Chapter 12

Twelve

August. 1818.

" Y ou needn't, you know," he said on the eve of her twentieth birthday and Nathaniel's fourth birthday. There had been a silence between them for a good half an hour, during which he had been hiding behind his newspaper and steeling himself to say this to her.

"Needn't what?" She looked up from her embroidery.

"Stay here."

He had seen no evidence she wanted to leave. She had said nothing, done nothing to suggest that. On the contrary, she had woven herself into the fabric of Crossthwaite and the village beyond in a way he himself hadn't in his over twenty years of owning the property. She had met every occupant of Woldenmere and knew every granny, every child, every dog, probably every chicken and cow.

But he would not make the same mistake he had made with Violet. Henrietta needed to know she was not bound to him and she could have another life, one of her own choosing. Hadn't he vowed to put her needs always above his own? He must keep that vow. No matter the pain it would cause him. No matter he no longer could fathom a life without her.

No matter that both his and Nathaniel's hearts would break should she leave.

"I'll buy or rent a house for you, anywhere you like, give you ample money for a household. Nothing as grand as Bexton Manor, of course, but something suitable."

She blinked and her head bent again to her stitchery and all he could see were her sunset curls, her nimble fingers poking the needle in and out.

When she spoke, her voice was low. "Do you want me to go?"

"No!" The word burst from him with a greater force than he intended. "No, but I want you to be happy."

She continued to keep her eyes down, to stitch. "I'm happy. Are you happy?"

What was his answer to be? As long as she didn't leave, it was a resounding, heartfelt yes . But he didn't know how to be heartfelt, so he merely uttered the word.

"Yes."

She finally lifted her head. Were those tears in her eyes?

"Oh, I'm so relieved and glad, Oliver. I don't want to leave. I love," she almost choked, "Crossthwaite."

He wanted to be sure, and he wanted to know how to keep her happy in his home. "You're not bored? Lonely?"

"How could I be bored or lonely? There's so much to keep me occupied. The house, the village, the countryside, Nathaniel, Zephyr. I'm busy as a bee."

He felt a small pang that he was not on the list of things that kept her from being lonely at Crossthwaite.

"You needn't bother yourself about the house. Mrs. Liddell did an adequate job on her own before you came. "

"I like being mistress of the house."

He raised his eyebrows. "A duke's daughter shouldn't be doing laundry."

She laughed. "I don't do laundry. Not really. Not the hard parts, the soaking and the scrubbing and the wringing. I just do the hanging up and taking down. And folding it and putting it away. I like that."

"As long as you like it."

"I do."

"And," he said carefully, "you needn't make custard. You could tell Mrs. Nixon how to make it."

Her face colored and she dropped her embroidery hoop into her lap and twisted her hands together. "You know?"

"Word got back to me."

"But I like making custard, too."

"Good. Because I like eating your custard."

He couldn't help but lay a subtle emphasis on your . Since he had found out she was the one who made the custard, he thought it even more delicious. When he ate it, he felt he was filling himself up with her . Her care. Her sweetness.

"Good." She smiled. "I'm glad you know my secret." She picked up her embroidery hoop and her smile turned a bit mischievous. "And I'll tell you another one. Because I wasn't perfectly truthful with you, just now."

Apprehension threw tight, iron bands around his chest and compressed the air out of his lungs. He had been so sure the custard-making was her only secret. And it was such a silly, harmless one. What painful truth was she about to reveal?

"I do have a little bit of time on my hands occasionally, and there's something I'd like to do with it."

Go to Paris? Take up with a lover?

"I'd like to learn saddlery."

He shook his head, not understanding.

"I want to learn how to make a saddle."

He was still bewildered. "You want to learn a trade?"

"No. I just?.?.?.?I've had an idea for a while. For a special saddle for myself and Zephyr. And I'd like to be the one to make it. If you would take me to Lancaster, I can have a tree made there for my saddle and I could buy the tools and leather I need. I was thinking Mr. Spedding might be willing to give me some lessons in how to cut and stitch the leather? And I could use the extra harness room in our stables to do my work."

Our stables. She had said our . She wasn't going anywhere. The strain and weight of the invisible iron bands dropped away, and he felt like a boy.

All things were possible once again.

He took up his newspaper, hoping to give an appearance of nonchalance rather than ecstasy. "I'm going into the village tomorrow. Shall I have a word with Mr. Spedding about the lessons?"

She beamed. "Oh, yes, would you? If you ask, he'll be sure to say yes."

Oliver was fairly certain Spedding would be far more likely to say yes if the pretty, young Mrs. Hartwell asked him herself, but Oliver would hammer out a fee for the lessons, make certain there was nothing dangerous for Henrietta in the undertaking. No chance of lopped-off fingers, for example.

And he'd make sure Spedding didn't have any strapping, young apprentices about. Ones with flirtatious ways and wandering, greedy hands. Henrietta had no idea of her effect on men. And still no idea some men were depraved animals.

Like you .

He straightened a page of the newspaper. "Would next week suit for going to Lancaster?"

"Oh, Oliver!"

A flurry of skirts as Henrietta jumped up and suddenly she was in front of him, almost in his lap, leaning over, pressing into him, hugging him from a standing position as he sat, her breasts nudging under his chin.

Time had not made her touch any less arousing for him. He didn't know how it was possible, but each time she came near him, his physical desire for her grew incrementally. At this point, a quick kiss on his cheek accompanied by an unintentional graze of her bosom against his arm could keep him awake all night, painfully hard until he capitulated and used his hand while thinking of the softness of her lips and breasts.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Oliver!"

He allowed himself to take one hand off the crumpled newspaper in his lap and pat her back lightly, tentatively.

"You're welcome." He swallowed, committing this embrace to his memory, adding it to his catalogue of her caresses. "Henrietta."

She pulled back slightly, her eyes enormous with delight, her arms still resting on his shoulders. "You're the dearest husband in the whole world."

"At Crossthwaite, certainly," he said and raised his eyebrows. Her puffery embarrassed him, especially when he knew he wasn't anything like a real husband to her.

But she didn't smile or laugh at his deflection. She just shook her head.

"Oliver Hartwell, when are you going to realize Crossthwaite is the whole world to me?"

A moment came and went when he could have leaned forward and kissed her lips. But it was not for him to do that. He had done that once and ruined her life.

Her eyes dropped to his mouth and he felt a throb in his cock at the thought that she might kiss him.

Kiss me , he willed her. I could live happily, forever, on just one more kiss . Kiss me.

She did not. She withdrew her arms and went back to her chair, settling to her embroidery in a most industrious manner, avoiding his eyes.

Would she ever feel anything for him beyond companionship?

No. He was too old, and even when he had been younger, he had not been a man who inspired passion in women. Certainly not in a beautiful woman like Henrietta who should have married a prince or an heir to a dukedom or, at the very least, a man closer to her own age. A happy man. One without his scars. One who knew how to give and receive love.

He must remember Henrietta was just a remarkably caring and affectionate person and as her husband, he was lucky enough to receive some of that care and affection. That was all.

Why then did he still long for more?

From the grave, a wrathful Violet answered him, her words stabbing at what remained of his heart.

Because you're a filthy beast, Oliver Hartwell.