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“Do squirrels enjoy honey?” She rose and set her brush aside. He was staring at her hair. She played with the ends of it.
Osborn blinked as though coming out of a trance. “Squirrels?”
“So it was not you with whom I was speaking.” He laughed, an enormous laugh that spun along her nerves and set them tingling. He came to stand opposite her, the bed between them. “I heard you laughing in the kitchen,” she said.
“I understand Tarben is a rival for your inimitable style of storytelling.”
“Surely it is clear I have no skills in that area, and yet the children insist.” It pleased her, if she was to tell the truth.
“It is regarding children I am here.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Madam, I will lie with you and give you a child. It is within my power, and our cordial affiliation notwithstanding, it need not impact nor change the way we—”
“Conduct a white marriage?” He nodded, and that great curl of hair fell across his brow. It took every fiber of her being to resist rushing around the bed to tuck it back in place. His coat fit him ill, too tight around the shoulders, but was the hue of springtime violets and did appealing things to the color of his eyes. “Will it only be the once or…” Beatrice faltered. “I have heard women speak of the necessity of doing this often until it, uh, takes.”
He hesitated and cast his gaze around the corners of the room. “I assume, as with much else in life, it may require diligence and application.”
“Very well, then.” Beatrice tugged the top cover down the bed and then the next and then the sheet. “There is a pitcher and bowl behind the screen if you wish to make use of them. The water should still be warm.” He removed his coat and fiddled with the buttons on his half-done waistcoat. “I assume you can unclothe yourself?”
She heard him mutterunclotheas he disappeared behind the screen. She wrestled herself out of her dressing gown and dove beneath the covers. Beatrice pulled them up to her chin—but what if that prevented him from getting in? She lowered them to her waist, and the exposure was too much, as if she was standing in the forecourt in the nude.
Would he expect her to be nude? She never had with…let her not invoke her first husband at this time! Not that Osborn was her husband in anything but name. Well, not for much longer. He would soon be that in deed.
Under the covers, she drew her night rail up over her belly. She shut her eyes, and the candle flame danced behind her lids—
Beatrice leapt from the bed, snuffed out every taper in the room, and returned to the safety of the covers just as he came around the screen. By the light of the fire and that of the moon pouring through the window, he looked like a man any woman would be fortunate to welcome into her bed. He stood beside it, still in his smalls, and what a sight he made. The shadows caressed the divots of his muscles, the flickering light of the flames licked at his skin eagerly, a delicious treat. He tilted his head, unmoving.
Oh.“Shall I move? To the side? Or?” She clenched her eyes shut.
“If you would release the sheet, Madam.”
“Ah. Of course.” She let go with the hand closest to him but clung to the rest. There was a hesitation and shushing of cloth, good Lord, and into the bed he descended. He lay on his back at her side, exuding heat as if he had absorbed the flames so keen to lick at him. She must not think of licking. She did not know why.
He did nothing for what seemed a very long time until he rolled onto his side, facing her. She lifted her head to get her hair out of the way when he reached for it.
“May I not touch it?” he asked.
“My hair?”
“May I?”
“If you wish?” What had her hair to do with anything?
His fingers lightly stroked the end of her plait; he lifted it to his nose. “Spearmint,” he said.
“I used the soap Ciara made. To wash it,” she replied.
“Hmmm,” he hummed. He released it and slid his fingers to the back of her head and rubbed there. What this touching was about she could not say, but it was very relaxing.
The thought of them relaxing made her tense anew. He murmured softly as he would in gentling a wild creature and edged closer still. His nose ran over her ear, and she shivered. He did it again, and she wriggled.
“Ticklish,” he whispered. His fingers ran around the hem of her night rail. How had his hand gotten there? “May I?” he asked.
“May you what?”
“Remove this, or?”
“No, but—wait, I can—” She pulled it up over her belly.
“Thank you,” he said.
