Chapter 6

Six

T he guests had all departed a week ago in a welter of whispers about her and Mr. Hartwell's indiscretion and subsequent betrothal. Had it been Geoffrey or his father or one of the other men who had tittle-tattled? She would never know, and it didn't matter.

Henrietta would wed Mr. Hartwell tomorrow.

In the unusually warm September dusk, they strolled the lower lawn, just the two of them. Henrietta's parents had not insisted on a chaperone this evening. They must think the horse was already well out of the stable.

A horse in a stable. How would Zephyr like the Lake District? Because, of course, she would take her friend with her. She must ask Mr. Hartwell about accommodations for her big horse at Crossthwaite.

But Mr. Hartwell interrupted the silence between them before she could voice her question.

"I will not impose on you."

She had no idea what he meant, so she played with her fan and waited for him to explain himself.

After a bit of time, he said, "I don't know how much your mother has told you about what passes between a husband and wife."

Henrietta now held her fan up in front of her face to hide her blush and her smile. Her mother was a scholar of the Middle Ages and back in those olden days, people had been quite frank about things that most ladies today would consider unmentionable. The unconventional duchess had adopted that same frankness. Henrietta had been well-prepared for the changes in her body, the beginning of her courses, the blossoming of her own desire.

Of course, Henrietta had never wanted to listen to most of what her mother had to say on the subject of what passes between a husband and a wife because it often involved Mama rhapsodizing about Papa and?.?.?.?ew.

But Henrietta knew plenty, and she had learned some on her own. She was a horse girl. She knew about mating. Breeding. And she knew she wanted something more than her own touch.

"I am familiar with my marital duty." That had been the phrase she had heard bandied about in hushed tones by other young ladies during her come-out in London.

They had reached the ha-ha, and Mr. Hartwell looked down into it as if examining the stones for cracks.

"We will be married because of my folly. As your husband, I will do all I can to make amends to you. But you owe me nothing. There is no need for us to engage in?.?.?.?I will not visit your bedchamber, so there is no need for you to feel any anxiety on that front."

Oh.

Despite his kiss, he didn't want her.

But couldn't he make do with her? She had all the necessary parts. In the dark, under bedclothes, he might be able to ignore what he saw as her failings since she would be his wife, ready to hand.

But he was not even going to try. Would he take a mistress?

"You don't have needs?" Her mother had spoken of masculine needs. And feminine needs, too, but Henrietta knew all about those already.

"No."

But he had a son. So he had performed his own marital duty with at least one of his wives. Henrietta must be hideous in his eyes. Unwomanly. Grotesque.

He finally met her eyes. "I did not mean to embarrass you with my clumsiness on the subject. I just did not want you to be fearful. So, I thought it would be best if I were forthright."

She hadn't been fearful. She had been excited. How many young women found themselves engaged to marry the man who had been the object of all of their girlhood fantasies?

But it was good he had been forthright. So she would not wait in her bed tomorrow night for him to come to her. To touch her and maybe kiss her again. To induct her into the mysteries of human copulation.

To share that great intimacy with her.

For the first time in a long time, her eyes smarted on her own behalf rather than someone else's. She had been cheated out of affection and admiration. Of being someone's choice. And now to discover she would also be cheated out of giving and receiving pleasure?

But she mustn't cry like a silly girl in front of him. She was going to be a wife. His wife. And it was good he had been forthright and abolished misunderstanding between them. There should be no misunderstandings between husbands and wives.

"Yes. Thank you, Mr. Har— May I call you Oliver?"

That would be something. To use his name. Oliver . Despite the heat, she shivered as a thrill ran through her body.

"As you wish." He bowed his head. "My lady."

Oh. No.

"I don't want to be a lady. Couldn't I be Henrietta to you and Mrs. Hartwell to everyone else?"

He raised his eyebrows. "You are a duke's daughter. Of course, you should keep your title."

"Why? Do you not want?.?.?.?I mean, if I were to be Mrs. Hartwell, the same name as your other wives, would that upset you?"

"Your parents would be disappointed if you gave up your title."

"But you?.?.?." She faltered. "How would you feel? Do you want a wife who is a lady? Is that important to you? I want to be of use to you and if my title is of use, I'll be Lady Henrietta."

The eyebrows lowered. "You needn't worry about being of use to me."

More disappointment. Was she going to be allowed to do anything for him? With him? Maybe she should have accepted Geoffrey's offer. At least, she would have known she had some value, then.

No, your dowry and Bexton land would have been of value to Geoffrey. You would have been ?.?.?.? what was the opposite of value? A burden. An overly-large burden.

Her future husband broke into her thoughts. "You should be addressed how you wish to be addressed."

"If it doesn't bother you, I wish to be Mrs. Hartwell, Oliver," she said slowly, savoring his name, loving how the v made her upper teeth touch her lower lip for just a moment. "And you must call me by my given name."

"Henrietta."

"Yes." She smiled, feeling a bit better. "Yes, I like that very much. What do you want your son to call me?"

"Nathaniel is three years of age."

She laughed. "He must call me something."

"Whatever you prefer."

"Perhaps Nathaniel might come to call me Mama?"

His face became granite, his voice harsh. "No. Not that. You are not his mother."

Oafish, blundering Henrietta. She had overstepped. "Of course. Yes."

"I do not expect you to mother Nathaniel. You have no obligation towards him. You are only sixteen years older than he is. You could be?.?.?."

Had he been about to say sister and brother ? And he could be her father? Henrietta already had a father; she didn't want another one.

She took a deep breath. This was of the utmost importance, and she must say it now.

"I will be married to Nathaniel's father. Of course, I have an obligation to your child."

And to be a stepmother would be something .

He nodded once—a reluctant concession, she thought—but said nothing. Even after all these years, his face was still unreadable to her. What was he thinking?

If only she could come to know his thoughts, then she might learn what made him happy. And then she could do or arrange or be whatever that was. She could become of value to him that way.

That was it. She must solve the mystery that was Mr. Oliver Hartwell. After all, she would have endless opportunities now. No more waiting outside her father's study, sneaking glances at a dark curl. She would have so much time to discover?.?.?.?him.

Like her mother, she would make a thorough study of the subject and unravel it, bit by bit, until it became clear. But, unlike her mother, Henrietta's subject would not be Bede or Beowulf or Brunanburh. It would be her husband.