Chapter Twenty

Louisa had never known him to be so gentle.

This was, perhaps, her fault; she did not expect tenderness from her lovers. They were there to achieve a specific aim, and once it was over, there was no need for either of them to linger. There was no moment to hold on to, no emotion to address delicately.

She had been friends with them all, and had coached them on how to best pleasure her, just as she had learnt from them. Bodies were each different, and she had enjoyed the challenge and satisfaction of finding the correct key for each lock, and turning it in her own time.

Henry's blue eyes fluttered open, dazed and soft, and he leant forward, pressing a kiss against her jaw, his fingers regaining the rhythm they had maintained before his release. The hot ball of tension in her belly tightened. Having him not so much as question whether she wanted him to continue his ministrations was arousing in itself, and she bit her lip.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, but she shook her head.

"I liked it."

"Honesty?"

Her breath caught as he rubbed slow circles with his thumb. "Honesty," she said, and it was true. Watching him come apart, helpless in the face of his pleasure, so aroused by such simple things that he couldn't help himself, had been one of the most erotic experiences of her life.

And she was the only woman who had done that for him. There was more than a little satisfaction there.

Her swell of desire at the thought brought her abruptly to the edge.

"Henry—" Her voice cracked. She took hold of his wrist, holding it there as heat overwhelmed her. The knot of tension erupted in waves, and she drowned under the force of it as he whispered praise into her damp skin. How beautiful she was, how much he wanted her, how he could never have dreamed of this.

The thud of his heartbeat was the last sound that followed her into oblivion.

Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, painting gentle, swaying patterns onto the polished wood floorboards. Sleepy, feeling almost drugged with contentment, Louisa watched the play of dark against light. Dancing leaves. The image was pleasing, and for a few lazy moments, she thought of nothing.

Slowly, the happenings of the past few minutes—hours, perhaps, given the soft fingers of sleep that still clung to her mind—filtered back, and a tight feeling of dread infiltrated her sweet calm.

She had done the thing she had vowed never to: taken Henry as her lover.

His arm was still wrapped around her waist, holding her against him, and by the soft rise and fall of his chest, he had succumbed to the same slumber that had overtaken her. His breath was soft against her hair, and when she closed her eyes, all she could see was the heavy intensity of his gaze on her.

There was no occasion for the pride that rose in her chest at the way she had coaxed pleasure from him. Perhaps she had been his first, but she would never be his last.

Nor did she want to be.

Although she had to admit there was something pleasing about waking in his arms. She had vowed never to marry again, but this was the closure they had never had.

A distressingly pleasant closure. The assurance that had they married, they would have found satisfaction in this, at least.

Well, it was done now; all she could do was learn to live with her choices, as she always had.

Henry was not to be hers. And time had proven it was for the best—he needed a wife who could provide him with heirs, and she was not the lady for the job. Nor would she, if she had him, allow him to produce heirs elsewhere.

Nor would he even contemplate it for a second. She knew him well enough for that.

Gingerly, she rolled, freeing herself from the heavy weight of his arm, and faced him. The orange tinge in the sunlight helped soften the stern lines of his face, giving him the appearance of long-lost youth.

This, here, was the man she had fallen in love with a decade ago.

A part of her still loved him. There was hardly any point denying it any more, at least to herself. A part of her loved him and a part of her hated him, and she could not reconcile the two. Young Louisa and present-day Louisa, the two sides of who she was and who she wanted to be, vied in her heart for dominance.

She would not allow either to win.

"Goodbye, Henry," she murmured, rising to leave.

His eyelids fluttered, and with a stab of mortification she realised he had not been asleep as she had thought. His hand flashed out to wrap around her wrist and his eyes slitted open, narrowed from the light. Even after everything, he was the handsomest man she knew.

"Wait," he said, thumb lazily moving across her wrist.

"For what, pray?"

"We had a truce." His eyes finally opened fully, and he slid his hand from her wrist and along her palm, fingers linking. Although that same hand had recently been between her legs, this felt more intimate, even if she could not articulate precisely why.

"Did we?"

"Did we not?" he countered, and finally sat up. The sheets fell away from his chest, and she remembered he was still wearing his clothes while she was naked. But although his gaze travelled down her body, heating a little, he made no move to pull her closer. His thumb swiped across the side of her hand.

"They will miss us."

"Comerford will make our excuses."

"And what of Knight?" she asked, not drawing her hand away. She ought to end this now before she betrayed more of herself, but she had the feeling that once she left the room, there would be no coming back. And she wasn't ready for that quite yet. "And the letters?"

His gaze shuttered a little at the reference to Knight's sister—the one she had sworn she would use to get her revenge. But all he said was, "Knight can go hang."

"I could perhaps make him do so," she said seriously. "But I won't."

"No?"

"If he is doing this over his sister . . . I can understand it."

Henry's lip curled. "His methods are repugnant."

"Yes," she said, and gave in to the calling of her body, crawling back across the bed. He drew her into his arms, settling her on his chest, an arm around her back, playing idly with her hair.

"Are things truly so bad for you?" she asked.

"You mean are we on the brink of ruin? Yes." His voice was wry. "My father knows no restraint and my brother is following in the same path."

"Oliver?"

"Yes. I've tried remonstrating with him, but to no avail. He seems determined to kick up every lark at Oxford, and heaven forbid he study ."

She rested her chin on her hand as she looked into his face, at the unyielding lines of it even now. The air of youthful innocence had gone, replaced by something that looked a little jaded. She remembered how he had been as a young man, so responsible and dutiful even then. He knew what his father was and determined to steer clear of those temptations, even when it would prove difficult.

But his brother, evidently, did not have his disposition. It would be a rare man who did, she thought.

"Have you spoken to him as a man?" she asked. "Not as your brother, or one you're responsible for."

"I've spoken to him as honestly as I can."

"I know there's some age difference between you. He's—how old?"

"Eighteen."

"Yes," she said, and at his tensing, ran a finger along the collar of his shirt. "A child, still. Younger than you were when we first met."

"When I was his age—"

"Ah, but he is not you. Did you not say before that I do not have your disposition? Why should your brother? You may find it easy to abstain, but evidently he is conscious of the wishes of his peers. What young man is not?" She propped herself up more firmly, holding his gaze. "You cannot expect him to make the same sacrifices as you. But if you speak to him as a man, as an equal, expressing the reality of your situation, perhaps he will find his own way forward."

He frowned, but a rueful smile twitched his lips. "It's hard to consider him a man," he admitted.

"I think it will be better for you both the moment you do so. Consider how he must feel, constantly belittled and lectured by his brother."

"If my father—"

"But he does not," she said gently. When they had first met, and he had first confessed in Bath what his relationship with his father was, she had wished she could have shared her own father with him. Kind-hearted, generous, understanding. A man that all men should aspire to be. But Henry had not had her father, and when her father had died, he had grieved with her, but he had never truly been able to understand the magnitude of her loss, because for him, to lose his parent would be as much relief as sorrow.

Henry's fingers trailed down her hand to her elbow, as though he wanted to learn how every inch of skin felt against his fingertips. "Can I ask you something?" he said, voice very soft.

"Mm?"

"Are you painting again?"

The question took her by surprise—there was no way for him to have known that for months after Bolton's death, she had stared at her canvases and felt sick, her throat closing and her stomach roiling. It had taken her years to be able to pick up a pencil and sketch again; still longer before she dared paint with oils. Even now, sometimes the smell made her think of what had been. But she would not let him control her, and this was the future she had always wanted for herself.

"I am," she said after a beat. "Did you know I'd stopped?"

"I thought you might have done after Bolton forced you to—" He stopped, nostrils flaring. "But I know how much it matters to you, and I hoped very much that you had begun again."

"Yes, I . . ." She closed her eyes, honesty compelling her to speak, but pride preventing her from seeing Henry's face as she made her confession. "Before I met you, all I wanted from my life was the freedom and independence to paint. I wanted to claim my portraits, to brave the scandal that a high-born lady painting in oils would bring to my door, and to leave my name behind in my art when I die."

"I know."

"Bolton hasn't just threatened my reputation," she said, her voice wavering for the first time. "That I could have lived with. But he has prevented me from ever claiming my paintings. I can never display them again—I will never be able to paint portraits without someone connecting me to Bolton's work. If we were strangers with similar styles, perhaps . . . But I'm his wife. His widow. And even now he's dead, he's standing in the way of the future I always wanted."

"Louisa," Henry murmured, rolling and scooping her more firmly against him. Her face pressed against his shoulder, and for the first time in nine years, she allowed herself to cry in front of another person. Bolton did not deserve her tears or her grief—he deserved to be forgotten somewhere small and insignificant —but this was her future and her life, and he had ruined it. Even without Knight. She could paint, yes, but she would never be remembered through her art the way she had dreamed of as a girl.

Henry's hand cupped the back of her head, and he held her as though she were a gift, something inexpressibly precious to him.

"It was the only thing I ever wanted," she whispered against the skin of his neck. "And he took it from me."

Henry leant back, a finger under her chin as he tilted her face to meet his. His eyes were dark, beautiful, the night sky after rain, and that was all the warning she had before he reached forward and kissed her. Sweetly, softly, her tears salty against his lips. The hand on her hip skimmed up her body to her jaw, and he cradled her. Most of the men who had her naked in their beds were interested in nothing more than what she could offer them—understandable, given the transactional nature of their relationships. But she had missed this, the sense of being special and wanted for more than her soft skin and supple curves.

"You deserved so much better than you received," he said, pressing kisses to her jaw, her cheek, her forehead, her temple, the tip of her nose. "Forgive me, Louisa."

It was not wholly his fault.

She could not separate her fate from his rejection.

The conflicting emotions rang through her like a gong. She could not forgive him; she wanted him.

Desire was enough. Would be enough.

"Think of him no more," she said, and licked his bottom lip. His breath caught. "Think only of me."

"If you would like to—"

"No." This, she was certain of. "No more talking."

His nose nudged along her cheekbone, and he kissed the shell of her ear. "Very well," he said, voice deeper and rougher now, lust darkening every last shade of him. "Last time, I did not conduct myself admirably. Allow me to acquit myself."

"You need only take me," she said in answer, and tugged his cravat free.

They moved as though they were in a dream, as if they could sense time's impatience. And yet, as his hands traced her skin once again, callouses scraping, there was a languidness to his movements.

This time, she undressed him. First came his shirt. Then his breeches. She rose, tossing her hair across her shoulder, and crossed the room to the bucket of water that had been left there. Wetting a cloth, she returned to the bed and washed him. His eyes were on her the whole time, watching with heavy-lidded heat, and when she was done, he waited as she lay back and held out her arms for him. Then, he came to her readily, his weight pressing her into the bed.

"We do not have to," she said, but he silenced her with a kiss.

"I want to."

"Good," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. He frowned down at her, though the force of holding back seemed to be causing him physical pain.

"Is there something I should do for you? To prepare you?"

Tenderness bloomed in her chest, a feeling that was so akin to love, she might have panicked had she not been feeling so loose and relaxed, so open. Half smiling, she shook her head. "Usually yes, but now—I'm ready for you. I want you." Reaching a hand between their bodies, she guided him to her entrance. The tight throb of anticipation turned liquid as he pressed, and she opened underneath him.

His eyes fluttered shut, and he groaned, throat working. Louisa stared up at him, marking the play of pleasure across his face, the way his expression turned lax and soft. His body was delightfully hard against hers, the soft hair on his chest the perfect friction against her nipples. She arched her back into him, and he sank the remainder of the way inside her.

Fullness. A sense of completeness. The intensity of it was frightening, joyful, utterly overwhelming. She knew she should not be feeling this way, like a maiden helplessly in love with her seducer. Like an innocent capable of being hurt again.

His head dropped against her shoulder, and she tightened her arms, holding him close, her doubts aside.

"A moment," he mumbled against her skin, and when she ran her hands along his back, she could feel how tightly wound he was. "I just need—"

"Shh." She pressed her mouth against his shoulder, almost as dazed and overwhelmed as he was. "It's all right."

"I want to—" His teeth grazed her burning skin, and she nodded, understanding.

"It's like that, sometimes," she said, even though this hunger, this urge to consume, as though they could dig under each other's skin to become one, was new for her as well. None of her previous lovers had ever made her feel as though something missing had slotted into place. A sense of rightness thrilled down to her bones, only deepening when he rocked inside her.

"I've wanted this for so long," he told her. "I used to dream about touching you when I was at war." His eyes were glazed above her, and his other hand came to her hip, holding her open for him. She wanted to capture this moment and fold it within herself so she'd never lose it. His mouth was clumsy as it brushed hers, and they both laughed, breathless. "I used to touch myself to the thought of you," he confessed, as though ashamed.

She closed her eyes, her own confession raw. "When I was with my husband, the only way to make it bearable was to imagine it was you instead." Then, when he had forced his way inside her, it had felt like less of a violation. Sometimes, though rare, she had even found her own pleasure from the thought.

His whole body shuddered, and his fingers laced through hers. "I don't want it to end."

There had rarely been a more erotic sight, she thought, than his bare back and buttocks in the candlelight. Art in its purest form—a fleeting moment she wished to commit to a canvas.

His hands found the space between their bodies, and although he was a novice, he was a quick learner, listening to her breathing and instructions, and adjusting his technique until she teetered on the edge. They were both there, both strung impossibly tight, both holding on as long as they could.

"Should I—" His words were choppy, and he allowed himself a wry, lopsided grin. Seriousness overcame him again far too quickly. "Should I—where should I . . .?"

Understanding his question, she shook her head. "Where you are."

"I'm not a—" He huffed an impatient breath, barely moving inside her now. His fingers still circled, and she was so close that her thoughts were sluggish. "We should be careful," he said.

Usually, she required her lovers to use French letters, or at the very least finish elsewhere, but her thoughts were scattered, her body pliant under his, and she could not separate what she wanted from what was sensible to have. "I won't get with child," she said. The closest she had ever come to the true confession: she couldn't get with child.

He groaned, holding her hip still as she ground against him. She could almost feel the overbearing urgency of his need, but he held himself back. "Are you certain?"

She cupped his face in her hands. "Please."

That was all it took; he shuddered, cursing, saying her name as though it might offer him salvation. Or perhaps as though he knew he was already cursed. Her heart clenched, her body dissolved into pleasure, and she lost herself in him all over again.