Chapter Five

Lincolnshire, February 1880

Arthur stared into the library fireplace, the flames dancing cheerily as if welcoming him back to his old apartment in Harwell Hall. He hadn’t called the Lincolnshire estate home for almost twenty years but it was easy to resume his former life.

His bachelor life.

He studied the shelves lined with books, an empty space here and there where he had removed more beloved tomes to his London house. He took a draught of his brandy then watched the amber liquor slide back down, coloring the Greek key pattern etched on the outside of the crystal bowl. He had purchased the decanter with four matching glasses as a present to himself when he had reached his majority. Over two decades later, he should probably consider the set old-fashioned. Instead, reacquainting himself with such objects from his past filled him with nostalgia.

Even the library fireplace and the space before it elicited memories—sensual rather than nostalgic. It was where he and Joseph had shared their first kiss and where he and Henny had first made love.

Arthur swirled the liquor in his glass. He still missed Henny. What they had shared had proved impossible to replicate. Not just the spark of youthful lust but the joyous friendship, the depth of honesty, the absolute trust.

He downed his brandy. The night with the odalisque was the first time he had believed he could possibly share such intimacy again.

Except his parents had other ideas about whom he ought to marry.

Helena’s wedding had brought with it the Harwell family reconciliation and now Mother and Father were nagging Arthur about his plans for the future, especially since both Sophia and Helena were pregnant.

The winter holidays at Harwell Hall had been replete with the young female relatives of neighbors and friends visiting at Mother and Father’s behest. Had fecundity been a trait of his own family, there would have been legions of distant cousins to consider as well. Arthur had played his part, conversing politely in the drawing room after dinners, but was usually able to escape to the masculine refuge of his apartment with Joseph and Nicholas in tow and, if they happened to be present, Geoffrey and his son William.

The day after the Harwell Twelfth Night dinner, Arthur sorely needed a respite, ensconcing his friends in his library. Nicholas and William huddled on the window seat, discussing Nicholas’ travels to the Near East and William’s entering Cambridge that autumn. Geoffrey, Joseph, and Arthur lounged around the roaring fire.

“I should be glad William is talking to an illustrious alumnus of our alma mater,” Geoffrey sighed. “He won’t listen to any of my tales of university life.”

“I don’t think I want your son knowing about what you and I did outside the boundary of the college walls, Geoff,” Arthur said.

“Oh, pshaw. I was hoping it might inspire him to get his head out of a book and kiss a girl.”

“How do you know he hasn’t already?” teased Joseph.

Geoffrey lifted a brow as he studied William’s animated antics across the room.

“You can always regale me with stories of what you two did at university, Geoff,” Joseph continued. “When Arthur tells such tales, somehow he comes off as less than heroic.”

“The sexual escapades of a nineteen-year-old are never heroic.”

“Speak for yourself, my lord.” Joseph winked.

And as jesting camaraderie mellowed to an afternoon of reading and letter-writing, Arthur’s valet Owens entered the library with a message from Father, inviting Arthur to tea.

Arthur had groaned at that. The interrogation could be avoided no longer.

Mother poured tea in the morning parlor while Father stood at the bay window, observing the dozens of snowscapes framed by the diamond-paned windows. Arthur sat in one of the bergères reupholstered at some point in the last two decades in a lush, chestnut-brown velvet.

Mother handed him his tea. Her hair was now solidly gray and her demeanor more subdued than twenty years ago. “Arthur, have you thought about any of your prospects?” She smiled sweetly. “For marriage, dear.”

Father strolled to the fireplace and drummed his fingers on the mantel. He sported shocks of bushy white whiskers on his cheeks, a fashion Arthur swore he would never adopt even in his dotage. “You will be marquess one day, son. And you’ll need an heir to pass the title on to.”

“Yes, Father.”

Mother offered a teacup to Father.

“Perhaps soon.” Father stirred his tea thoughtfully.

“Don’t be morbid. You’re in fine health.” Father looked well. Relief from the burden of recent financial difficulties had transformed dour wrinkles into the lines of a jovial grandfather.

“I’ll be seventy this year.”

“That’s no reason to give up.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “No, but it is a reason to start planning.”

“Mother has already done some planning. Which one of the girls from this holiday season did you prefer?”

“Don’t be an ass, Arthur. Your mother means well.”

Mother took her seat in the matching bergère opposite Arthur. “They are each one of them fine young women.”

“A girl of nineteen is not terribly interesting to me. Besides, I’m sure they all consider me some despicable, leering old man.”

“Ada Brampton was at least twenty-five,” Mother said curtly.

Arthur scowled at her.

“You know that means she’s getting too old to find a husband—”

“So I’m her best choice? Fine. I’ll be sure to chat her up this Season, if that’s what you want. But keep in mind you can’t force love.”

Father moved to the corner of the sofa. “You younger generation and your insistence on love. It’s maddening.”

Arthur sighed. “I know, I know. In your day, you married for power and position, for land and titles.” He swallowed a gulp of tea. “I don’t want that. I want to marry for love.”

Mother spread her palm over her knee and gripped the dark-green fabric of her skirt. “Arthur, son, you have to put Henrietta to rest.” She looked at him with soulful eyes. “You can’t possibly believe she would have wanted you to remain a bachelor forever?”

“No. Of course not.” Arthur cleared his throat. “And it’s not about that. I’m not trying to be faithful to Henny’s memory. I just know that a marriage can be something other than a business relationship.” He smiled weakly at Mother. “I’ll meet whomever you want me to meet but I insist that I make my own choice for a wife.”

“I’m sure you’ll like one of them.”

“And no one under twenty five.”

“Arthur, that’s a bit old—”

“Mother! I want to be able to talk to a woman as an equal not as a child.”

She let out a beleaguered sigh. “All right. But at least be polite to the younger girls. Parents are often so full of expectations when a daughter comes out. It’s impolitic to refuse a dance.”

After that, as winter dragged on, Mother did not revisit the topic. Nicholas and Helena returned to St. Albans. Geoffrey’s visits grew a little more infrequent. Joseph often joined Arthur in the evening but he and Sophia had rooms in the main house.

Which left Arthur alone, drinking brandy from an antiquated snifter, perusing forgotten books. It was an ideal existence. The only missing element was a companionable woman to excite his mind and satisfy his cock.

He simply did not know how to tell his parents he was sure he did not want children. Helena had been a darling child and Geoffrey’s brood—William, Molly, and Lilly—were all wonderful, and he enjoyed playing the part of uncle as they grew up. But how could he tell Mother that when he had heard of Sophia’s and Helena’s pregnancies, his joy at their news was tinged with relief that the children would not be his to foster?

He let out a long sigh. Perhaps his parents were right. He had put off his responsibilities long enough, and with the familial reconciliation his responsibilities were quite clear. He would dance with girls half his age while searching for his far more mature odalisque. Why, Sophia had just had her thirty-eighth birthday—perhaps his odalisque would not be averse to having children late in life.

But perhaps the man she had been trying to forget was her boorish husband. Countess Winthrop’s guests always had interesting stories.

Then there was Lady Foxley-Graham. Somehow he and Nicholas never got around to talking about her during Christmas. Joseph had said all he would and Arthur avoided Sophia, as she would probably divulge his curiosity to the lady in question.

Lady Foxley-Graham was most definitely unattached. The question was, would she be amenable to the prospect of children? Or was she more like him, jealously guarding her freedom?

Arthur shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? He’d have to say more than a few words to the woman before his fantasies got the better of him.

* * * * *

London

“Cheese and crust!”

Julius glanced up from his novel at the utterance of the Cockney oath. Grace had pricked the tip of her index finger with her embroidery needle and was sucking the offended digit. Normally he would chastise her for swearing in such an unladylike manner but she looked the picture of domestic incongruity as she sat in the parlor chair dressed in an elegant silk dinner gown, her embroidery frame before her, attending to her wound in a crude, childish fashion. She had wanted so much to learn to be a proper English woman and was trying so scrupulously that he simply did not have the heart to admonish the indiscretion, which admittedly was minor as he was her only audience. He hid his smile and resumed reading.

A minute later, Grace was standing at his side, his glass of port in her hand.

“Grace, if you would like port, please have the courtesy to pour your own glass.”

“But I don’t want me own—”

“My own, Grace, my own.”

“My own,” she exaggerated. “I don’t want my own glass. I just want a sip of yours.”

“All right,” he relented.

She took a generous swallow, somehow managing to get a drop on her lip. Her tongue flicked to catch the liquor, followed by a graze of her teeth across her lower lip. She flashed an expression of amused guilt and put the glass down.

She was so utterly beguiling at times. Julius reached out. She took his hand and he pulled her onto his lap.

She rested her head against his chest, her hand wrapping around his waist, her bustled bottom nestled between his thighs. “I can hear your heart beat,” she murmured. “Boom-boom, boom-boom.”

His heart beat a fraction faster as blood pumped to his crotch. He kissed the crown of her head. “I’m glad to know I’m still alive then.” It was she who kept him vigorous.

She giggled. “What are you reading?”

He held the book out to her. “You tell me.”

She opened to the first page. “Cousin Henry, a novel by Anthony Trollope.” Her voice rang clear and confident, stumbling only on the author’s last name.

Julius grinned with pride.

“What’s it about?”

“A missing will and a dispute over who will inherit an estate.” A topic he should be contemplating in his own life with Grace’s change of circumstance. But, like an awkward youth, he hadn’t yet broached the subject of her pregnancy. It was just too damn difficult. He’d work up the courage tonight.

Her eyes widened in bemused disbelief. “Is it any good?”

He chuckled. “It is a welcome diversion from my usual medical treatises.” He took the book from her and placed it on the side table then picked up the port. He sipped, watching her over the rim of the glass. She licked her lips delicately as she watched him drink.

He held the glass out to her. “And did you like the port?”

She took the glass. “I did.” She placed the port back on the table. “But I think I might like to try it this way instead.”

She stretched her neck and touched her lips to his, brushing the tip of her tongue along the seam of his mouth.

Every nerve in his body flared at the delicate caress. They rarely kissed. Or rather he rarely kissed her. He rarely kissed his lovers. The simple act conveyed so much meaning. A kiss was too emotional, too intimate, too revealing of one’s secret longings.

And at that moment he longed for Grace.

He downed the rest of the port, letting the liquor dampen his lips and moisten his tongue. He cradled her head in his hand as he leaned over and crushed his mouth to hers, devouring her as a man hungry, she sucking his tongue, seeking sustenance. He would succor her, would sustain her, would nourish her body and soul.

She clung to him, spiking her fingers through his hair, curling against his chest needfully.

He needed her as well. As their passion cooled to languid nibbles, he knew it was she, rather, who would succor him. Remorse stung his eyes. Pride had starved him of love’s banquet.

As he pulled back, she licked her lips and traced a finger around his mouth. “I love your whiskers. They tickle when we kiss. I like being tickled.”

“Then we should kiss more often.”

“We should.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “Shall we to bed?”

Delight lit up her face before melting to misgiving. “Don’t you have work? You always work into the night.”

He cupped her cheek. “I can give it a rest one night.”

He’d mention her pregnancy after they had made love; he swore he would. But he knew he wouldn’t. She’d be too fragile and he’d be too spent. The topic would have to wait for another day.