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“‘A rose by any other name,’” Arthur intoned through a mighty yawn.
“Your comprehension of Ben Jonson is impressive,” she teased. Her robe was removed in a trice considering the slumberousness demonstrated up to that point, and those hands slid underneath her nightgown, up her back, and down over her hips as she was rolled beneath him.
“There are scholars who would take that out of context and supply it with a bawdy explanation.” His fingers trailed over her cunny. “For this is a rose by another name, and its sweetness I vow I shall never tire of. Let us refer to our rooms as the Rosalia Suite, perhaps.”
“I may have been happy with that before you have—oh.” He found what he sought, and her bones turned to water.
“We may call it the Crimson Suite if your blush is anything to go by. This may be my favorite color yet.”
She gently moved his hands away and cuddled into his side. “My favorite color—”
“Is?” He contented himself with carding his fingers through her hair.
“I cannot fix upon one. It may be brown, but two different hues appeal. Or it may be golden.”
“I have it on good authority that golden is not a color.” He grinned, looking youthful and happy.
Beatrice saw his eyes flash, molten with pleasure, his essential self showing his joy. “Brown, then,” she decided. “A color not considered appealing amongst theton, but to be truthful, their opinion has never mattered much to me.” She ran her fingers through his luxurious hair and reveled in his gaze. “Brown is a warm color, and warmth is safety, and safety is to be sought under a repaired roof and within uncommonly strong arms. Yes, it has much to recommend it, does brown.”
“Madam, you take my breath away.”
Oh, kissing. When done correctly, it truly was a prodigiously wonderful thing, and she discovered an appetite for it. How would she keep her mouth from his, going forward? She sighed against his lips, and he rumbled his displeasure as she withdrew. They must learn how to discipline themselves, and there was no time like the present.
“Come, husband, our bath awaits.”
***
Beatrice hoped the staff would not be too cross about the water puddled on the floor of the laundry.
She and Arthur appeared in the kitchen and were greeted with applause from the gathered servants; the uproar assured that those within hearing distance soon swarmed into the room. As they were Shifters, that was the entire household. Beatrice returned Charlotte’s embrace with her whole heart and Ben’s kiss to her cheek with one to his. Tarben leapt around them like a frog, and for once Bernadette left off her decorum to let loose a few hearty cheers.
“Now then,” Charlotte said, “I do hope that was not unexpectedly terrible.”
“What are you on about, Charlie?” Arthur scowled.
“A private jest between herself and her husband, I am certain.” Beatrice pinched her sister-in-law, and both laughed.
“Blessed Freya,” Ben said, “these two with their heads together will be our undoing.”
“It will be the making of you—” Charlotte objected just as Beatrice said, “It will be the making of us all.”
“We are doomed,” Arthur muttered.
“If this is doom,” Beatrice countered, “then I invite it in.” She smiled up at him, and his face fell, not in dismay but in, well… She had no idea what his expression conveyed. No one had ever looked at her like that before. His eyes were soft, and they drank her in as if she was an oasis in the desert. Was it because she was smiling? She reached up to touch her lips, and he took her hand, kissed her fingertips, held her hand to his heart, and kissed her before the assembly. The roar released by the entire company was like to tear off Arcadia’s newly fortified roof.
Flustered, she pulled away, but not without a squeeze to the great paw enveloping her hand. “But where is Ursella?” Beatrice asked as she looked about. “Have the children taken their breakfast in the nursery?”
“Oh, that child,” Charlotte groused. “How could she be missing this? It was all I could do to keep her from spilling what she sensed.”
“Ursella!” Ben called.
There was no response. “She is never far when we call,” Beatrice said.
“Ursella?” Charlotte called, her tone puzzled.
“Have you seen her, Bernadette?” Beatrice asked. If one of the children were to notice, it would be she.
“Last night, we picked flowers for the stillroom,” Bernadette began.
