It Takes Two to Tangle

Twenty-Seven

For the second time in recent weeks, Lady Tallant shut Frances into the morning room. Henry let himself in not a minute later, knocking the door shut with his elbow. “What’s this about, then?”

“Why, you summoned me.” Frances had flown through the streets to Tallant House. Now the shortness of Henry’s voice clipped her wings.

He shook his head. “Caroline sent me a note saying there was something you needed to discuss with me.”

Frances’s mind wobbled. “Caroline sent you a note?”

Henry nodded, his brows bronze slashes on a wary face.

Damn Caroline. Frances grimaced. “What a horrible thing for her to do. I’m sorry for the trick. I have come because Lady Tallant sent me a summons, I thought on your behalf. I have the letter here.” She produced it from her reticule.

His eyes flicked over it in an instant, a corner of his mouth lifting. “It seems our relatives wanted their place in our correspondence after all.”

He made a hm sound in his throat, as though noting something mildly interesting.

What was going on here? Henry didn’t look angry. But he could not have wanted to see her, or he’d have written to her himself or paid her a call.

Frances had waited long enough for answers. “So Emily and Caroline have played a little trick on us. Now that we are together, do you have a reply to my letter from five days ago? Or am I to take your silence as reply?”

Amusement vanished from his face. “I have been waiting to reply until I knew exactly how.”

“And have you decided?”

“Some of that depends on you.”

She lifted her chin. “What more do you need from me? How much more frank could I have been with you?”

Henry’s left hand fumbled with his right sleeve. His mouth was set in a grim line.

Apprehension clenched Frances’s stomach. “What is it? Have you done something?”

“I… wrote a letter of my own. I’m not sure what you’ll think of it.” His lips flexed and pulled, as if he wanted to draw the words back.

Were their roles reversed, Frances would have thrown herself upon his body to make him forget she’d said anything. She’d done so twice. But Henry had more courage—or maybe just less desire.

“Tell me quickly,” she demanded, “before I imagine that you’ve bought six harem girls and intend to turn Tallant House into a den of sin.”

“Nothing of the kind, I assure you.” He pulled a folded paper from the tail pocket of his dark blue coat. The letter flapped loose, its seal already broken. “Here, you’d better read it.”

Mystified, she took the missive from him.

Dear Mr. Middlebrook,

Thank you for your recent correspondence regarding your attachment to my daughter. As you are no doubt aware, I have not been in communication with her for years.

I am more delighted than I can express to know she is well, and that she has found a friend in yourself. I knew your late parents slightly. It is clear to me from your letter that you are honorable, just as they were.

You need not have asked my blessing on your prospective match, as you know, though I am happy to grant it. I appreciate the invitation to your wedding; however, I regret that ill health makes travel on such short notice impossible.

Please give Frances my love. I regret that so much time has gone by since we parted, and I hope one day we shall be reunited.

Yours sincerely,

Sir Wallace Ward, Bart

The hand was fainter and shakier than she remembered. But she could hear his voice speaking the words as clearly as if no time had passed. As if they had never fought and he hadn’t all but disowned her.

Seven years ago, when her mother died, Frances’s father had sent her the rosewood box that had once held Lady Ward’s jewels. No note was enclosed, as if he meant to tell her, I know where to find you, but I have nothing to say to you. The silence was worse than a reprimand, so on it stretched.

His voice still echoed in her ears, though. Fifteen years ago he had checked her arithmetic with a proud, “Well done, daughter.” Twenty years ago, he explained the rules of chess and whist, sure she could master them as well as any male child. Twenty-five years ago, he bounced her on his knee, laughing as hard as she.

She had not thought of these things for a very long time. There had been no point. But now—here was the past, right before her face.

“This is from my father.” She could hardly believe it. But it was his hand. His signature. It sounded like him, all sternness over hesitant warmth.

She looked up at Henry. “Why did my father write to you?”

“I wrote to him first.” He looked self-conscious; his left hand played with the brass buttons on his coat. “Because of the letter you sent me, explaining everything. I could tell it pained you to lose everything you’d grown up with. I wish your father had never forced you to choose between love and family.”

She started to lift a hand to his face, but her father’s letter crackled in her grip and she abandoned the gesture. “I forced the choice more than he.”

He acknowledged her words with an if-you-say-so lift of his brows. “I wanted to let him know you were well. Caro told me your maiden name and even recalled your father’s direction. He lives in Ward Manor, just as he always did.”

“After all this time,” she said. “It seems impossible that nothing has changed.”

“I wouldn’t say that. He feels regret, as you can see. I believe he wishes to have his daughter back in his life.”

He watched her with raised eyebrows, his expression a patient cipher. “Are you glad for this letter, Frances?”

She looked at the letter again. She felt as though her eyes could not truly be open, seeing what was before them. This letter itself. Henry, uncovering her deepest hurt. Seeing how thin her skin was.

But it was real; here was the quaver and shake of her father’s pen over the lines. It offered forgiveness and the chance to forgive. To stitch closed a wound that was almost ten years old.

It would always leave a scar. The wound was too old, too ragged, for anything less. Yet it was a healing, even if an imperfect one.

“You wrote to my father,” she repeated. The paper fell from her hand to the floor, and she wrapped her arms tight around him in a quick, crushing embrace. “Yes, I’m glad. I’m very, very glad. I can scarcely believe you did that for me.”

“I wanted to give you more than myself.” His lips moved in her hair, tickling her scalp. “I wanted to help you regain some of the things you lost over the years.”

“Is this why you made me wait day after day? For this letter?”

“Partly. I wanted you to get the other letters first too. I wanted you to have the attention you missed as a younger woman. It’s your due by worth as well as birth.”

Her head reared back. “All those letters I’ve been pestered with. You sent them?”

“No, not at all. I merely mentioned to a few influential people how enjoyable your company was. The rest was simply the ton doing what it loves best: following a good story to ground as surely as a hound scents a fox.”

“That is a terrible analogy if I’m meant to be the fox.” She rested in the hollow of his neck and shoulder, liking the scratch of her jaw against the fine woven wool of his coat. “You are fortunate that I am stupid with surprise right now. I’m not even going to chastise you for not sending me the one letter I truly wanted.”

He rested his hand on her back, and she breathed into its comforting weight. “What will you do, Henry? Now that you’ve conquered the polite world?”

“That depends on you. I have a small estate not far outside of London, but I’m willing to stay at Tallant House so I might see you every day if you’ll allow that honorable courtship you once agreed to. I’ll understand if you won’t, after my dueling and my taking offense at the letters you wrote. I’ve had enough pride for seven men.”

“I’ve always thought you extraordinary,” Frances murmured. “The pride of seven men, though—I hadn’t expected that much good fortune.”

His hand played up her spine, and she couldn’t remember how to tease him anymore.

His eyes were lapis lazuli, deep and clear. Even Frances knew how precious that color was, and she was no artist. “You’ve told my father I already accepted you.”

“And so you did, once. You agreed to my suit just before we had our exceedingly memorable encounter with Lord Wadsworth. But if you wish to part from me, I’ll still do what I can to make things right between you and your father. I’ll blame everything on myself. Former soldiers can be unpredictable bastards.”

“So can artists.”

His mouth twitched, and he released her and took a step back. “There’s no hope for me, then. But I’ll tell you this. Your letter gave me much to think about, Frances. I believe honor is not an act of a day, and it is not destroyed by one failure. It is a matter of intent as much as success. As is trust.”

“So the means to the end do matter, even if the end is what you wish.” She swallowed, but there was a lump in her throat that would not dislodge.

“The means always matter because they tell the world what type of person you are.”

His eyes fixed hers, deep and true. “As I said, it’s a matter of intent. I was too hasty before when I criticized yours—too hurt, really. But I know you acted out of great kindness. I understand you, past and present, and I trust you for the future. You loved me enough for two women—in person and in letters. If you’ll only let me, I’ll love you enough for two. It’s no more than you deserve.”

“It is more,” she said. Her throat caught. “Damn. I’m not going to cry. That would completely undermine my dignity.”

“We can’t have that.” He patted his chest. “But if you decide to toss dignity aside, I have a handkerchief.”

“Because a soldier is always prepared?”

“That, and an artist always has paint on his hands.” He cleared his throat. “So. Whether we’re artists or soldiers or… I don’t know… pig farmers, I believe we’ll make excellent allies. If you agree to my proposal, that is. You haven’t actually said the words. I may have the vapors if you prolong the suspense any longer.”

She smiled. “I almost feel I ought to write it down, given our history. ‘HENRY IS TOO DEMANDING.’ Though I am too.”

They had overcome the weight of loss, the depth of need, the high wall of pride. Compared to those obstacles, love seemed fragile in its beauty.

But when shared by two, it was not fragile at all.

She wrapped her arms around him again, breathing in his clean heat, drawing his solid body as close as her strength could manage. “Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes to it all.”

***

Relief flooded Henry’s body. He’d not known how their treacherous reunion would go, whether Frances would want to reconcile with her father. Or with Henry himself.

Now she was nestled under his chin, right as right could be. If he focused, he could feel the shuddery beat of her heart against his own ribs. It was as if they were one body. Thank God, she was willing to forgive.

Although… this didn’t quite feel like forgiveness anymore. Forgiveness didn’t rub itself against his body with a low, throaty sigh. Forgiveness didn’t toy with the buttons on his dove-gray waistcoat. Forgiveness didn’t slip them free from their holes.

This was far better than forgiveness. It was love. With a fair smattering of passion to brighten the tone.

Frances slid her hand beneath one layer of fabric, then another. “Madam,” Henry said in a mock-surprised voice. “Are your intentions entirely honorable?”

She laughed. “Not at the moment.”

“Perfect.” When she tugged at his coat sleeves, he flexed his shoulders forward to allow the snug garment to slip free.

With sharp, hungry tugs at his clothing, she undressed him. He helped when he could, twisting his way out of layer after layer, even as his own hand fumbled with the buttons of her bodice. He touched the laces of her stays, and she shook her head.

“Better leave them on. I can’t imagine asking Lady Tallant’s maid to come help me dress, can you?”

“She’s Emily to you now, since you’ll be sisters.” He tilted his head. “But perhaps you’re right about the stays. I’ll have to be creative.”

He let his eyes slide over her body; at last, he just looked and looked and looked.

Someday he would paint her. Maybe even like this: a secret picture, just for them. Light burnishing her coffee-dark hair with glows of red; her creamy skin warmed by the morning sun. Through the translucent linen of her shift, the form of her body and the shadow between her legs faintly visible. Peeking over the edge of her stays, a semicircle of damask rose—the edge of one nipple, wanting to be touched.

“Henry,” she admonished, crossing her arms over her chest as the moment drew out long and slow. But she smiled. And when he touched her forearm, pressed it down, she chuckled and lowered her arms to her sides, giving him an unobstructed view of her again.

Except for those dratted stays. Without removing them, he couldn’t take off her chemise either.

When restricted in some way, find another route.

He couldn’t quite shed the habits of the military. Right now, they gave him a marvelous idea.

He would find another way in. “Spread your legs,” he murmured in her ear.

A flush delicate as a new blossom spread over Frances’s cheeks and bosom. She breathed quickly, sharply as she slid one foot along the carpet until there was nearly a yard’s span between her feet. Her stocking-clad toes dug into the weave of the rug.

“Perfect.” Henry crouched on the floor at her feet. Balancing carefully on the balls of his feet, he lifted the cotton chemise and exposed her sex to his view.

Soft brown curls rich as earth, folds like a budded rose, flushing darker red, drawing his eye. His mouth. He needed two hands, damn it. He released her chemise, allowing the fabric to fall atop his head, and used his freed fingers to part her, opening her for his tongue.

He barely got a taste before she writhed, hips bucking. “Good God, Henry.” Nails dug into his scalp, raking the sensitive skin.

“Do you enjoy this?”

“I enjoy it so much that I’m going to ignore how ridiculous we both must look. Will you do a bit more? Or a lot more?”

Laughing, he pointed his tongue, found her hottest part, and licked at it with the gentle pressure he would use on the smallest paintbrush, for the most delicate coloring. The most precious, detailed part of a painting.

This time, there was no subsiding. This time, her fingers wove into his hair, pressing him against her hot flesh; this time she grew wetter for him, and her breath came in gasps. She trembled on her feet, and then she began to tremble all over, and as he tongued her, harder and faster and hungry and thirsty, she came apart in his mouth with shudders and cries.

She sank to her knees at once, wrung out. Henry rocked onto the balls of his feet then sat on the floor and folded his legs before him. They must look even more ridiculous now, facing each other on the morning room floor with their clothes half off.

To his eyes, though, Frances looked beautiful: hair tangled, cheeks flushed, lips inviting.

He just wondered one thing. “Why did it please you that time?”

“What we just did?”

He nodded. “Last time we tried that, you didn’t like it.”

Frances let her head loll back. “How could I not like that? It’s… well, you can guess. You saw how much I liked it.”

She folded her arms and rubbed her hands over them again, shivering with a final spasm of pleasure. “Last time, I felt I was doing wrong by you, keeping secrets, and I couldn’t forget that.” She spread her hands. “So I couldn’t forget myself.”

Henry brushed tangled hair back from her forehead, traced the straight line of her nose, bumped over her lips, the indentation below them, then her chin. Whisked down her neck. Stopped.

“No more blame. That’s all in the past.” He leaned forward, kissed her furrowed brow.

“But the past… it doesn’t go away,” Frances insisted. Henry could feel her tension under his lips.

He sat back. “You’re right. It doesn’t.”

He shrugged his right shoulder, allowing the dead weight of his arm to swing and dangle. “The past is here with us. It shapes the present. It matters.” Of course his arm mattered; it would always matter. He would always regret the loss.

Yet without it, there was so much he would never have gained. His life had been routed onto a whole new path—one with obstacles and stumbles, but one he would not have to walk alone. He took a deep breath. “But it mustn’t prevent us from finding joy.”

Frances looked at her hands in her lap. She smoothed them over the translucent fabric of her chemise, then took both of his hands in her own and pulled them to her heart.

“Can you feel this?” she asked, her eyes deep as a forest.

Henry wanted to. He really wanted to. He longed to. But in his right arm, as always, there was nothing but a blank where feeling used to be.

But in his heart…

“Yes,” he said, and he knew she understood.

She smiled, a bit sadly. “How did you get so wise?”

A short laugh popped out. “Wise. Well, I haven’t been called that in a while.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, holding his hands and pulling them toward her. “You are. Very. Wise.”

When she opened her eyes, they were almost nose-to-nose. They breathed the same air, smiled the same smile.

She released his hands. “Very wise. So wise, I think you deserve a reward.”

The air of the room was still and warm on his skin. Frances pressed at his shoulders until he was laid out, flat, and his back ground into the coarse wool of the carpet. Sun cut through the window and filled his eyes, and he closed them against the dazzling brightness.

The world was nothing but touch, nothing but the sun, and her fingers gliding over his skin. And then it was her mouth, hot as a fire and wet as a lake. Impossible, yet it was happening. He was buried, and he was flying. He could not stand it; he could not bear for it to end.

His back arched in a silent cry.

His eyes snapped open. “Come with me.”

She leaned forward, the tip of her tongue peeking between her lips. “Now?”

“Yes.” He could not manage more than one syllable. He could only pull her atop him.

They would go through life together. They could come together too.

He laughed, and that made it even better.