Chapter 14

Fourteen

August, 1819.

H enrietta buried her nose in the tall stack of Oliver's folded shirts. Although she adored the scent of his shirts before laundering, the smell of clean linen was its own, if lesser, pleasure. She managed to get a hand on the door knob without letting the stack slip and used her hip to bump the bedchamber door open the rest of the way.

But Oliver was not in his study as she had thought he was.

Oliver was in his bedchamber, dressed as she had seen him last, sitting on the edge of his bed, holding himself.

Touching himself.

She noticed out of the corner of her eye that his head moved—perhaps to look at her coming into the room—but she found it impossible to take her attention off the organ in his hand.

How did his phallus fit into his trousers? It was so large and thick, poking out quite a far distance from a nest of black hair. And it was a dark and angry red, an entirely different color from the rest of his golden skin. And his hand was moving so quickly, so forcefully. Wouldn't he hurt himself?

It seemed like forever, but it was likely only a second or two before she heard a choking sound and white material fountained out of him. Seed. So much seed. His other hand was right there in his lap, holding a handkerchief. He must have intended to catch his seed and forgotten.

"Henrietta." The word was a harsh rasp. She finally looked away from his phallus, and, oh, she had never seen such a rueful look as that upon the face of her husband.

"Your shirts," she got out and put the stack down on a chair and fled into her own chamber. She locked both doors and threw herself down onto her bed, her whole body aflame, consumed by such a rush of need that she could not even stand.

She had finally seen the man she loved, the man she desired, undone by his own desire.

She clawed at her skirts in a frenzy. She was damp, her nub already swollen, and she rubbed herself with the same fierceness Oliver had used on himself. Indeed, in her mind, he had his long fingers on her, demanding her climax.

Within a minute, she was gasping out her release as waves of rapture rocked her body.

Relief. Followed by tears.

Because as pleasure ebbed away, an enormous loneliness rushed in like a terrible tide.

Poor her. And poor Oliver. He tended to himself when she'd be so happy to tend to him. More than happy. But he didn't want that. He had warned her before they married he didn't want that.

What had he said? He would not impose on her.

She wiped her tears on her sleeve. They had been married for two years. Knowing her feelings now, her want, her need, would she still marry Oliver?

Yes.

Yes, of course, she would still marry Oliver. She didn't want a life without him, without Nathaniel. She didn't have what her parents had, but look at how much she did have. So many people didn't have love. Better to have love without copulation than the other way around.

Because there was an abundance of love here at Crossthwaite. Her love for Oliver and Nathaniel. Nathaniel's love for both her and Oliver. Oliver's for Nathaniel.

And Oliver was fond of her. He didn't love her the way he must have loved his previous wives, but she knew he cared for her. He was so thoughtful, so obliging, he always said she could have anything she wanted?—

Wait.

Did he know she wanted him ? That she had nursed thoughts of him for years, even before they married? That, in her imagination, he had been present each and every time she had ever achieved ecstasy?

Please, God, no. Please don't let him know. I couldn't bear his knowing how much I've yearned for him. How much I still do.

But this was a foolish worry. He couldn't know. No one knew. Henrietta had been so careful to limit herself to friendly hugs, kisses on the cheek, brief touches. She'd denied herself so many times. Painfully many times. There was no way he could know.

But.

If she decided to make her desire known to him, would he fornicate with her just because she wanted him? Would he give himself to her, just as he had given her everything else she had ever asked for? Like the saddle-making lessons and embroidery needles and even things she hadn't asked for, like silk stockings and perfume?

She toyed with the idea. Asking for that . With her husband. Who did not return her desire.

No. She couldn't. She had longings at times that threatened to overwhelm her, but she couldn't bear telling him she wanted him when he didn't want her.

She didn't even know how she would face him at dinner tonight. Knowing he knew she knew he took his pleasure alone. Rather than with her.

She would just have to pretend like this afternoon had never happened.

Oliver must have made the same decision because that evening they looked at each other over the dining table and spoke without awkwardness about all the usual, ordinary things—the celebration of her and Nathaniel's birthday in two days, the house, the sheep, the shepherds, the tenants, happenings in the village. And after dinner, as usual, he read his newspaper and she embroidered.

But, in bed that night, she thought of Oliver lying alone in his own bed, and what he had said two years ago on the eve of their wedding.

He would not impose on her. She had no obligation to him; all the obligation was on his side. She did not need to fear his coming into her bed.

At the time, she had felt sure she knew the reason why he didn't want to perform his marital duty. He wasn't attracted to her, just like so many of the young lords during her Season. Just like Geoffrey.

And although he had been very polite when he told her their marriage would be a chaste one, she had been hurt. But she had never been one to linger on unhappiness or to hold grievances. It was better to keep going and to concentrate on more joyous things.

But in her hurry to get past her pain, could she have confused things and made assumptions?

For a moment, she might allow herself to imagine Oliver did find her desirable.

He had kissed her that one time, after all.

Many times over the last two years, she had caught Oliver staring at her. And it hadn't been with disgust. It had been with?.?.?.?could it have been with hunger ?

He trembled sometimes when she touched his hand or hugged him.

He did not seek the company of other women. He had sold the remainder of his father's businesses over a year ago and no longer went to London. And she did not think he could hide a mistress in so small a place as Woldenmere.

And this afternoon?.?.?.?had that really been a handkerchief in his other hand? It had been far too large. And there had been a bit of blue mixed in with the white.

She had a chemise with a blue ribbon for the drawstring in the neckline.

She lit a lamp and got up and went to her clothes press to look for that particular chemise. She couldn't find it. She remembered wearing it last week, putting it in the pile of things to be washed, but she didn't remember ever hanging it up with the other laundry to dry.

It had disappeared.

She tapped her fingertips against her mouth, trying to contain her hope. Don't let your mind run wild with silly impossibilities, Hen.

But it was too late. She could not rein back the notion that maybe she had gotten everything all wrong. Maybe he had said he would not fornicate with her because he had thought her unwilling. He had thought he had forced that kiss on her. Or maybe he had thought her too young. All of which was nonsense, of course.

I will not impose on you .

If only she had been brave enough to say by the ha-ha, "It would be no imposition, at all. I fancy you. I fancy everything about you."

But she had been much too intimidated by him back then. It had taken all her courage to contradict him and to assert she absolutely was going to care for Nathaniel.

And despite feeling much more comfortable with Oliver now, she still didn't think she could come right out and tell him she desired him.

But this was ridiculous! Two adult people, married to each other, not expressing physical love. She should march into his room right now and demand her marital rights!

No, she couldn't do that. If she were wrong and he didn't want her?.?.?.?oh, she'd die of shame and embarrassment. The friendly, cozy fellowship they had between them—the thing that made her happiest—might vanish.

Henrietta went back to her bed but couldn't find sleep. She'd always tried hard to be content with herself and not to spend too much time longing to be different, but how she wished right now she had been born clever so she could puzzle this out.

She must find a way to sound Oliver out on the subject of copulating with her. But in a safely roundabout manner that couldn't possibly reveal her true feelings for him.

Could she pretend to sleepwalk into his room one night and get into bed with him? No, after two years of having adjoining bedchambers, he knew she didn't sleepwalk.

She could ask him to take her somewhere. Cornwall. York. Anywhere. And there might be a crowded coaching inn. And only one room and only one bed. They would have to share, and she would feign sleep and drape herself over him and see what came to pass.

No. Knowing her resourceful and efficient husband, he would find another room, another bed, no matter how full the inn.

If only Oliver were a duke like her father and needed an heir for his title. But even then, Oliver had Nathaniel already. No need for an heir. No need for Henrietta to reproduce.

No. Yes.

Yes, that was it. Because she would like to have babies. It wasn't a pressing need—not nearly as pressing as her lust for Oliver—but she did want more children in their family someday. Maybe someday was now?

She'd ask him for a child. Not a bedding, but a baby. She'd see what he said.

Having a plan settled her, and she finally slept.

She waited a week. She didn't want Oliver to make the embarrassing connection between her seeing his phallus and her asking for a baby.

She broached the subject after dinner, in the drawing room, while he read his newspaper and she embroidered.

"I want a child."

He didn't say anything for a long time. If it had been anyone else, she would have been worried he was laughing at her behind the newspaper. But not Oliver. She knew he was thinking, considering, weighing.

Finally, he put the newspaper aside and looked at her intently.

First, she was too young. Next, he was too old.

Then, he surprised her by discussing pleasure. She tried to be as honest with him as she could be. But it was all mixed together in her mind. His release. The one she had given herself afterwards. Holding a little baby with dark hair. The dreams she'd had about him for so long.

He promised her he would think on it. She knew he'd come to a decision that was right for him, for her, for Nathaniel. Oh, was it selfish to hope the right decision was the one she wanted?

Probably.

She didn't have to wait long. When she came back from her morning ride the very next day, he was standing outside the stables. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn't slept.

"Good morning," she called out.

"Good morning," he replied. "I was hoping to speak with you before we break our fast."

After she had dismounted and left Zephyr in the hands of a groom, she joined him.

"Let's take a stroll," he said. "If that's all right?"

She nodded, and they walked silently next to each other, down the lane.

"I've never seen you ride," he said.

He hadn't?

"You have a very good seat. But I didn't expect?.?.?.?you ride at quite a fast pace. I didn't know a draft horse could fly like that."

"Yes. We love to gallop, and Zephyr is like the wind. That's how he got his name."

A pause. "Were you using the saddle you made?"

"Oh, no, that's?.?.?.?no."

Silence.

"You look tired, Oliver."

"I have been considering your proposal."

She had caused those dark circles under his eyes, the deepening of the grooves by the side of his mouth. Oh, how she longed to touch his face with her fingertips and soothe away those lines and shadows.

He went on, his voice somber. "Nathaniel's mother, she died because— Bearing a child is a dangerous undertaking."

"Yes, but lots of women have children and survive. My mother, five times. And aren't most things worth doing also a little dangerous?"

He grimaced. "Like riding your horse so fast?"

Oh, yes. Oliver hated danger. Last month, Nathaniel had gotten it into his head to climb a tree like the caterpillar in her story. She thought he could try the sturdy oak with thick limbs not a yard off the ground, and she was there, ready to give him a boost if needed, ready to catch him. But Oliver had seen and raced from the house and pulled Nathaniel off the tree, scaring the boy.

He hadn't scolded Henrietta right away, even though she could see he was furious. He had waited until Nathaniel was in the nursery with Nurse Witherspoon, and then the two of them had had a long conversation in his study about what Nathaniel could or couldn't do. It was the closest thing to an argument they'd ever had.

After Henrietta had explained how young all her brothers and sisters had been when they had started climbing trees, Oliver had relented but said he wanted to have a good talk first with Nathaniel about never climbing anything unless Oliver was there.

"Or me," Henrietta had said.

He had studied her for several long seconds as if assessing her strength, her agility, her love for Nathaniel, and then said, "Or you."

But this was not the time to have a conversation about how safe it was for her to ride her horse.

She skirted a rut in the lane and looked across the meadow towards Woldenmere.

"I'm sorry. So sorry for upsetting everything. We can forget I ever said anything."

"No. I don't want to forget what you said."

He spoke as he usually did, with very little emotion, but she knew better than to think he had no feelings on the subject.

"Would you mind terribly being a father again?"

He did not answer for a long time. He looked at the sky.

"Not if you're the mother."

She couldn't help smiling. And despite wanting him to believe she was very much a grown woman and not a girl, she skipped a little, right there in the lane, right next to him.

She didn't care he might only have been offering a tribute to her as a stepmother. She didn't even care she still had no idea if he desired her.

She was so happy.

She had given him a way to escape, to retreat, and he hadn't taken it. Oliver Hartwell, at long last, was going to bed his wife.