Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Henry had never been a rake.

He'd been accused of it often enough before his marriage to Martha. Whispers of scandals and affairs that he had never taken part in. He had been a flirt, to be sure. He had enjoyed, as any young man might, female attentions and the thrill of making a lady blush.

There had been women here and there before Martha. A girl from the local village before she had moved off, an opera singer in France during his holiday there. Not many, to be sure, but enough for a man of his age at the time.

After Martha though?

There was only ever Martha.

He had lived and breathed her presence, her soul attaching to his and making all other women cease to exist.

He'd been approached several times over the course of their marriage by the more morally bankrupt of the ladies of the ton. They'd flirted and laughed and proposed all manner of indecent things to him, verbally and otherwise.

Not once had he ever even been slightly tempted.

It was like the physical reaction to such things had been stripped from him and given solely to his wife and her attributes.

And after her death?

Henry's knuckles gripped the back of the chair he stood behind, the skin blanching white from the force he put behind it.

There had been offers.

Most notably that first misguided affair with Catherine in the wake of her grief.

Then the others had come in a trickle, offers and suggestions posed to him over the course of that first six months after Martha's funeral. Enough that he had finally fully disappeared from society altogether to avoid them.

Not that he could avoid seeing a woman ever.

There were still certain events he couldn't cry off of. Parties and balls that he was required to put in an appearance at where ambitious mamas and their willing offspring were toted before him like some prize to claim.

And still he hadn't been stirred. Not even by the most accomplished or most beautiful of them. Through no amount of flirting.

And yet Josephine St Vincent had only looked up at him, her freckles standing out against that tell-tale blush that coloured her fair-olive skin. She had only looked at him, and he had felt something within himself, his chest tightening as his trousers followed suit.

It took only a second, and he was suddenly acutely aware of every detail about her. The soft skin of her palm and the warmth of her fingers in his. The way that her pulse raced at her wrist, so small that he could have easily encircled it within his fingers. The flecks of green and grey that danced in her shining blue gaze.

He groaned, dropping his head as he tried to banish such thoughts from his mind. As he tried to scrub the mental imagery from behind his tightly closed lids.

He could smell her even then, the faint scent of vanilla and clove tickling his nose just like it had when they'd stood paused there in front of the loveseat. Sweet and spicy as if she were daring to tempt him even further.

Except there had been no artifice in anything she did. No intention behind her movements, and that had made it all the worse. Because it was so innocent. Innocent enough that he had wanted to sink his teeth into her then and there.

It was all too easy to imagine what might have happened had her parents, Lisbet and Simon not been just a yard or less away.

All too easy to imagine taking her hand and yanking her to him until he could feel the softness of her curves pressed against him. To imagine how it would feel to reach up and allow his hands to run up the exposed skin of her neck and back until his fingers could tangle in her auburn hair and pull it down from that elaborate updo her mother had no doubt spent hours pinning in place.

And he could see her in his mind's eye – those auburn waves tumbling down her shoulders and the ends of them covering her blue-lace-covered breasts.

For someone as slim as she was, her dress had clung to her in all-too-telling of ways, ensuring him that supple curves lay beneath.

Things he wouldn't have noticed.

Things he shouldn't have noticed.

His jaw clenched as he felt that stirring within him once more, his brain supplying all the imagery he needed for his body to react.

God, she'd been so beautiful.

Was he really so depraved that he would have backed her right back into that loveseat if there hadn't been an audience?

There was a part of him that was afraid he was.

He could see it. The way that she'd stumble and the way that he would catch her. The way that he would lower his mouth first to hers to see if she really tasted like vanilla and spice. The way he would pry her lips open with her tongue to taste her more fully.

He could hear her gasp, the way she would cling to him.

And he knew that would be his undoing. There would be no stopping him then.

His hand drifted down his abdomen, his fingers pressing into the fabric as he drew another agonized groan from himself.

Would she kiss him back? Would she know how?

He didn't think it would matter. He knew he could teach her. He would taste her until she was out of breath, and then he would allow himself to deviate from her lips. He would kiss his way across her jawline and towards those delicate lines of her throat.

She'd make that small noise that only a woman seemed capable of making. Her back would arch, and he would step into her, pressing his arousal into her belly to show her just how much she affected him.

She'd gasp, and he'd push back until the backs of her knees buckled against the couch, and then he'd follow her.

A groan grew, trapped in the back of Henry's throat as he tilted his head back and allowed himself to imagine his hand as hers. His large, blunted fingers as her small, thin set instead.

It had been so long since he had been touched or even since he'd been this tempted to touch himself.

Would she be as tan beneath the neckline of her dress?

He thought not. That would be fair, untouched by sun skin. It would pebble with desire as he pulled her dress down, baring first one shoulder then the other. He'd kiss his way across them, pulling the bodice of her dress down slowly until it caught on the swells of her breasts.

"Your Grace?"

Henry's hand stopped just short of the waistband of his trousers, his fingers clenching further as he thanked all the stars for the fact that his back was to the open study door and that Harbuttle had announced himself before even turning the corner.

"Yes?" Henry asked, the word more clipped and strained than he would have liked.

"Did you require anything else before you retire for the night?"

Privacy.

It was an unfair thought, riddled with an impatience that the old butler didn't deserve.

"No, thank you, Harbuttle. Actually …" Henry paused, clearing his throat and turning his head so that he didn't scandalize his oldest servant by clearly displaying what he had been just about to do. "A bottle of whisky if you wouldn't mind. One from my reserves."

"A bottle, Your Grace?" Harbuttle checked, one eyebrow raising.

Henry didn't have it in him to feel any more shame than he did already.

"Yes, a bottle." He would drink the whole damn thing, too.

"Of course, Your Grace," Harbuttle murmured, backing away and disappearing from sight once more.

Henry could feel himself twitch within his trousers, feel that instinct to resume what had been interrupted, but there had been enough time for that guilt to set in.

What in the hell was he doing?

How had Josephine affected him so fully so fast? What business did he have being so attracted to her? She was only supposed to be a means to an end. A mother to the children that he wanted and needed to produce.

He knew that would involve some degree of physical intimacy. He hadn't been ignorant enough not to have considered that. He had just … thought it would require some degree of getting used to it.

He hadn't expected to be so fully ready to begin such a venture.

Damn.

Martha.

"She would want you to be happy," Catherine had said. And Henry knew that it was true.

So why did his physical response to Josephine make him feel he was disrespecting her memory? Or worse … forgetting her.

"Damnation," Henry muttered aloud, stepping back aggravatedly and running his hand through his hair as he quickly crossed the room to sit behind his desk. "What in the seven hells am I doing?"

"Your Grace?"

Henry almost dropped his head down to his desk and groaned as Harbuttle picked that moment to return, a bottle of whisky in hand.

"I'm talking to myself," Henry admitted with a sigh. "The first sign of madness, I'm sure."

"Not the first, sir," Harbuttle returned evenly, unperturbed despite the turn in conversation. "I imagine there are many more silent cues that come first."

The old butler said it dryly, his face a mask of indifference, but the humour wasn't lost on Henry.

He snorted as Harbuttle put the bottle on the desk and moved to get Henry a glass.

"Have I exhibited a great many of them then?" Henry asked honestly, running his hand down his face as he leaned back in his chair.

Harbuttle eyed Henry seriously as he returned, uncorking the whisky and pouring as if he were buying time before answering.

"When I lost Mrs Harbuttle, I almost lost my position here," Harbuttle said slowly instead of answering Henry's question. "You were a young man then. I doubt that you remember–"

"No, no," Henry rushed to assure him, his throat growing strangely tight. "I do remember. I had just turned fifteen, I think." Harbuttle's wife had been his mother's closest maid, always ready with treats to sneak Henry growing up and with a firm kindness that had never faltered.

"Yes, Your Grace. Your father was very understanding. She was old enough for it not to be any great surprise given her history. Women from her village didn't live very long. Something about the harsh winters and humidity. I'd never given it much thought." Harbuttle paused, staring off, and Henry felt himself identify with that far-away look in his eyes.

"I expected at the very least to go before her," the butler continued. "That was some fifteen-odd years ago, though." And clearly that hadn't happened.

Henry reached across the desk, grabbing another glass and pouring whisky into it to hand to a surprised-looking Harbuttle.

"After … Well, Your Grace, I think you handled your grief much more admirably than I did." The old butler made an undignified noise, taking a long draught of his whisky before he shook his head. "I was angry, Your Grace. I was angry with God, with the world, with anyone and everyone who lived who wasn't my Annise."

Henry felt his chest tighten, his grip around his whisky doing the same as he finally went to take a drink.

"I accused your father of not providing enough care for her." Harbuttle paused, looking embarrassed, and Henry found his eyebrows raising.

His father had never mentioned such a thing. Not that he would have had to, but still, it was a shocking bit of news.

"Had he not?" Henry asked hesitantly, unsure whether he wanted to hear the truth of Harbuttle's answer.

The old butler laughed. "Your father went above and beyond to see to her health," he admitted wryly. "He paid out of his own pocket to ensure that she was comfortable in her last days. But, as I said, I was angry."

Henry nodded. He could understand the inclination.

He'd raged in those days after Martha. When the lawmen had been unable to provide him with any leads as to how his wife could have been murdered.

When they'd tried finding any other explanation to sweep it under the rug.

Thanks to the furniture he had broken that week, there was an entire bonfire.

"It's been three years," Henry muttered, finishing the whisky in his glass in one large swig before pouring another.

"It's been fifteen," Harbuttle answered dryly.

Henry looked up, his emotions torn.

"You never remarried."

And there it was. The guilt eating away at him, that proof of how unfaithful he really was just in front of him. Harbuttle had lived another fifteen years honouring his wife's memory. And Henry hadn't even been able to go five.

"I was already an old man," Harbuttle returned evenly. "At two and sixty, who would I have married? Besides, I was not a duke."

Henry snorted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass and glaring down into it.

"Duke or commoner, I think it makes very little difference when it comes to loyalty."

Harbuttle took another sip, seemingly staring off into space for a moment.

"When you brought Lady Martha home, I was prepared to dislike her," Harbuttle admitted randomly. "She was so very outgoing, so very friendly. I was sure that some of it must have been put on for our benefit."

Henry blinked, surprised by the admittance.

"It wasn't, I see." Harbuttle chuckled. "We all fell in love with Her Grace. She was a force to be reckoned with. She was unfailingly kind."

Henry nodded, his throat tight as he felt that edge of guilt press even deeper into his chest.

"She would have wanted you to find happiness," Harbuttle said softly, echoing Catherine's words in a way that startled Henry.

"I am getting married," Henry blustered, his ears hot like he was a young boy caught stealing into the pantry after nightfall all over again.

"And Lady Josephine and her family seem to be of a very good sort," Harbuttle said knowingly. "I think Her Grace would have liked her."

Henry groaned.

He didn't know if that made it better or worse.

Harbuttle stepped forward, empty glass in hand, and put his other hand heavily on Henry's shoulder. He squeezed once before stepping back and dismissing himself without another word.

Henry drank his second glass of whisky in one shot.

He wanted to forget such things.

He wanted to forget his impulses. He wanted to forget how Lady Josephine looked up at him, forget her wit and how well her jokes had landed. He wanted to forget the way that she had smelled.

Could he even remember what Martha smelled like?

He didn't know. Juniper berries and … something.

Her face was like a shadowed mirror image in his mind, ripples reflecting over the glass as the shadows surrounded it.

She would have wanted you to find happiness.

But at what expense?

Forgetting her?

Henry scrubbed his hand down his face again.

Impulsively, he reached over to pour another glass of whisky, his throat tight.

She would have wanted you to find happiness.

But how could he when all his happiness had been wrapped up in her and her brown eyes?

How could he allow himself to fantasize about that oceanic pair that had so disrupted him?

He loved Martha. He had always loved Martha.

But hell take him if Josephine wasn't making him think about and remember things he had thought long dead inside himself.