Arthur could not remain as his bear indefinitely, and yet he chose to wander the edges of the land.
His land.
He could not fight the sentio, not now. When and how it would be done… If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done…properly. Quoting the Scottish play again? As Madam said, not the most auspicious choice.
He did not dispute the feeling rising in his heart for his mate…and thanks to that had such compassion for his father’s grief it was as though his papa’s heart beat in his chest. He now understood the depth of his Alpha’s despair at the loss of his mate, the mother of his children.
In experiencing that loss, in empathy for his father, he knew without a doubt he would welcome his true mate with open arms. The fear of loss was not greater than even one moment of the euphoria the bond would bring. He understood not only his father’s desolation but his father’s joy. The notion Arthur would sacrifice even one moment of that reality was the height of absurdity.
He understood the child’s grief as well and knew it was time to set it aside.
To trust. To dare. To lay himself bare.
To the bond. To his mate.
True mate! his bear sang as they splashed through the brook.
His bear, whose great sensitivity allowed him to deeply feel the breeze ruffling his fur, to perceive the beauty of the blossoming spring, to inhale deeply the scents of the earth, his earth, his land, to admire the beauty of the changing light as the day waned. He climbed the sturdiest tree in his copse to watch the sun paint its nightly farewell over Arcadia and welcomed it—this place, that woman—into his heart. His heart, which would soon no longer be his own and in turn would be so much the stronger for it. A shiver ran up his spine as he scented his mate on the cooling breeze, turned to see her walking toward him unerringly through the wood, without hesitation, head held high. And beyond his comprehension, his heart expanded even further.
***
Beatrice followed the path she had seen Arthur walk that first morning. The way carving through the wood was broad yet careful of the flowering shrubbery and mindful of the saplings straining for light and growth. It led to a clearing surrounded by dead stumps scored by claws and soaring trees forming a canopy. She would have continued on had she not seen the branches of the largest oak flutter.
A small boulder at the edge of the clearing would serve as a place to rest.
She sat. She took a breath. She spoke.
“According to your brother, I was given an oil made of neem that masked my scent. I was exhorted to use it every day without fail by the housekeeper of Adolphus Place, whom I considered an ally. The oil’s purpose was not to ensure Castleton’s succession, as I had been led to believe, but rather to prevent it.” Beatrice sought him in the branches, but he was well hidden. “I went from one abode in which the staff distrusted me to one in which I was universally disliked and thwarted. I presume they did not want a homo plenis as the Alpha female? I would be gratified if you could shed some light on this.”
He was awfully quiet for one she must assume was of great size. “I used the last of it and so… I gather I have an odor? And it is causing a reaction in you?” Beatrice asked. “You must appreciate how impossible it is for a lady to converse about the scents of her person, made somehow worse by your lack of response.”
Impatience gathered, and behind her breastbone, her heart flared. “How glad I am I practiced on smaller beasts. Although I am not so much conversing with you as I am with this mighty oak.” Another flutter of leaves greeted her pronouncement.
This would not do. “Osborn, show yourself,” Beatrice demanded. She rose to move closer to the tree. “Arthur. Please.”
A bear dropped down from a height, which was not so very great as he was very, very large. He towered over her like the tree itself, his massive shoulder well over her head, the hump of his neck adding to his bulk. His coat, a rich brown, was the color of Arthur’s hair, and its—his—eyes were the brightest gold. He snarled, baring his teeth in a fashion Beatrice supposed was meant to send her screaming for her life. She would admit to a quiver of unease, but she had not been called Lady Frost for no good reason. She folded her hands at her waist and held the bear’s gaze.
It chuffed, then growled, then roared up into the canopy; the leaves swirled as if blown by a gale. He lowered his head, glared at her, and pawed at the earth. She went so far as to yawn.
The bear slowly reached out with his nose and snuffled the pulse on her neck.
She giggled.
He Shifted.
She shrieked and covered her eyes. “Clothe yourself!”
“Are you having me on, Madam?” Beatrice peeked and saw Arthur’s hands planted on his hips, inexorably drawing her attention there, doing nothing to calm her nerves. She covered her eyes again. “Here you are, facing down the largest bear on this island, and when confronted with a bit of skin—”
“More than a bit, you heathen,” she muttered from behind her palms. She peeked again. “Larger than His Highness?”
“What larger?” His voice was as silky as stockings drawing up her legs.
“Your bear! Not your…parts.”
“Both larger.” Could a man his size snicker like a boy? “Additionally, I feel I must point out, you are not unfamiliar with my mighty oak.”
“I have not been required to gaze upon it.” She turned her back.
His warmth and size were like a bulwark without being overwhelming or overpowering. “Do so, if it pleases you,” his voice at her ear. “It is your right.”
***
Madam turned her back on him. He, Arthur Humphries, Duke of Osborn, one of the few truly fearsome predators at the top of the hierarchy in the whole of England, and she turned her back on him with as little thought as if he were a goldfinch or a snail.
He moved closer, let his heat wash over her back. Paradoxically, it made her shiver.
“We have lain together,” he murmured against her ear. He inhaled her unleashed fragrance; he was intoxicated.
“We have,” she said, her tone acerbic and yet…possibly only in an effort to keep up frosty appearances. “In the dark, under the covers. Not out in the open, like those dippers down in Brighton.”
“Dippers? In Brighton?”
“The Bawdy Bathers of Brighton.” She went so far as to send an incredulous glance over her shoulder and got caught, in a manner of speaking, in his chest hair. He flexed his pectoral muscles; rather than blush as he thought she might, Freya help him, she moistened her lips, the little pink tip of her tongue dragging along her plump lower lip, and he lost track of what—
“The what now?”
“They are women and men bathing in the sea together, in the, in the—”
“In the nip?” He knew he sounded gleeful. He had never heard of this, and he heard of everything. Well, not nearly as much as his sister-in-law did, to be fair.
“Ask Charlotte, I am sure she will provide you with chapter and verse.” Her gaze slipped down to his belly, and she turned fully away again.
“And here you said you do not like gossip.”
“This is not gossip, it is factual information as you may find in a newssheet or a ladies’ magazine.”
“If this is what lies between the covers of La Belle Assemblée, I shall take up a subscription posthaste.”
“You will not find articles on how to woo your intended en plein air.”
“Shall I woo you despite the barn door closing behind the horse?”
“I hope I might have more distinction than to be, to be taken on the ground.”
“Madam.” He laid his hands on her shoulders and stood as close as he dared, given his state of arousal, which had sprung up, pun intended, in a heartbeat. “I would take you everywhere and anywhere and always assure your comfort in every case. Come, now,” he purred, yes, he would admit it, like one of those bloody cats she pampered. “Shall we not look upon one another and see ourselves as we truly are?”
“I am not truly Lady Frost,” she whispered.
“Oh, that lady. I find her to be intoxicatingly capable,” he whispered in return. “I find when she melts, she reveals a fierce little creature who is delicious.” He rubbed his nose against her ear. “And delightful.” She shivered; he did it again. “I am not a ravening beast with no thought to your pleasure or comfort.”
“I find when the beast rumbles and grumbles, he reveals his desire for me.”
Ah. “My desire for you is incontrovertible and was growing before your status was revealed. It is not merely due to versipellian custom I desire you. But due to it I know we will suit, forever.”
She dropped her head, exposing her neck, and he was done for. He reached out and placed his palm gently alongside it, and she tilted her head to rest her jaw on his fingers. If he was not mistaken, she brushed his knuckles with her mouth.
“I have had your family—our family clinging to my skirts all day.”
“Our status is the epitome of a versipellian dream come true.”
“I did not mind.” Her breath warmed his fingers. “This evening, however, I would prefer we found some privacy. I propose we dine together in the stillroom.”
“As ever, an ingenious solution, Madam.”
Madam nodded, for it was her due. “Until tonight.” She sniffed his knuckles, which he had to admit was rather ticklish. She tipped a small glance over her shoulder and left the way she’d come, head high but with a spring to her step.
***
Beatrice lit the last candle and straightaway thought to snuff them all again. It was her third attempt to light them and leave them ablaze; she backed away from the mantelpiece and took in the transformation of the stillroom.
The household had been busy in her absence, obeying an instinct to set a scene tonight. A walnut inlaid table had been brought in and set with service for two, a cold collation of meats as well as due consideration given to the sweets, weighted heavily on the side of lemon cake and ginger biscuits.
The sheets had been changed, fragrant with lavender and cedarwood and clover, and the bed hung with curtains beautifully embroidered with bears rambling from top to bottom. She supposed they would have been her first clue if they had been in place upon her arrival. What looked to be the household’s entire collection of pitchers and vases were full of flowers of the wild variety, some with the roots still attached, betraying the children’s hands in their gathering.
She was freshly bathed and the water and tub removed by a parade of discreet attendants. A delicate nightgown embellished with lace had been laid out on the bed with a dressing gown to match, neither of which had previously been in her possession. Her hair was brushed and plaited into a fat braid.
The fire was low as the weather was warming, so it was not chill air that made her shiver.
When the knock fell on the door, she expected it was another footman with yet another offering, but it was in fact—
It was in fact her husband.
Her husband, freshly groomed and buttoned up.
“A knock on the door?” Beatrice said. “And a cravat?”
He jerked his chin up against its tightness. “One of the footmen is quite good at this sort of thing.”
“Ducal valeting?” Despite the tidying up, he appeared ready to explode into dishevelment in an instant. “We shall put him entirely at your disposal.”
His expression was less than enraptured. “I suppose we are keeping them? All this talk of livery and such?”
“Your Grace,” she began.
“Oh, no. Do not address me that way.” He glared at the bed hangings. “I shall read the bloody letter.”
“You reading it will serve as my bridal gift.”
“I shall contrive to do better than that.” He slipped a finger under the cravat and began to loosen it.
“Well, then.” Beatrice gestured to the table. “There are cold meats and cheese and bread rolls,” she began, as he prowled toward her. “And cake.”
He smiled, a predatory thing that frightened her not at all. Rather, it made her feel hot all over; perhaps she ought not to have stoked the fire. “I will have my cake first, my salty little cake, and then we shall see what Ciara has prepared.”
“To what do you refer, Osborn?” It was a challenge to retain an imperious tone when stalked by so handsome a beast.
“Osborn. My night improves.” He stood before her and undid her braid. “You, Madam. I told you all about it the first night we lay together, but alas, you fell asleep. You are my cake, and I am keen to devour you.”
She ran her hands over his lapels, which for once did not require her attention. A salty cake? What nonsense. “I am sure I do not know what to say.”
“Then let us speak no more.” He took her chin in his hand.
Beatrice knew what such touch signified and turned her head. “As I have said, I do not like kisses.”
He dropped his hold immediately. “You do not like them in general or Castleton’s in particular?”
“Castleton did no such thing.” She shuddered. “I was kissed once or twice during my only Season, and it was unpleasant.”
“Show me.”
“What on earth can you mean?”
“Demonstrate.” Arthur opened his arms. “I am yours to do with what you will.”
Beatrice took a moment to consider his proposal and then grabbed his face and smashed her lips on his. Teeth crashed against teeth, lips ground against lips.
“You cannot convince me that is appealing.” A pity kissing wasn’t nicer, for the feel of his mouth against her own had not been as terrible as she’d expected.
“That is quite disagreeable. Here…” Arthur took her hand and raised her palm to his lips. “If I may in turn demonstrate?” He brushed his mouth over her hand, and her pulse leapt.
“You may.” Oh, dear.
Arthur opened his mouth and ran it along her palm, his lips warm, his breath hot but not unpleasantly so. Was it pleasant? Pleasant did not begin to describe it. It was gentle yet invigorating; it weakened her knees and made her feel hot and tingly between her thighs. He ran his nose from the center of her palm up her longest finger and then followed it back to her wrist with his lips. He nibbled on the fleshiest part of her palm and repeated the circuit, nose over her ring finger this time, lips lingering, slow, back down to her wrist. He took her hand in both of his, treating it with the reverence he would accord a precious artifact in the British Museum. He kissed the back of it, gently sucking on her knuckles.
“Does that…” she began. He looked up at her without ceasing in his task. “Does this approach work on the mouth?”
“It does. May I?” She nodded, and he pulled her closer, did that thing he did with his nose and her ear until shivers rippled through her core. “It is best to begin like a hummingbird supping from a flower.” His lips hovered over hers as that bird would over a bloom and settled, removed, brushed, settled again.
He took her very breath with each caress.
Beatrice had forgotten to apply her salve and was certain her lips were dry as dust; as she moistened them with the tip of her tongue, it coincided with another touch of his mouth, and his groan inflamed her. His hands gripped her hips, and she snuck another lick.
“Madam,” Arthur groaned, adding in approximately ten more syllables than required.
“Is that not done?” He did not sound like he objected.
“Oh, it is done. It is doing me in.” He slid his hands down her back, and she reached up and stroked his face, petted those sideburns, and sank her fingers into his hair. She licked her lips again, and he hauled her up against him and ravaged her mouth.
It was mutual ravaging, leavened by the taste of toothpowder and arousing discovery. Beatrice spared a thought for those poor young bucks who had no notion how to kiss and those poor girls who had no idea what they were missing. She twined her arms around Arthur’s neck, and he lifted her straight off the floor, her feet dangling somewhere around his knees, one of his hands cupped beneath her bum.
She intended to pay better attention to the act this time, with less fear and greater participation, but this was so unlike their first foray she was swept up, in his arms and in the moment. She twisted in his grasp until he set her down and proceeded to lay waste to his cravat. She shimmied his shirt out of his trousers while he made short work of the tie at her waist, the robe soon decorating the floor. She ran her hands up his back, and the growl this inspired was prodigious. She laughed, breathless, and wrestled at his coat.
“Madam, wait, wait,” he panted, “Here, I can—” and he tore at the coat, wrapping himself up in the sleeves and struggling to extricate himself as she lay back on the bed and drew up the hem of her nightgown, uncovering her body as a gift, with pleasure. Arthur tore aside the sleeve that would not release him and wrenched his shirt over his head.
Beatrice sat up to remove the gown, and he batted her hands away. “Here, here,” he chanted, raising her to her knees and removing it himself, his fingertips playing over every inch of skin they found; the nightgown joined the growing pile of abandoned clothing. He swept his hands from the crown of her head, down her back, squeezed her bum, tickled her ribs, and then halted below her breasts.
“Here,” she said, pulling his hands up to cup them, and she gasped, dropping her head to his chest. He moved a palm to her nape and drew her head back for another kiss, even as he did not release her breast, until she trembled against him.
He too shook; the notion that she had the power to affect him like this intoxicated her. She applied herself to his falls, and he left off kissing and touching her to see to them himself. Buttons pinged onto the floor, and a seam rent as he tore them off.
“We shall have to see to a new wardrobe, Duke.” Beatrice kicked aside the duvet and the top sheet and pulled a pillow under her shoulders.
“I shall keep you in the nip.” He ripped his stockings to shreds, and his smallclothes were next to be rent into scraps. He crawled up the bed to hold himself over her.
Beatrice caressed his forearms. “The Bawdy Bride of—”
“The Borough?” He hovered his mouth over hers.
“I shall keep you in the nip,” she murmured, “for I have much of you to acquaint myself with.”
“I am at your disposal,” he whispered and took her mouth once more.
Given her newness at bed play, Beatrice still lacked the courage to look at his…his part. Perhaps she might use her hands rather than her eyes? She ran her fingers over his chest, through that glorious pelt of hair, and rubbed her hands over his nipples, which elicited an interesting response. He countered with his hand on a breast. She parried by reaching down to stroke his hips with both hands and then slowly, lightly, took him in hand.
“Who is Baldr?” He was muttering those foreign names again.
“The god of my only hope of not exploding in your palm.” He took her hands in his and held them by her head. “I cannot give you a child if I do so.”
“I want more than a child from you.” Oh, what had she said? He froze above her, and oh no, it was a mistake, she was mistaken in speaking so plainly.
“Under normal circumstances, a man will say anything to procure the paradise laid before him,” he said. “But know this for truth when I say I will give you everything, Beatrice. My mate.”
Beatrice rose, and Arthur lowered, and they joined and, overwhelmed, stilled. He held himself as close as he could without crushing her, keeping his weight off her while surrounding her with his strength. She basked in it now that she knew it was there for her protection, that it was hers to draw upon, to trust rather than fear.
In trust, Beatrice lifted her hips to draw him in deeper and wrapped her legs around his hips. He raised up on his knees and slipped one of his massive hands beneath her. She kissed him everywhere she could reach, and he did the same, curving that great back and nipping at her earlobe, running his tongue down her neck, mouthing at her collarbones, and as the feeling within built and built, she set her teeth on his biceps and tightened the grip of her knees. He left off beseeching his gods and goddesses and whispered her name, over and over, until they clung to each other through their release, one after the other.
***
“Do not fall asleep on me again, if you please.” Madam had thrown her shyness aside and lay sated in the candlelight, allowing him to bathe her with the soapy cloth.
“I cannot help it if your diligence is so thorough I am done in.” She ran a little foot up and down his shin.
Well, that was as pleasing a thing as he’d ever heard. He demonstrated this by snuggling them up in the sheets. Ah, a reprise of shyness: she tucked her face into his neck, and he tilted his cheek to lay it on her head.
“Arthur.” She ran her fingers through that lock of hair she preferred. “Am I truly your mate?”
“You are. My bear is in alt, and the family will soon be.”
“They already are.” She took a breath and glanced up at him. “I thought you had to—”
“Had to?” She certainly wasn’t referring to—
“Bite?” Madam wiggled against him with fervor, so much so he was in danger of hardening again. “I thought there was a bite?”
“There is.” How to explain this without sounding like a barbarian?
“Castleton attempted it once or twice.”
He reeled back. “Attempted?”
She hid her face again. “It did not take.”
“It must have been horrific.” Arthur sat up to lean against the headboard and pulled her into his lap.
“It was.” Madam settled her chest against his and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “Worse, Georgie demanded proof I had not been bitten, for whatever reason.”
The snarl that burgeoned in his throat was so strong, it brought on a burst of dominatum—for which he received a fierce tug on his forelock.
“None of that, thank you very much,” she said. “I insisted a lady be appointed to inspect my person. I gather the bite may lie anywhere on the body?”
“Do not discuss this as though we were discussing stockings and garters.”
“I would not show Georgie those, either, for what it’s worth.” She sat back on his lap and set about petting his sideburns again.
“How dare he,” Arthur snarled, but his incipient rage was no match for her comforting touch.
“He dares as he is the highest among you and me, in both our natures.” Beatrice combed her fingers through his curls, idly, like a gesture of long habit. “I held his gaze through the request and through the aftermath. I can assure you, he regretted it.”
He could well imagine. “Had you done so while holding one of those curtsies, I could only count it even better.”
“Why should he wish to see was I unmarked?”
Arthur ran his hands up her back. “Had you not known the Shapeshifter secret, he would have assumed you were not aware of what the mark signified. Your wealth would have been his, and you would have been doubly his subject, as a human and the mate of a Shifter. You would have been given a portion, a mere fraction of what he took, immured in a cottage in the marches, and lost to society.” He came over shy of a sudden. “Dare I hope you feel you escaped a terrible fate?”
She hummed, teasing him. “I feel fortunate, when all is said and done.”
“I fear we will have to be grateful to Georgie, when all is said and done.”
“We shall, in our own good time.”
“I suggest we engage in activities more pleasant.”
“Do you indeed, Your Grace?” She slid over to his side, and her salty tone did nothing to flag his desire and, if anything, aroused it. “Pleasant is far too anodyne a term.”
***
It was very well that Tarben knew what flowers meant, but Ursella knew other important things about them that he did not.
She knew, for example, the flower best suited to mark a true mate bond was orange blossom. None grew near the house, and it would not feature in the kitchen garden. If they were following the traditions of the bears, the blossoms would have been harvested at Disting and dried. She would tell Uncle Artie it was time to mind the ceremonies now. Even if Uncle Artie didn’t think they were a sleuth. (They were.)
Orange blossom was not a meadow flower or a wood flower like bluebells, so she would not venture out to Uncle Artie’s spot in the copse. The only place she could think to find it was the glasshouse. As she made her way there, the underbrush rustled with animali puri. Was it hedgehogs and bunnies making the bushes rustle and dead leaves crunch? It was hard to tell, for she could not scent a thing, which was awfully strange.
When she reached the glasshouse, she saw the broken pieces were fixed and the door was new, and yet it creaked as she opened it, which was frightening but in the way a story might be frightening. The moonlight shone through the glass, and the plants and trees within cast looming shadows. As she paused at the end of the center aisle and did not find what she sought, one of the shadows detached itself from the others and found what it sought.
Her.