Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Harry came to Thomas in the library. In her left hand, she held a counterpane.
“I have this from my bed. Let’s look at the stars,” she said.
Thomas laughed and took the counterpane from her.
“We’ll leave that here, and I’ll get a horse blanket. I think we would both face crucifixion from Mrs. Dewey if any grass stains were discovered come morning.”
They went out to the stables, and he found a horse blanket, but then he couldn’t find Harry. The stables were dark.
“Harry,” he hissed. Octavius whinnied. He went into Octavius’ stall, and Harry was there, stroking his mane.
“Such a good boy,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Harry laid her head against Octavius’ neck and threw one arm over his withers. Thomas had never told Harry that Dr. Andrews had found a hoof mark on Phillip’s back. He wondered if she knew.
They went out to the lawn and lay next to each other on the horse blanket, but it was not a good night for looking at the stars. The moon was bright. There were some scudding clouds.
“Let’s go back in,” Thomas said, sitting up.
“No.” Harry gripped his arm.
Thomas lay back down. He allowed himself some dangerous thoughts.
He had not done so for a long time. He thought about the body of the woman next to him.
His wife. He thought of her firm breasts with their small, sweet nipples, of the pink, tender silk folds under her maidenhair, of her dimples that crowned her buttocks.
Strangely, as he conjured each body part, he also heard her lecture him and question him and mutter elvish mathematical spells under her breath.
Even more strangely, it did not dampen his arousal at all.
Harry rolled onto her side and propped herself up on her left elbow and placed her bandaged right hand flat on his abdomen.
Thomas held his breath. She had touched him.
“You are a good husband, Thomas Drake,” she said.
“Thank you, Lady Drake. I strive to be.”
“You have kept your end of the bargain.”
“And you, yours.”
Harry scoffed. “It was just money. What was I going to do with it?”
“I imagine you could have done a whole host of things with it—books, houses, paper, ink, coffee, a society dedicated to the mathematical education of young ladies of good breeding—”
Harry interrupted him. “But what is all that to Sommerleigh?”
“I’m glad you love Sommerleigh.”
Harry took her hand off his abdomen and lay back on the blanket.
“Yes, I should hate to leave Sommerleigh.”
Now Thomas was the one to get up on his elbow. He was not so bold as to think he could lay his hand on her abdomen. He was not the gambler he once was. Near-loss had made him cautious.
“But I was thinking you might enjoy a trip sometime, surely? Dr. Andrews says the air by the sea, perhaps the southern coast of France, is most salutary. And, of course, you will have to go to Paris once you prove the conjecture so you can get the prize and give the lecture at the Académie des Sciences.”
Harry’s voice was flat. “Yes.”
Thomas lay back and let his mind roam over the future pleasures spread out before him, ones that had nothing to do with copulation and yet still had everything to do with the woman lying next to him.