We shall consult in due course. He had sounded like a clerk. Their future intimate relations were not a carriage he was considering for purchase or a decision regarding which field to lie fallow.
Madam appeared to hold his comment in equally low regard and presented him with a cold shoulder during the daily allotment of tasks on the day’s Schedule. Charlotte was in great good humor regarding Freya knew what, which she had shared with Ben, who kept giggling into his teacup. A brief spat about whether Madam was allowed outside the house was greeted with a reference to the sauce being good for the goose as well as the gander. An order was given for Mr. Todd to communicate Her Grace’s desire for the donkey cart to be hitched up, and so it was.
Arthur had no choice but to give over to his bear and follow in the shadows.
Shadows were, in fact, few and far between as green-thumbed Lowell footmen continued their assault upon the grounds. Hedges were trimmed, shrubs were wrestled back from ignominy, and the rose arcade’s latticework was shored up, its climbing vines pruned.
He followed along at a distance from the donkey cart. Madam was attired with her typical austerity but for an absurd bonnet, a confection of feathers and tulle in an unlikely shade of chartreuse. The ribbons tied beneath her chin flew over her shoulder as the cart tooled toward the eastern border. Despite the frivolous headgear, she was a dab hand with the reins, authoritative yet gentle.
Were they to keep the cart and donkey, never mind the footmen? The carriages that had brought the Lowell runts had been sent back but for one, as well as a team of draft horses large as elephants. How fortuitous that the barn had been restored. But of course it was why the barn had been restored, felines notwithstanding.
Madam attempted to make him read the letter from his peer, which he refused to do, admittedly for no good reason apart from general churlishness. Did Lowell see them as a charity case? The Osborn duchy was not impoverished; he knew what was required to wrench the funds out of His Highness’s grasp, which he would not do even if it meant indebtedness to that bloody wolf and to his own wife.
As to that: Why had Georgie chosen this little human for him to wive? There were any number of versipellian heiresses who may have served if His Bloody Highness was so keen on increasing ursine solidarity. None were as small and yet self-possessed; some were as wealthy but none so generous. He had only to recall baroness thingamajig, a bird shifter of some species or other who had been so profligate with her wealth, to no one’s benefit but her own, even Georgie was appalled. No one else would have clapped eyes on this place and stayed; none he could name would have taken on this challenge with such aplomb and verve.
Here was Arcadia coming back to life, within and without, thanks to one small human woman. She hopped down from the driving seat and handed the reins of the cart to an unknown human—the foreman, he reckoned—as the man doffed his hat and the rest of the crew followed suit. Madam headed for the nearest ladder, and Odin above, if she dared to climb it to inspect the roof—ah. Todd had anticipated her and took to the eaves with alacrity. She would not have…would she? Not in her skirts. Odin help her if she started wearing men’s clothing as it was rumored the Duchess of Lowell had taken to doing.
His plump little cake in trousers? Odin help him.
Todd shouted down his opinion of the work, which expressed high praise.
Madam turned and smiled at the foreman.
It was a small smile, the mere turning up of her lips and yet—
And yet? his bear, bored by the crouching and the lurking, piped up.
And yet she would gift it to a stranger.
He has pleased her, whereas you…
Arthur knew what would please her.
Should a smile be his only reward he may count the game worth the candle.
***
He and his bear wandered the land well past tea time, noting several disturbances in the landscape that could only have been made by a great predator roaming the boundaries. Perhaps it was only he, the great predator who had been roaming them, but he knew his markings and these were not his. One more thing to protect Madam from, for the love of Freya.
Arthur bathed in the brook, with a cake of soap he had secreted there, the robust scents of orris and oak moss clinging to his skin. He wrapped himself in a cloth and jogged back to the house, pausing when he caught sight of Madam moving about before her window, brushing her hair, an unexpectedly great fall of gold, while she chatted to a squirrel.
He slipped into the laundry and dressed with a view of not being dressed for much longer. Ought he at least put on a waistcoat? He did not wish to be slovenly, but a cravat was out of the question. He put on a waistcoat and a coat, buttoning neither. Or would she like to unbutton him? Must he put on stockings and boots? He must; he would look the veriest tramp, or worse, a louche rake, coming upon her both unbuttoned and unshod.
Half the buttons of the waistcoat, then. Doing them up, he entered the kitchens.
The servants turned to him and quite ostentatiously looked away, Morag going so far as to leave the kitchen and take the mice with her. Mrs. Porter hung her apron upon its hook with exaggerated care, and Conlon, loyal, devoted Conlon, tilted his head in such a minute obeisance it was the precise opposite of one of Madam’s curtsies.
“Taking your cues from Her Grace, I see,” he called after them. He joined Ben by the stove, where his brother was calmly stirring the contents of a madly boiling pot. “What are you at?”
“Your wife very kindly asked me for potpourri to freshen the footmen’s rooms.”
“It smells familiar.” It smelled of cedarwood and clover and home.
“It is Mum’s old recipe.” Ben stirred thrice clockwise. “I am making up laundry soap as well.”
“How do your in-laws fare on the Continent?” Thundering Thor, that they should bide so far from home…the shame of it walloped him out of nowhere. So many abroad and away, families enough to thrive on Arcadia’s grounds and leave room for more. How Madam would champ at the bit to see them settled.
Ben sprinkled in a pinch of lavender. “They are well, in the farthest north of Germany, near to Scandinavia with many of our kind. They correspond with Charlotte, naturally, and miss the children. We thought to visit twice, but in each instance Ursella objected, going so far as to hide until we missed the ship.”
“Why in the world should she do so? And that you allowed it?”
“It was not permissible to leave England, she said. An Omega, even as yet undesignated, is to be heeded.” Ben tossed in a pinch of lemon zest. “I encourage you to return and ask me the second question when you are a father.”
He might allow a child, but he would never be a father. Would he? “Is there any supper left for me? Has nothing been kept warm?” He poked around the larder and found he was not in the least peckish.
Suffering from your nerves? his bear quipped and was ignored.
Ben stirred the brew counterclockwise thrice. “As the stillroom is occupied, I was given leave to use the hob.”
“You need not explain yourself to me, I who have nothing to do with the quotidian workings of this place.”
“As is correct, Alpha.” Ben stirred clockwise once more and took the pot off the heat. “We missed you at the meal.”
“Did you?” Ben did not dignify the admittedly sulky riposte. “What transpired?”
“Bernadette has taken it upon herself to educate Beezy in the improvement of her storytelling, going so far as to transcribe a directive for which events ought to unfold.”
“The next Anchoretta Asquith.”
“Tarben insisted he too knew how a story should unspool and proved himself to be as lacking in skills as his beloved aunt.”
Arthur laughed. “I am sorry I missed it.” He truly was. He was sincerely sorry he’d missed that moment. He smoothed down the lapels of his coat, one of his favorites, a deep violet that brought out the bear in his eyes. “I must convey my apologies to Madam for the lack of my company and bid her sleep well.”
He left the kitchens to the accompaniment of his brother’s muttering, “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
***
The squirrel on the branch tilted its head inquisitively. “Well, you should wonder, Master Squirrel. Had we not inspected each dwelling it would have been rather a different tale indeed. The farther from the first cottage we proceeded, the less attention to detail was to be observed. I bear the builders no ill will. It is the habit of this class of workmen to ensure their patrons remain on their toes.” Beatrice left off plaiting her hair—as difficult as ever given its thickness—and idly brushed the ends. The squirrel sat up on its haunches and fled up the tree to hop into another and away. “Until we meet again, sir.”
The door opened without even a cursory scratching upon it. Without turning she said, “Good evening, Your Grace. Once again, you prove your expertise at opening doors whether or not it is wanted.”
He shut it behind him. “Once again, Madam, may I suggest you proffer honey as opposed to vinegar.”
“Do squirrels enjoy honey?” She rose and set her brush aside. He was staring at her hair. She played with the ends of it.
Osborn blinked as though coming out of a trance. “Squirrels?”
“So it was not you with whom I was speaking.” He laughed, an enormous laugh that spun along her nerves and set them tingling. He came to stand opposite her, the bed between them. “I heard you laughing in the kitchen,” she said.
“I understand Tarben is a rival for your inimitable style of storytelling.”
“Surely it is clear I have no skills in that area, and yet the children insist.” It pleased her, if she was to tell the truth.
“It is regarding children I am here.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Madam, I will lie with you and give you a child. It is within my power, and our cordial affiliation notwithstanding, it need not impact nor change the way we—”
“Conduct a white marriage?” He nodded, and that great curl of hair fell across his brow. It took every fiber of her being to resist rushing around the bed to tuck it back in place. His coat fit him ill, too tight around the shoulders, but was the hue of springtime violets and did appealing things to the color of his eyes. “Will it only be the once or…” Beatrice faltered. “I have heard women speak of the necessity of doing this often until it, uh, takes.”
He hesitated and cast his gaze around the corners of the room. “I assume, as with much else in life, it may require diligence and application.”
“Very well, then.” Beatrice tugged the top cover down the bed and then the next and then the sheet. “There is a pitcher and bowl behind the screen if you wish to make use of them. The water should still be warm.” He removed his coat and fiddled with the buttons on his half-done waistcoat. “I assume you can unclothe yourself?”
She heard him mutter unclothe as he disappeared behind the screen. She wrestled herself out of her dressing gown and dove beneath the covers. Beatrice pulled them up to her chin—but what if that prevented him from getting in? She lowered them to her waist, and the exposure was too much, as if she was standing in the forecourt in the nude.
Would he expect her to be nude? She never had with…let her not invoke her first husband at this time! Not that Osborn was her husband in anything but name. Well, not for much longer. He would soon be that in deed.
Under the covers, she drew her night rail up over her belly. She shut her eyes, and the candle flame danced behind her lids—
Beatrice leapt from the bed, snuffed out every taper in the room, and returned to the safety of the covers just as he came around the screen. By the light of the fire and that of the moon pouring through the window, he looked like a man any woman would be fortunate to welcome into her bed. He stood beside it, still in his smalls, and what a sight he made. The shadows caressed the divots of his muscles, the flickering light of the flames licked at his skin eagerly, a delicious treat. He tilted his head, unmoving.
Oh. “Shall I move? To the side? Or?” She clenched her eyes shut.
“If you would release the sheet, Madam.”
“Ah. Of course.” She let go with the hand closest to him but clung to the rest. There was a hesitation and shushing of cloth, good Lord, and into the bed he descended. He lay on his back at her side, exuding heat as if he had absorbed the flames so keen to lick at him. She must not think of licking. She did not know why.
He did nothing for what seemed a very long time until he rolled onto his side, facing her. She lifted her head to get her hair out of the way when he reached for it.
“May I not touch it?” he asked.
“My hair?”
“May I?”
“If you wish?” What had her hair to do with anything?
His fingers lightly stroked the end of her plait; he lifted it to his nose. “Spearmint,” he said.
“I used the soap Ciara made. To wash it,” she replied.
“Hmmm,” he hummed. He released it and slid his fingers to the back of her head and rubbed there. What this touching was about she could not say, but it was very relaxing.
The thought of them relaxing made her tense anew. He murmured softly as he would in gentling a wild creature and edged closer still. His nose ran over her ear, and she shivered. He did it again, and she wriggled.
“Ticklish,” he whispered. His fingers ran around the hem of her night rail. How had his hand gotten there? “May I?” he asked.
“May you what?”
“Remove this, or?”
“No, but—wait, I can—” She pulled it up over her belly.
“Thank you,” he said.
The backs of his knuckles drew up and down the outside of her thigh. So gently did he do this she felt languorous but also invigorated, an odd combination. A fingertip teased over her kneecap, and she wanted to push into his touch. His hips settled into her side, and his male part in no way nor by any stretch of the imagination felt akin to an inanimate candle.
“Is this pleasant for you?” he asked, and she nodded. He then put his whole hand over her knee. “And this?” She nodded again and sighed when he squeezed it—then gasped when his palm drew up on the inside of her leg.
“No?” he asked.
“No?” she said, unsure, if only because: “Is this necessarily a part of this?”
“Oh, it is.” He raised himself over her, and she tucked her head; it was too much to meet his eyes. “If you would allow me?”
***
Madam nodded again, and Arthur commenced touching her, lightly, with his fingertips, up one thigh and down the other, parting her legs as gently as he could. Gods, her skin was like silk; he wanted to rub his face all over her body—was her belly as soft? It was, and she was as sensitive there as she was behind her ear. He huffed a pleased little laugh as she shivered under his touch.
He laid a hand on her lower belly, so near her cunny, and wanted to kiss her everywhere, her mouth, her jaw, her belly, the tops of her thighs; do not even get him started on her breasts, which heaved with her labored breath. She writhed again, in resistance or desire? Her fragrance was muted, still, a circumstance that should not be and yet was. Her true essence in ways was withheld from him, and yet he could feel…
He stroked a finger across her honeypot, found the moisture there, evidence of her response even if he could not scent it. Madam made a noise like a perplexed kitten, a little mew of confusion. Did she like it, or did she dislike it? “May I?” He nudged his nose at her ear again. She moved her head away and then back and touched her nose glancingly to his jaw, a nuzzle of his sideburns, as light as a feather, that served to inflame him out of proportion. She nodded, and he added another finger, then another, and stroked and stroked. She moved her head from side to side. Again, desire or resistance? “No?”
“Yes?” she whispered, and if he hadn’t been attuned to every twitch of her being, he would have missed the infinitesimal lift of her hips.
Keep hold of yourself, man, he warned himself as his cock, which had responded with interest to the softness of her skin, surged to full hardness at the movement. “Yes?”
She nodded, and he said, “I prefer you to speak your permission, Madam.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
He set his whole hand over her entrance, and she sighed. His fingers found her sensitive nub and her hips flew up to meet his. He soothed her into acceptance of his touch, and he asked again, and she said yes, yes again. He stroked her ear with his nose, which made her sigh and melt, and he glanced her jaw with his mouth, oh, how he wanted to kiss her. He rubbed his nose against hers and hovered his lips over hers.
“I do not like that.” She turned her head away.
“Kissing?” Blessed Freya, who did not like kissing?
“Do not.”
“As you say, Madam.” He laid his forehead beside hers on the pillow, arched above her, and wished for…things that did matter in this instance. “May I continue? There is no need to go on if you do not wish.”
“I wish.” She reached out, slowly, and set her hand upon his biceps. “Yes, do. Please continue.”
He allowed his hand to rest on her cunny, palm large enough to cover her entirely. He settled himself over her, and she started at the touch of his cock and yet cuddled up to him with her hips. He recited the Nordic pantheon to himself. He traced his fingers over her contours; her breath caught, and her pulse beat like a drum. He whispered nonsense, and if he invoked some of his gods and goddesses aloud, he could not be blamed. She tucked her face against his heart and rubbed her cheek against his chest, and one hand snuck up to rest beside it as the other stroked his shoulder. He shifted her thighs further apart, and she took a breath. “Easy, Madam. Breathe. I am here.”
“That is apparent,” she muttered, and a puff of laughter escaped them both.
Odin, Freya, Sif, he thought, Baldur, Loki, Thor, let me be gentle, let me be easy, let me in, Madam, oh gods… He sank slowly into her heat, her sheath so tight. He met resistance on his way, felt her stiffen, and he halted. He was like to spend before he was fully seated in any case. He fought to keep quiet to prevent further alarm, but it proved impossible when both her hands petted at his sides and her palms settled on his back. What would her little hand feel like on his cock? Freya, Frigga, Sif…
Regulating his breathing was a dead loss. If only she would allow kissing, kissing would help pass the time until she relaxed. Speculating as to how previous forays into such behavior had poisoned her against it served to keep him from losing his sense entirely. He nosed at her throat, and she returned the favor, hitching her knees up, and they moaned in concert. He slid farther forward, slowly, and he wrapped his arms around her until, there was no delicate way to put it, he entered her completely.
“Thank you,” Madam whispered.
Did she think that was that? “You are very welcome,” he murmured, “but we have only just begun.”
He reached beneath her, and his hand captured her entire bottom in one palm, and he moved.
***
He moved, and Beatrice gasped. There had been a pinch of pain, and she’d thought the act was complete, he was fully inside her, surely it was done. But no. There was more, and she was feeling more, everything, inside and out.
His skin was…not truly rough but a contrast to hers, making her feel that much softer. He had muscles everywhere, and yet she did not fear being crushed or hurt. He seemed to be doing his utmost to ensure her comfort and honored her wish to abstain from kissing. The heat from his body and the power in it were quite breathtaking, and he was clearly enjoying himself.
Her mind wandered back to when he had touched her cunny and her breath had gone labored and her muscles had turned to water. It seemed unfortunate it wasn’t part of the greater effort. Nevertheless, this was far more pleasant than she would have guessed! Beatrice nudged at his shoulder with her nose and then rubbed her cheek against his biceps. She squirmed as he squeezed her bum, and his breath caught, so she did it again, and he growled, and she wanted to laugh, which seemed to be permitted. Given her previous experiences, she was optimistic this was going well enough. She rubbed her nose on his chest and laid her cheek there. It was quite cozy now the odd little pain had passed. She wondered if he would be about this much longer.
He raised up, balancing himself on one massive arm, reached down with his free hand, and—oh. Oh, oh—he touched the place again where she was most sensitive, and a rush of feeling came over her, warm and shivery and yearning; as his fingers played, she reached for she knew not what, her entire body was restless and wanting and she didn’t know, she didn’t know what to do—
Had she said that aloud? For he had left off reciting a series of foreign-sounding names and said, “Let me, let it, here, I can—” and then did something with two fingers and his thumb, and she keened and lifted her hips and wound her legs around his hips. He paused in his stroking, and someone growled, she growled and pushed herself into his hand. He groaned and moved within her with greater force; her fingers wound themselves in his hair, and his whole hand engaged in stroking her, and then, and then—
A moment, a pause; Beatrice looked into his eyes, his brown eyes full of purpose and pleading, and her back bowed, and she shuddered and gasped and pulled his hair. Osborn growled and thrust with force, once, twice, and an unexpected heat blossomed within. She gasped and clung and buried her face in his neck even as he clutched her close to his chest like she was precious, like he could not bear to let go.
***
Arthur wanted to hold her tight. He wanted to slide down her body and rest his head on her bosom, a significant portion of her anatomy he had not even addressed. He wanted to roll over onto his back and cradle her to his chest and stroke her as she came down from her release. He wanted to kiss her so very much; he was parched, and her mouth was an oasis in the desert.
Instead, she stiffened beneath him, and he rose. She turned away when he pulled the covers over her and sought out the pitcher and soap. He gave himself a cursory wash and returned with a cloth to find she had not budged. “Madam, I would inquire as to your state of being.”
“I am well.” She pulled a pillow over her face.
He nudged her shoulder with the cloth. She squeaked and took it, reached beneath the covers, and in due course reluctantly handed it back. She drew the covers over her head and thus missed his grin. Tossing the cloth in the direction of the hearthstone, he insinuated himself back under the covers.
“Is this necessary?” Madam muttered and rolled to her side.
“Oh, it is.” Or so he had decided at that moment. “No child will come if the bed does not contain its father and mother.”
She pulled the cover down and glared at him over her shoulder. He shrugged as if it was outside his power to deem otherwise. Her back fully presented to him, she wrestled with the blanket until settling. Her hair streamed over the pillow, a wild tangle of gold he’d only seen in Renaissance paintings or plays. The latter of course were wigs, and Madam’s was assuredly not. He reached out and snagged a finger on a tress. One led to another and… “May I?” She humphed and sighed and nodded; he set to unraveling the rest of her plait.
He drew out one length after the next. “How have you been hiding this in that little bunch on the top of your head? Women’s fashions. I do not know whom they exist to please. Not the males of the species, I can assure you. Though did you go about with this abundance on display you would cause a melee. So it is the fault of males’ inability to behave with decorum that you must hide this in plain sight.” He gently combed his fingers through it, from her scalp to the ends. He did it again. And again. “Were you verispellis, I would think you a lion. Although that would mark you as male, so therefore, no. There is one in residence at—which is not for me to say. Only see how you make me forget myself, Madam.”
He nuzzled the crown of her head. “I hope you do not suffer any discomfort at this moment?” She shook her head and shrugged; he tucked himself closer to her side. “Here, here, allow me,” and he stroked a hand from the back of her neck to a shoulder, then around to the other, back and forth, and slipped his fingers underneath the top of her night rail. “Gods, your skin. Had you not had this on during…during, I would have disported myself like a green lad. I shudder to think your reaction had I done so. I suppose I would have earned rather a set-down. But you have been setting me down from the start, have you not, Madam? From the moment you sat in my carriage, beribboned and combative, like a salty little cake. I refer to you as such when I am cross with you. Salty little cake. Sometimes with claws.”
Arthur ran his palm down her arm and took her hand. “How rough your palms are becoming. I fear this will result in further demerits to my account. The maids will have some concoction or other, or Ben, as to that. Have I told you the story of what my father did when he discovered his second son was little better than an apothecary? Do not say I have not, as I know I have told you little.” He yawned. “Our father did nothing. And by that I mean he did nothing to shame my brother nor to belittle his skills or talents. He merely asked him to devise a stronger tea, as he preferred his brew to be more robust than what was then on offer.” Arthur rubbed his eyes. From tiredness, not tears, no.
“I do not imagine myself as a father, but should you give me a child, I would seek to be even half the one he was and call it good.” He rubbed his face into the pillow for no other reason than to fend off the possibility of a future itch. “My father, had he the opportunity to lay eyes upon you, Madam, would have taken your guise of Lady Frost as a personal challenge and had you in stitches, likely at my expense, before the clock had turned an hour. And my mother…” Face back in the pillow, a breath. “Mum would have abducted you for a day of who knew what class of feminine mysteries, as she used to do with Charlotte and the other females of the sleuth. Oh, Odin be damned. I am a bear. I am a bear, Madam, and I would not have you fear me.
“I do not believe you have ever been so reticent—ah.” For of course Madam was asleep. Thank Thor, she had not heard a word of his melancholy rambling. Nor had she heard him admit to his essential self. Just as well. This was neither the time nor the place for that revelation. With one last stroke of her arm, one last tug on her hair, he slipped out of the bed, gathered up his clothes, and headed into the night.