Chapter 21 #2
“Since that night at the inn,” he said quietly, “I haven’t needed the ice. Haven’t even thought about it. You…” He swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
Her pulse jumped, heat flooding through her. “I know.”
His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. “Perhaps I should show my gratitude.”
The kiss was gentle and unlike their urgent couplings of before. This slow massage of his lips indicated that he was savoring her. Discovering. They were learning the shape of each other with unhurried attention.
She melted into him, her fingers curling into his lapels, anchoring herself as the world narrowed to this: his mouth on hers, his warmth surrounding her, the taste of him better than anything she had ever known.
When they finally parted, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against hers.
“Is my gratitude clear enough?” he asked, his lips brushing hers with each word.
“I might need more clarification.” She smiled against his mouth. “For thorough understanding.”
His laugh rumbled through her, vibrating in her chest where they pressed together.
“Minx.” He nipped her lower lip gently. “Though perhaps somewhere with less dust? I’d rather not have you sneezing through our… clarifications.”
Joy bubbled in her chest, bright and effervescent. “Practical as always, husband.”
His gaze swept the room once more, taking in the towers of books, the scattered manuscripts, the evidence of his great-aunt’s brilliant, constrained life.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” he decided. “Catalog everything. Maybe even publish some of her work. With proper attribution this time. Lady Margaret Ashwell deserves to be known.”
“Lady Margaret Ashwell.” Beatrice tested out the name, liking the sound of it. “The world should know her contributions.”
His hand found the small of her back as they moved toward the door, warm and possessive in a way that made her stomach flutter. “She would have liked you.”
“I wish I had met her.”
His fingers flexed against her spine, pulling her fractionally closer.
“Me too,” he said quietly as he locked the door behind them. “I’m only just beginning to understand what she sacrificed. What she endured. The price she paid for refusing to be what they wanted her to be.”
They walked through the corridors, emerging into the grand entrance hall just as Mrs. Fairchild approached with a letter on a silver salver.
“From Mr. Blackwood, Your Grace,” she said, offering it to Leo.
Beatrice felt him tense beside her, his shoulders drawing up almost imperceptibly. He broke the seal quickly, and his eyes scanned the contents. His eyebrows drew together.
“What is it?” she asked, already knowing she wouldn’t like the answer.
“Westbury’s vanished.” He refolded the letter with crisp precision. “No sign of him at his usual haunts for several days. His townhouse is shuttered, his club hasn’t seen him, and even his mistress hasn’t received a visit.”
“Could he have fled the country?”
“Possibly.” He tucked the letter into his coat. “Blackwood has men at all the major ports. If Westbury tries to leave England, we’ll know within hours.”
The housekeeper had already withdrawn, leaving them alone in the vast hall. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the ticking of the long-case clock.
“Does this change things?” Beatrice asked, hating how her voice wavered.
She had grown to love these quiet days at Stagmore—the peace, the intimacy steadily growing between them like something planted in fertile soil.
Leo studied her face, his gaze softening. “Not unless you want it to. Philip and Anna are both safe. Separate, but safe. The authorities have been alerted. The investigation continues. There’s little more we can do by rushing back to London.”
“Then I’d prefer to stay.” Heat crept up her neck, staining her cheeks. “I rather like it here. With you.”
His expression shifted—not quite a smile, but something warmer and more precious. “So do I.”
He offered his arm in that courtly manner that had become second nature between them. She took it without hesitation, her fingers curling around his sleeve.
“A turn about the gardens before dinner?” he suggested. “Edmonds tells me the roses are exceptional this year. Not that I’ve ever noticed such things before.”
“And now?”
His eyes—that clear, crystalline blue that reminded her of summer skies—met hers.
“Now I notice everything. The roses blooming in the south garden. How the light changes throughout the day, painting the walls different colors. The way you hum when you’re absorbed in reading, completely unaware of the sound. ”
Her cheeks flamed. “You noticed that?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering in a way that made her breath catch. Heat flooded through her at the memory of what his mouth could do, the pleasure he could wring from her body with lips and tongue and teeth.
“I notice everything about you, Beatrice.” His voice roughened, dropping to that register that made her knees weak.
“The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking.
The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous.
The little sound you make when I touch you just so…
” His hand slid from her waist to her hip, his fingers flexing possessively. “How could I not?”
They stepped into the gardens, the afternoon sun warming their skin. The roses were indeed spectacular, with deep reds and soft pinks and creamy whites, their scent heavy in the air.
Leo pointed out features she hadn’t yet explored: a yew maze planted during the Restoration, paths winding through its green walls; a classical temple housing marble statuary, gods and goddesses frozen in eternal drama; a hidden pond dotted with water lilies, their white blossoms floating like stars on the dark water.
“You speak as though you’re discovering it yourself,” she observed as they paused beside the pond, watching dragonflies dart above the surface.
The light caught his profile, highlighting the strong bones beneath his skin. “In many ways, I am. After my father died, I avoided this place. Too many ghosts. Too many memories of pain disguised as discipline. I preferred London, the Continent. Anywhere but here.”
She was silent beside him, letting him find the words he needed.
“Now…” He turned to her, and the raw honesty in his eyes stole her breath. “Now, I see it differently. Through your eyes, perhaps. You make even the shadows beautiful.”
Something shifted in her chest, a deepening of what had been growing between them. This transcended physical desire, transcended their practical arrangement. This was something that exhilarated her.
The dinner gong sounded suddenly, the brassy noise shattering the moment. Leo’s jaw tightened with frustration.
“We should go in,” Beatrice said reluctantly, already mourning what she had been about to confess. “Or else Mrs. Winters will worry.”
Leo’s eyes held questions she hadn’t answered, promises she hadn’t yet made. “Indeed. Though I find myself increasingly willing to scandalize the staff for a few more moments alone with you.”
The words sent warmth through her, and she could only giggle in response.