Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
BENNET HALL, SURREY - JULY 28, 1816
LEE
Unburdened, we spent the day occupied in our usual separate pursuits. And once every minute or so, I’d remember the tiny flutters under my hand this morning and smile.
For the first time, it was clear that Charlotte wasn’t quite so displeased with the child growing inside her. I still had no doubts that given another option, she wouldn’t have chosen this life. But perhaps she didn’t hate it here. And maybe she didn’t hate the being that brought her here either.
I found myself in the nursery an hour before supper. The paw prints were not going to come off, not without destroying the mural underneath. The floor, too, would have to be sanded down and refinished. My futile efforts with a damp cloth proved entirely ineffective—not that I had expected anything different.
Something shiny winked up at me from the floor. I bent down and there was a delicate floral hairpin. I swallowed against the immediate ardor that reminder produced. Perhaps the nursery should be moved elsewhere if I couldn’t manage being in this room without crumbling to a lusty heap.
A tiny beaded flower topped the pin. Five yellow beads surrounded a red one. And just beyond it in my line of sight was a paw print on the floor, four toes and a slightly larger print for the main pad. In yellow.
I couldn’t. Could I? What could it hurt?
A quick search revealed Charlotte’s well-closed paints, and I found a red that matched the hairpin. I considered using a brush, but that was well beyond my—nonexistent—skills. Instead, I dipped my little finger in the paint. The floor was the best starting point, at least it wouldn’t make her mural worse. Gently, carefully, I tapped the center of the paw with my finger.
It didn’t look like a flower. But it didn’t not look like a flower either. I tried to picture it, a bit more detailing, a stem, some leaves… It certainly wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever had.
For a moment, I considered forging ahead with the rest of the prints. But the mural had been Charlotte’s vision, and she should have final say over any repair attempts.
A handkerchief cleaned the paint off my finger with ease.
I went to my chamber and dressed for dinner, ignoring Brigsby’s usual chatter, consumed with thoughts of Charlotte. Thoughts of Charlotte and tonight…
Last night was necessary. It was painful and it was cathartic. But I had been hoping for a different kind of catharsis when the evening set out. My body still remembered her soft hands and sweet lips.
Tonight… Tonight could be a more pleasant catharsis.
Somehow, the thought was less terrifying than it had been. Charlotte was wonderful. If she could manage my broken sobs last night, she could manage my broken body.
CHARLOTTE
I kept expecting to have difficulty reaching the strings of the harp, but thus far my protruding belly proved to be no obstacle. My back, on the other hand, ached today. Sleeping curled around my husband’s gigantic form was probably the culprit. But I couldn’t bring myself to regret the arrangement for anything.
Learning the harp proved a challenge. I had spent years studying the pianoforte. There were tutors to teach me proper technique, and decades of practice allowed me to play relatively complex pieces well.
Such was not the case with the harp. I had no instructor for proper technique—though I had found a book in the library. Every time I found an intermediate or advanced piece, I reached for it, and every time it proved too much for my fumbling fingers.
The fastest way to build bad habits was to rush the basics, stumble through a fingering enough times and it became automatic. It was easier to learn things correctly than to fix something learned wrong. Every lecture from my piano instructor came to the forefront.
But the basic songs were so dull. There was no depth, no complexity. Even if there was satisfaction to be found in achieving a new skill.
The hours I spent trying to improve quicker than I ought left me with sore fingers and an aching back.
Pressing a hand to my lower back while Lee was occupied with his soup, I tried to stretch it subtly.
It didn’t work. I should have known. Any motion that drew attention to my breasts was sure to catch every man’s eye in the vicinity.
My husband’s cheeks and neck flushed and his gaze flitted toward his soup only to catch on the hand pressing against my back.
“Are you well?”
“Yes, it is nothing.”
“Charlotte…” His tone was low, warning.
I relented and settled back in my seat. “My back aches slightly.”
He nodded thoughtfully with nothing more than a hum before turning back to his dinner. It was unusual for him. He had a tendency to fret.
We finished the meal in relative silence. I was only slightly peeved at his unexpected nonchalance. He trailed me up the stairs.
The night was clear and the moon was a thread-thin crescent—a good night for stargazing. He would likely go to his room to change into something a bit warmer and head to the observatory. I considered whether to follow him. He’d welcomed me every time. But my back twinged at the thought and my feet were swollen in my slippers.
I opened my door, then turned to call after him, to tell him not to wait for me, but he was on my feet, awaiting entrance.
I startled, stepping back into my chamber. His hand found my waist, steadying me.
“I do not think I will join you tonight.”
He blinked, his brow furrowing. “I’m not going to the observatory.” The last word tipped up, questioning my meaning.
“You’re not?”
“No, you’re unwell.”
It was my turn to blink slowly, comprehension dawning and settling into my chest, warming it.
Ralph had never, not once, cared when I felt poorly. He lived at the gaming hell, rain or shine, in sickness or health—either of ours. If they hadn’t kicked him out when he started to turn the yellow color, I suspected he would have died there.
“But you cannot—there’s nothing you can do.”
“Your feet hurt too. I saw you fussing with your slippers earlier.”
He strolled over to the settee and settled in as if he belonged there. One night in my bed and he had claimed the room as his own. He looked at me expectantly. My expression must have reflected my confusion because he patted the space next to him.
I shut the door against wayward felines and joined him, mostly for lack of other occupations.
In spite of the knot forming in my lower back, I sat properly. He huffed before bending over and astonishing me by grabbing my calf and turning me in my seat. He draped one of my legs over his lap and his intent became clear.
When I refused to move the other leg, he merely sighed and grasped my slipper, then dropped it on the floor with a thunk . Without so much as a word, he lifted my foot in his large hand. I made to protest, managed to expel half a syllable even, until his thumb dug into the arch of my foot and my words turned to a desperate, unstoppable moan as I sank back against the pillows.
Convinced of the intelligence of his plan, I raised my other leg to rest in his lap for him to do as he wished. And he did, strong fingers working intently at the ball of my foot. My stockings bunched up and he grasped the tip of it, looking at me askance. When I nodded, he tugged the delicate silk from my leg, leaving my foot, ankle, and calf bare to him. He used that moment to remove the other slipper and stocking as well, then returned his attention to the first.
“How is your back? Do you need another pillow?”
I shook my head. At some point my eyes had slipped closed.
“You really gave up the stars for my feet?”
“The stars will be there tomorrow.” His voice was a low rumble.
“So will my feet.”
“Yes, but they hurt today. Do you want me to give your back a try?” He asked, dragging a hand down my calf.
I froze, considering the implications.
“Not like that,” he rushed to add.
Feeling daring, I asked, “What if I wish for you to mean like that?”
He swallowed something that sounded like a groan. “Your back hurts.”
“That is why you should rub it.”
“I will. If that’s what you want. But just that. I don’t—not while you’re hurting.”
“I’m afraid that is going to be the majority of the time for the next several months.”
“I do not wish to hurt you, Charlotte.”
I shrugged. “It always hurts.”
His hands paused, and his eyes narrowed on me. “What do you mean, “It always hurts’?”
“Just that. It is just the way it is for women.”
“No. No, it’s not.”
I rolled my eyes. Nothing like a man to be an expert on women.
“It’s not, Charlotte. It shouldn’t hurt. Did you—Did it… You had pain? Every time?”
“It’s quite usual.”
His eyes shut and he took a great breath, inhaling and exhaling loud enough to echo over the crackling fire. “Which one?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Which man hurt you?”
“What does it matter?”
“If it’s the one that is still alive, I’m going to kill him. And if it’s the one that’s dead, I’m going to spit on his grave.” His tone was one I had never heard from Lee, ever patient and kind Lee.
“That is absurd.”
“It was both of them. You said as much.”
“Yes, yes it was both of them. But that hardly matters. And you’re a man. I think, of the two of us, I have a better idea of what is usual for women.”
Gently, he set my feet on the floor. A dramatic sigh accompanied the gesture. He pressed himself to stand and wordlessly began digging through my armoire.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked through a laugh.
“Night rail?”
“Left-hand side.” He pulled out two, one practical and unadorned, the other a remnant of my former life. It was a lacy, frilly slip my mother had insisted on as part of my first trousseau. The one that had remained unused since my second wedding night. Lee considered it thoughtfully before shaking himself and putting it back into the armoire. He set the other one atop the bed and returned to me, holding out a hand.
I took it, and he pulled me up. He turned me to face away from him and began working on the dress hooks lining the back of my gown. His hands made quick work of them and before long, the gown pooled on the floor between us. The petticoats joined it, leaving me in nothing but stays and chemise.
His touch was gentle, soothing, but perfunctory. I wanted to question him, but I hadn’t the faintest idea where to begin. He seemed almost angry at me, but not quite. Usually when I peeved him, he snapped back—just a little. But he was restrained, tight.
The knot on my stays loosened. My rushed inhale echoed in the space between us. “Why do you have this so tight?”
“I’m not used to the belly. I do not like it.”
A large arm found its way around my shoulder and tugged me back into his chest. The other hand found the rounded bump in question. His hand was so large it spanned my entire belly with ease.
“I do.”
“You do not.”
“I do. It brought you to me.” His lips found my temple, and he pressed a dry kiss there. “Stop lacing it so tight. It’s just me here.”
He was more than enough reason to put effort into being beautiful.
Before I could argue that point—or the part of it I was willing to admit to—he added, “Please.” All I could do was nod in answer. “Thank you.”
The stays fell between us in a thump that matched the pounding of my heart.
“Can you manage the chemise?” I nodded again and he withdrew. For a moment I thought he would leave—leave me bereft after accustoming me to his touch. But he merely turned to face the door.
I undressed and redressed quickly. “All right.”
He faced me again, his gaze flitting down my form then back up again. A flush creeped from under his cravat.
Instead of reaching for me, kissing me, caressing me, dragging me to the bed, he went over and turned down the coverings. This wasn’t precisely the romantic consummation I’d hoped for, but he was clearly nervous.
He pressed me back to sit on the bed, then bent to lift my feet. This was truly the most bizarre… His footsteps padded on the carpeting before he settled at the foot of the bed, pulled off one boot, then the other. He yanked off his cravat and waistcoat as well and dropped them into the pile of my things at the foot of the bed.
Silent, he stood and rounded the bed, then crawled in the other side. This was it. Now we would… He urged me onto my side and slid his arm under my head. The bed shook slightly as he pressed up behind me. This wasn’t how I imagined it, but…
His other arm wrapped around my waist and settled on my belly. Wisps of hair tickled my cheek as he breathed.
The silence stretched for a minute, two, three. “I can hear you thinking,” he murmured from behind me.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Holding you,” he said in a tone that indicated he thought it was quite obvious and I was oblivious. “Does the warmth feel better on your back?”
I considered it. The heat of his chest and belly against my back settled into the aching muscles pleasantly. “Yes.”
“Good. Go to sleep.”
I stared through the window—he had left the curtains undrawn—and out at the stars. “You needn’t stay. You can go to your observatory.”
His arms tightened in response.
“Really, Lee. The conditions are perfect.”
“And they will be again. I have everything I need right here.”
“But…”
“I can see the stars from here. Look, what’s that?” His hand left my belly and extended to point at the sky through the window.
There was a familiar friend, winking back at us. “Saturn.”
A kiss found the top of my head. “Precisely, and what constellation is it in?”
“Capricornus.”
“Perfect.”
“But your telescope…”
“Will still be there tomorrow. Now, do you want to look at the stars or do you wish to sleep?”
I quite liked the stars now. From my limited vantage on the bed, through a closed window, they were lovely but less interesting than they were through the telescope.
I was tetchy though, wound up from what I’d thought was an awkward seduction.
“Tell me a story?”
I felt more than heard his laugh against my back. “What kind of story?”
“Something with a happy ending, please.”
He hummed thoughtfully, the low rumble vibrating down my spine. “Once upon a time, in a kingdom about two hours on horseback from London, there lived a beautiful princess.”
I rewarded his effort with a soft giggle. He continued on, whispering in his low tenor about the princess trapped in the kingdom by an adorable but mischievous guard cat.
Occasionally his hand would drift to my back, rubbing the exact source of the ache even at the awkward angle, before returning to my belly. And as he told increasingly ridiculous yet believable tales of the cat’s misbehaviors, I drifted off.