Chapter Ten
The sunlight streaming through the window woke Bea and she turned to look at the man sleeping beside her.
Edward lay relaxed, his one arm above his head, the other by his side.
There were no covers to hide his magnificent body so her gaze stole greedily over him, grateful for this chance to watch him freely.
To study the man who had done such intimate things to her last night, giving her so much fulfilment and stealing her breath away.
His facial features, and his manhood, were now softened by slumber, and she couldn’t help but stare as she tried to gather her thoughts.
Her mind had been in turmoil this past week. She had been fighting his nearness, worried about him getting too close, knowing he had wanted her to come to his bed, but she had been afraid to do so.
But little by little, she had begun to relax around him, to trust him again.
So far, he had been a wonderful father to Thomas, and to her, a dutiful husband.
He had stepped up when she’d needed him to, taking them in, marrying her, making Thomas legitimate.
He had secured their future, and she had been grateful.
But she hadn’t wanted to settle for a marriage built purely on necessity, or even just desire.
She had wanted more. To know him, and he her. She had enjoyed talking with him, learning more about him, and after last night, she now thought they knew each other pretty well. He had kissed her everywhere. He had taken possession of her and she was glad. She had only ever wanted to be his.
There was just one niggling doubt still clawing at her. She was keeping something from him and she knew how he felt about secrets—but she was too afraid to tell him. The worst part about her. She couldn’t—not until she knew if he could truly love her.
He was a glorious sight, and she enjoyed studying every angle, every surface of him.
She wanted to commit it to memory, to paper, so she slipped from the bed and threw on his discarded shirt.
She silently tiptoed to her room to fetch her paper and charcoal.
She was glad he was still sleeping when she returned, pleased she hadn’t disturbed him, and she began to sketch him—the outline of his muscled chest, and down.
She realised she had never had a more perfect body to study.
‘What are you doing?’ His deep voice broke into her thoughts.
She glanced up to see two blue eyes regarding her.
‘Don’t move, I’m working on your portrait.’
‘Portrait, or life drawing?’
She blushed.
‘I thought as much.’
She tried to focus, tucking her feet up beneath her, but she was distracted now. His steady gaze was on her, watching her, and she felt the attraction crackle in the air between them. She could tell he was affected too, the impact she was having on him.
‘Why don’t you put the sketchpad down and come over here.’
‘Because I’m not finished yet.’
‘How long is it going to take—perhaps you could hurry up?’
She smiled. Had he not had enough of her last night?
And yet, it was the same for her. She felt the liquid heat pool between her thighs.
After studying him for so long, learning all the lines of him with her charcoal, she wanted to do the same with her fingers.
‘You’re forgetting I now know you’re a man of great patience. ’
He groaned, but he settled back into his position, relaxing against the bed again, watching her work.
It took a while to get the detail just right, and the shading to her liking, but soon, her drawing began to come to life and he started to look like Edward on the page.
Finally, reluctantly, she pulled away to study her work, leaning back and tipping her head to the left and right.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Can I see it?’
She dusted off the page and stood, bringing it over to the bed for him to view.
He sat up and she bit her lip, waiting for his response. She felt nervous, she had never shown anyone but her mother her work before. She hoped Edward liked what she’d done.
He stared, then he gently took the pad from her fingers to take a closer look.
‘This is good, Bea. Really good. You do have a talent. I thought maybe you just enjoyed to sketch as many women do, but you are a natural. You have really captured my likeness, my expression, as if you can see into my soul.’
Her body flushed with pleasure. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you mind?’ He turned the page with interest.
She shook her head.
He studied the one she had started yesterday, of the grounds of Longwood. ‘We should show these to someone.’
She pulled back a little. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘We should. Will you let me?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
He turned back to the drawing of himself. ‘There’s just one thing wrong with this one, I don’t think you have captured the size—the full magnitude of my desire.’ He grinned, and she threw her head back and laughed.
Edward enjoyed watching his wife’s face as she took in the paintings on display at Somerset House. It was almost as good as the way she had looked at him when she’d sketched him this morning. He couldn’t believe what skills she possessed. Her drawings were extraordinary.
He was beginning to realise his wife was a woman of many talents.
She had been so giddy with excitement about seeing the artworks today—and about stepping inside Somerset House, it had been infectious.
She kept thanking him, for bringing her here, telling him it was a dream she had never thought would come true, but her reactions were the only reward he required.
He was fascinated by the wonder that took up residence in her eyes.
The way her head tilted to one side and her beautiful plump lips curled upwards as she studied each piece.
Every so often he had to usher her along as he was trying to keep a wriggling Thomas occupied in his arms.
He had particular trouble getting Bea away from the portraits by Thomas Lawrence, and the landscapes by John Constable.
But The Stolen Kiss by Benjamin West seemed to be her favourite.
It depicted a secret, intimate moment. It made his mind veer back to the things they had done together last night until dawn.
He hadn’t been able to get enough of his new wife and it delighted him that she seemed to feel the same.
It had been incredible. Better than he’d even remembered it to be.
He couldn’t believe she had thought he behaved that way with others, often taking women to his bed.
No wonder she doubted him. He was glad he’d set her straight.
He wanted her to know he’d never lost control with anyone other than her.
Somehow, that night at the inn, she had stripped away all the rules he lived by and set him free.
At four and twenty, he had felt like himself for the first time.
She had taught him who he wanted to be, instead of the man who he had always pretended to be.
After being with her, he had bought his mill.
She had changed how he saw himself and his perceptions of the world. She still was, even now.
She had made him a father. A husband. Things he’d thought he would never be. And right now, he didn’t regret any of it. He felt liberated. Lucky.
He was even starting to realise he didn’t care so much for what people thought of him. Only her opinion mattered.
As they strolled through the gallery, she asked him about the Renaissance masterpieces he’d seen in Florence and he tried to describe the works by Michelangelo, Raphael and Da Vinci but he thought, now he’d seen her reaction to the exhibition, that perhaps he had better just take her there.
A family trip. His words couldn’t do the pieces justice and he knew that she would appreciate them far more than he had.
‘Was it everything you hoped it would be?’ he asked her, as they came to the end of the exhibition.
‘Everything and more,’ she said, her beautiful face smiling happily.
Strolling out into the sunshine, through the bustling crowds in the courtyard, they found George waiting for them and he asked where they should go next. It was decided they would take the coach to Hyde Park, to promenade and picnic. Edward wanted to show off his new family.
They were about to reach the carriage when Bea’s hand on his arm stalled him.
‘Edward,’ she whispered. She inclined her head towards a woman sitting by the side of the road, begging. She clearly had no means.
‘There’s nothing you can do for her,’ an old acquaintance of his father’s said, passing them as he hauled himself up into the carriage ahead of them. ‘Leave the ragamuffin.’ His voice was laced with judgement, as if the woman had brought this situation on herself.
But it was as if Bea couldn’t move. ‘Edward, can we do anything?’ she asked him. ‘We can’t just leave her.’
He realised there must be something about the woman that reminded Bea of herself, and his ribs tightened in his chest. Had she been out on the streets, begging like this, just days before she had come to him, with their son in her arms?
It pained him to think of her ever living like that.
Of being cold. She hated being cold. And hungry.
At strangers’ mercy. It angered and upset him in equal measure.
He blamed himself entirely. Thank God she and Thomas were here, safe with him now. Where they belonged.
‘There’s always something that can be done,’ she pressed.
She was right, as always. If they could, they should. He relented and dug inside his pocket. He brought out twenty shillings, handing them to her.
‘Thank you, Edward.’
‘You are going soft, old chap,’ the man in the carriage ahead of him said, appalled, as he pulled his door to.
Yes, Edward thought perhaps he was. But hadn’t he determined to lead by example? He was willing to risk his standing for that…