Betsy and Michael decided they would go to London toward the end of February, which was just a few days away. This would allow some time for the to socialize before Michael had to take up his springtime residence at Bridgewater Park. He left it to Betsy’s preference if she wished to follow him there in late March or remain in town with Maggie and Philip. Eager as he was to begin the horses’ training in earnest, he looked forward with pleasure to squiring Betsy to the various functions in town.
He hadn’t been to London for the Season since three years earlier, and that experience hadn’t been one he would have wished to soon repeat. The cold women of society, and the deceptive manner in which the majority of the gentry presented themselves, were things to be avoided. But with the prospect of his having his sweet and lovely wife on his arm, he could contemplate without distaste the social intercourse open to them.
It had been several weeks since their reconciliation after Christmas, and the two of them had been immersed in their respective pursuits regarding the estate’s return to its former grandeur. Betsy saw to the placement of the previous Lady Balsam’s needlework about the manor, along with several of her most favorite pieces of her own work. With every new addition Michael was prevailed upon to give his approval, which he did with little reluctance.
He encouraged her in all her decorating endeavors, and was pleased that the subject of the ruined tapestry was never mentioned. As Coombs placed a tray of delectable lemon tarts before them, one of the favored recipes taken from the cook at Bridgewater Park, Michael knew with certainty she still harbored hopes of using the butler’s recollections to her own design. He followed her gaze to the servant’s retreating back and arched a dark brow in her direction. She quickly averted her eyes. Didn’t she know he could nearly read her quick and beautiful mind?
He refrained from pointing this out to her as he handed her a glass of sherry.
“I quite approve of your additions to the hall, love.” He nodded toward the largest piece of needlework, one embellished with morning glories and small birds. “You’ve succeeded in warming the castle.”
She smiled at his words. “Your mother was quite gifted with the needle. I believe she too wished to adorn the stone walls with very large pieces of her handiwork.”
Michael looked toward the gallery visible at the opposite end of the hall. “I’d thought you would have seen the portraits in place by now. Have you changed your mind on that?”
“Not at all. The storage room was quite damp and the portraits need a bit of restoration. Coombs has assured me that he will see them restored and hanging in the gallery upon our return to the manor.”
“Coombs bows to your bidding now?” he teased.
She dimpled a smile at him.
“I’m eager to see the image of my mother,” he admitted. “I’m afraid she is merely a collection of memories to me.”
“What memories, Michael?”
He took in a breath. “Sweet scents, I suppose. Warm hugs.”
He hadn’t seen her portrait for longer than he could remember. Why, the family portraits had disappeared from the gallery around the same time the tapestry had. The unbidden thought sent an icy cold shiver down his spine.
“Michael?” he heard Betsy ask as if from far away.
“Hmm?”
She stared at him and he sensed she could read his distress. Although she must certainly long to press him about it, she said nothing. Her smile seemed forced as she sweetly offered him the last remaining lemon tart on the tray.
He ate the tart and brought her fingers to his lips, kissing away the crumbs. Relief flooded him as the moment of unease was broken. He pulled her out of her seat and into his arms, grinning as he strode through the great hall and up the staircase to their chambers.
It came back to him in his sleep that night, however. He could hear his father’s broken voice, his tormentor’s laughter. Thrashing about in the big bed, Michael unconsciously sought to remember more. To put a face to that horrible mocking laughter.
Coombs made his appearance in his mind’s eye, calming him. At the abrupt conclusion to his dreams he jerked awake, the bedclothes twisted about his legs. A quick glance at his wife showed she still slept. He breathed a ragged sigh and straightened the covers, settling back down beside her.
What the devil had happened all those years ago? Were his horrid hazy memories indeed tied to the tapestry? To his father’s missing fortune? Lord, was he soon to be as dogged as his wife?
He closed his eyes and awaited for sleep to finally claim him.
***
Betsy, too, was awake. She’d heard him call out in his sleep, and had felt his thrashing about in the bed. How could she not, his being such a large man? Those troublesome dreams assailed him. The dreams he wouldn’t share with her.
His breathing soon grew even and she knew he slept once more. Why was he so stubborn? Didn’t he see that all was not well? Both his sleep and his mind would not be easy until he learned what happened to his birthright. Her resolve on this was as strong as it ever was. Tonight, however? Tonight she turned in his arms and kissed his closed eyelids. When the shadow of a smile touched his lips, she closed her own eyes and burrowed closer still.
They left for London on a sparkling morning a few days later. Although it was still chilly, there was a unmistakable hint in the air of the spring to come. Michael settled himself beside Betsy within the carriage, the two of them on the seat facing forward as the vehicle began to roll away from Cornwall. He wore impeccable traveling clothes and his black greatcoat draped over his shoulders. She wore one of her new dresses, this one of sunny yellow despite the date on the calendar. She paired it with a cloak of gold velvet knotted tightly beneath her chin, however.
“Tell me of our townhouse, Michael.”
Michael crossed his legs and shrugged. He’d arranged for comfortable accommodations in town, leasing a townhouse for as long as they had need of one.
“It’s not far from Wilton’s, love,” he told her. “My solicitors assured me we’ll find it suitably furnished.”
“I’ll enjoy being close to Maggie,” she allowed. “And how long will you remain there with me?”
“A little over a month.”
“I know you’re needed at Bridgewater Park, but you’re leaving your helpless wife to attend the functions unchaperoned?”
“Lady Balsam, I don’t believe you have a helpless bone in that lovely little body of yours.”
“I’ll come with you to Bridgewater Park to train the horses.”
“You change your mind each morning,” he said without anger. “You’ll drive me daft, woman.”
Betsy simply grinned at him. He reached over and brushed aside a curl at the side of her face.
“And I suppose after we stop for luncheon you’ll inform me that you intend to remain in town with your sister after I make my exit?”
Betsy began to shake her head and then shrugged, holding back her laughter. He chuckled and leaned back against the cushions, leaving her to her thoughts. His mention of the nooning meal put her in mind of that inn with the very familiar serving girl. nervously fingered the velvet cording of her cloak.
“Do you wish to stop at that inn today, Michael?” she asked, keeping her tone light. When he did not answer she glanced over at him. At his obvious bemusement, she quietly added, “in Devonshire?”
He draped his arm over her shoulders. “Surely you weren’t troubled by Molly’s attentions, were you?”
“You dallied with her.”
“And I told you as much, love. The chit means nothing to me, you know that.”
“I do,” she said quickly.
“Molly saw that we were happily married, Betsy. If she could see that when you were barely speaking to me? That fact is clear as crystal.”
Betsy breathed a bit easier then. When they arrived in Devonshire she was put further at ease to see it was indeed as Michael said. While the serving girl’s dark eyes continually ran over Michael in appreciation, she served them their meal as she would any other patrons.
When their meal was concluded, they once more boarded their carriage and set out for London.
“I take it you quite enjoyed our luncheon?” Michael asked.
“Oh yes.”
She gazed out the window at the passing countryside. The sun still shone and the afternoon was proving to be quite temperate. It grew warm in the carriage, so she removed her bonnet and cloak and set them both beside her on the seat.
“I believe we are coming to a stretch of bumpy road, love,” Michael said with a crooked grin.
Her gaze fell to his mouth, which he soon brought to hers. She returned his kisses, sighing as he tightened his hold on her. A gasp escaped her as he suddenly shifted, settling her on the seat opposite.
“Michael, what are you doing?”
He didn’t give an answer, but fell to his knees before her and lifted her skirts. She watched him, her heart racing as he slowly removed her drawers. He gently grasped her ankles and placed one foot on each of his thighs. He lifted her skirts higher still until they were nearly to her waist. His eyes sparkling up at her, he lowered his head.
“Oh!” she cried as his mouth began to tease her.
“Shh, love,” he chuckled, dropping little kisses on her inner thighs. “You’ll spook the horses.”
Betsy placed one gloved fist in her mouth, her head lolling back on the cushions as his mouth claimed her once more. The rocking of the carriage moved her incessantly against his mouth. He braced his hands on the seat on either side of her, apparently taking care not to steady her. The motion of the carriage drive her closer to her release, and she couldn’t keep soft moans from escaping from behind her fisted hand. Her body began to tremble from within, and the tremors were due to sheer pleasure and not the vehicle’s motion.
Unable to stop herself she cried out, clutching his head to her as her climax took her.
He came up and kissed her then, letting her taste herself on his tongue. Before she could catch her breath he twisted in the seat, bringing her on top of him. He ran his hands over her back, up under her skirts. Betsy reached between them and ran her fingers over him, finding him hard to her touch.
“You want me, Michael,” she breathed.
“God, yes,” he ground out, quickly unbuttoning his breeches.
He freed himself and brought her down upon him, hard. Betsy cried out again and clutched his shoulders, burying her face in the crook of his neck as she rode him. She found her second release only moments before he climaxed, barely feeling his grip tighten on her hips as he exploded within her.
When she came back to herself, she lifted her head to find her husband as affected as she. His head was resting on the cushions, his lips curved in a smile as he sought to catch his breath. She kissed his mouth and sighed, settling her head against him once more.
“You were right about the rocking, Michael.”
He made a strangled sound like laughter and held her closer as the carriage rolled on toward town.