you’ll never get her back. You’ll never see her or speak to her again. If you’re careless with her heart, if you extinguish in the slightest her brightness and
joie de vivre
, I’ll make it my life’s work to destroy you. Are we perfectly clear?”
His friend was quivering with barely restrained fury. August could feel it, if he couldn’t understand it. Hadn’t Warren noted Minette slumbering peacefully in his arms?
“We have come to terms, your sister and I,” said August, crossing his arms over his bare chest.
Warren snorted. “‘Come to terms’? Is that supposed to paint a picture of marital bliss? Because it doesn’t, really.”
“We’re figuring things out,” August insisted. “It’s taken time, but we’re finding our way. I love Minette and I’d never cause her hurt.”
“You’ve done it plenty of times before.”
“I’m changed. She’s changed me because she...she knows me and accepts me for who I am. She’s patient and understanding, unlike her brother,” he added in a reproachful tone.
“It’s true, my patience and understanding are at an end,” Warren said. “I’d advise you to remember that, Barrymore.”
With those cool and cutting words, he accepted his hat from the butler and stalked out the door.
Barrymore House’s courtyard was astir with grooms, horses, and servants on the blustery, late winter morning. Minette wished she could think of some way to calm August’s mother. The nervous woman hovered over the last of the bags, picking up one and setting it by another.
“Mother,” said August. “Let the groom handle it.”
“I don’t want to forget anything,” she fussed, trying to stay busy although there was nothing left to do.
“Everything is in the luggage coach. And if you’ve forgotten anything, simply send a note and we’ll convey it at once. Royston Hall isn’t so far.”
Two months after her husband’s death, the dowager was finally on her way to stay with Catherine, August’s oldest sister, in Hampshire. The lady’s health and energy had blossomed in the past weeks, and she’d become less waspish as a result. Like August, she seemed to be healing from Lord Barrymore’s legacy of roughness and abuse, and in fact was looking forward to spending time with her grandchildren. But first, there was this emotional goodbye, this departure from the house where she’d endured so much grief.
“It’s going to be fine, Mother,” August said, embracing her. “I wish you wouldn’t worry. Minette and I will take care of everything here, and at Barrymore Park.”
“You have always taken care of everything, my son, and I bless you for it.” Minette heard tears in her mother-in-law’s voice. The lady pulled away from August, took out a clumsily embroidered handkerchief—Minette’s handiwork—and pressed it daintily to the corner of one eye. “I won’t cry, or become maudlin.”
“No, you won’t,” said August with a smile. “You are off on a splendid adventure.”
“And you, my dear.” She turned to Minette. “Take good care of my son. As you always have.” She gave her a warm hug and released her. “Take care of yourself as well.” She lowered her voice to a whisper quite loud enough for August to overhear. “I would like more little ones, you know. One can never have enough.”
“But of course you will have more grandchildren,” Minette assured her. “My nephews and nieces must have cousins to play with when they visit Barrymore Park. And you know, Lord Townsend and his wife have just had a baby daughter named Felicity, which means ‘happiness.’ Isn’t that lovely? And my brother and his wife shall have their child soon. It’s my dearest hope they will all grow up together and be lifelong friends.”
Some emotion flickered in her husband’s eyes, and she remembered that his friendship with Warren was terribly strained at the moment. If only Minette knew how to fix the rift.
“I shall pray for you, dear Minette,” said the dowager, “and write to you soon.” The woman gave her one more peck on the cheek and did the same to her son.
Dear Minette.
The haughty lady had finally left off calling her Wilhelmina, and become something more like the mother Minette had never known. Indeed, she would miss August’s mother when she was gone.
“You must come and visit often,” Minette said as August helped the lady up the stairs and to her seat. Her lady’s maid had already settled into the other cushioned bench. “Try to stay warm. Would you like another blanket? Have you enough refreshments to last until you come to the first inn?”
“Minette, she’ll be fine. Mother, have a safe trip.” He squeezed her hand and stepped back to let the groom shut the door. His mother peered out the window and waved at them, her eyes alight with affection.
Yes, the dowager had changed a great deal. So much had changed in the two months since August’s father had died. Everyone was happier, as if some dark and poisonous cloud had lifted off the house and set them free from their emotional shackles. They mourned Lord Barrymore in public, in the proper fashion, but in private August and Minette set about creating a new tone in the house, one of kindness and patience, and comfortable warmth. August began to write new songs with less onerous chords and more bright harmonies. It was as if they swept Barrymore’s legacy from the corners, getting it out of the house like so much unwanted dust.
And now everyone called her Lady Barrymore, and August Lord Barrymore, except for Minette, who was still getting used to the transition. He said she might call him August as long as she liked, until they had a son to inherit the title. With the increased, almost frantic pace of their love play these days, she imagined a child would arrive very soon.
Making up for lost time
, August said whenever he took her to bed. He would stay all through the night, every night, stroking and caressing her, and teaching her to please him in deliciously carnal ways. He pleased her too, doing things to her body she’d never seen in any of the books. She must write her own book one day, a romantic novel. The hero would be tall and reserved, with jet black hair and brooding hazel eyes. He would be a grand pianist and composer, who very much enjoyed debauching his heroine...
“Minette?”
She turned to her husband, and noticed she was still waving into the distance, although the carriage had disappeared from view. “Well, your mother is on her way,” she said, dropping her hand and hiding her embarrassment by fussing at her skirts. “She will be happier at Royston, don’t you think?”
“Indeed. The change of scenery will suit her well.” He offered his arm and led her back into the house. “We finally have the place to ourselves, darling. What should we do?”
Minette thought a moment. “I suppose the parlors and hallways might benefit from an overhaul. A bit of brightening, perhaps some fresh paint and decorations. And now that we’ve moved into the east hall, we ought to do up our old rooms for guests, don’t you think? And before too much time passes, we really must spruce up the nursery wing.” She noticed her husband’s arching brow, and the libidinous glint in his eyes. “Oh, you weren’t talking about renovations, were you?”
“No.”
“You meant...what shall we do...together...now that we’re alone.”
“Yes.”
Minette gasped as he swept her into his arms. “Good gracious. Where are you carrying me?”
“To my bedroom.”
“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “That would be appropriate.”
She clung to his shoulders as he carried her up the stairs, right past the statue-like footman at the top. It was the same footman who used to collect her from various places in the house when she roamed in her sleep. She never roamed anymore—too blissfully exhausted, once her husband was finished with her. Her cheeks burned, although the servant pretended not to see either of them. It was rather unrefined to be carried about by one’s husband, especially straight to his bedroom, but in the past few weeks he’d proven himself an unabashedly ardent lover, and she enjoyed their private activities very much.
“Oh, my,” she said as he set her down in the middle of his bedroom. Rather than move into Lord and Lady Barrymore’s fusty old chambers, they had redecorated their own wing with adjoining rooms—and greater privacy. “How can you carry me so far without toppling over?”
He said nothing in reply, only set about removing her clothes. She tried to help as he untied and unlaced her, then watched in dismay as he tossed each garment on the floor. “Perhaps I should put them over a chair or something,” she suggested.
“I’ll put you over a chair,” he replied. “Leave them.” He lifted her shift above her head and tossed it down beside her gown and stockings and garter ties. She gazed up at him, thrilling to the hunger in his gaze. He pulled her closer, teasing the tip of her nipple as she arched against him. His buttons felt cold against her front.
“Aren’t you going to undress too?” she asked.
He undid his coat only, and threw it over the back of a chair. “We’ve a rather unpleasant matter to take care of first. I can’t seem to find the paddle Warren gave us. The one I keep in my desk drawer.”
Minette swallowed hard, staring at the outline of her husband’s muscular arms beneath his shirt. “Oh, dear. I suppose it has gone missing in the midst of all the moving. Perhaps it was mistakenly packed up with your mother’s things! How embarrassing, for her to find it. What will she think? Oh, do you imagine she will take it for a bread paddle?”
“I don’t think so.” He unfastened one sleeve, and began to roll it up. “She’d know at once it was a disciplinary paddle, and with your initials carved into it, no less.”
Minette put her hands to her cheeks to hide the rising flush. “This is terrible. Well, I guess we shall have to muddle on without it.”
“Minette,” he said, rolling up his other sleeve.