An intimate affair was supposed to involve sexual congress between the participants. Grey knew this, but he couldn’t find the right moment to turn the mood in the direction of desire. His body had no trouble with the notion of taking Addy to bed, but his spirit…

What sort of man—what sort of gentleman—discussed his courting progress and lack thereof with the dear lady who’d embarked on a liaison with him? Other fellows likely did so without a qualm, but Grey was awash in qualms.

His courting apparently needed work, which bothered him not at all, but so did his manners while trysting with Addy, which bothered him significantly.

“You are concerned for your aunt,” he said. “Shall I come calling some other day?”

“You have come at the only possible time.” She rose and crossed to the bedroom door. “Will you think me very forward if I invite you to make love with me?”

Not romp, not cavort, not any of the dozens of other trivializing euphemisms for the greatest intimacy two people could share.

“I would think you brave, generous, and irresistible,” he said, joining her in the doorway.

She hadn’t worn a dress too low-cut for daytime, hadn’t come to the door wearing only her dressing gown or with her hair tumbling seductively down her back. She was simply Beatitude, enjoying a widow’s freedoms on a quiet afternoon.

And yet, Grey needed for this encounter, perhaps the only one they’d have, to be special, to be memorable and precious.

He looped his arms over her shoulders. “Will you tell me your most secret intimate wishes?”

She curled against his chest. “Will you tell me yours?”

“I have many. I want to learn the scent of you everywhere, want to learn whether the curls between your legs are lighter or darker than the tresses on your head. I want to hilt myself inside you, want to feel your pleasure as it overtakes you. I want—”

She kissed him, which was for the best. He wanted the right to share her bed whenever they pleased, not simply on half day when she wasn’t indisposed and he wasn’t spoken for. He wanted…

To be foolish. To marry for joy, but how much joy could a couple claim when the family seat became a leaking ruin, siblings were denied opportunities for lack of even modest coin, and a precious daughter had no chance to make a decent match?

“I want to taste you too,” Addy said. “I want to fall asleep tonight with the scent of you on my sheets. I want to feel your pleasure as it overtakes you…”

That last was impossible, but a lovely, inspiring thought nonetheless.

Addy was unbuttoning his coat even as she kissed him. Grey got a start on her hooks. He and she would soon make love. He was physically ready—more than ready—and he’d thought of little else for the past week, but still…

This memory might have to last him a long, lonely lifetime.

“What’s something I can do for you?” he asked, breaking the kiss to peel out of his coat. “What pleasure can I give you that you’ve longed for but denied yourself?”

“I know how to… That is, I’ve learned how to manage on my own.”

She was referring to self-gratification. Women did, contrary to the myths propounded by sermonizing buffoons. Perhaps not with the frequency or enthusiasm of the young male of the species, but then, nothing in nature was as fixated on erotic pleasure as the young male.

She sat to toe off her slippers, and Grey knelt before her. “Allow me.”

“I can undress myself.”

Grey’s sisters had explained this to him: Yes, a woman might enjoy the services of a lady’s maid when dressing formally, but stays could be tied off in front, dresses dropped over the head, and the last few hooks fastened easily enough. Ladies—again, contrary to Mayfair myth—could dress and undress themselves for most occasions, just as men could.

“Allow me to be the smitten swain, Beatitude. To dote and tease is a lover’s right.”

Her smile was shy, suggesting he’d stumbled into an approach that worked for her.

“Very well,” she said, easing her skirts no higher than her ankles. “You may assist me.”

He untied her slippers, left then right, and set them aside. Her garters came next, pink lace confections that made him smile. He set those with her slippers, rolled down her stockings, and rubbed gently at the indentations left by the garters.

“That feels good.” She sounded puzzled, a step in the right direction.

Grey explored the muscles of her calves—sturdy—and the bones of her ankles—delicate. Her feet were not ticklish, and her arches weren’t particularly high. She had a scar on her right knee.

“I fell from a tree,” she said. “Papa forbid me to ever climb that tree again.”

“So the next day, you were up a different tree and climbing even higher.” Her knee tasted of lavender, and her smile was a little less shy.

She leaned back against the armchair. “You needn’t bother with this, you know. I’m not without a married woman’s—I like that.”

He’d shaped her breasts, confirming that she’d again forgone stays. “Touching you intimately is not a bother, Beatitude, but rather, my dearest fantasy come to life. You, willing and relaxed, the doors locked, the afternoon ours.”

He lifted her skirts to her waist and answered one question. The hair on her head was lighter and had less of the reddish hue found in a more intimate location.

He brushed a finger over her curls. “May I?”

“Could I stop you?”

“Of course.”

But she didn’t. She merely regarded him broodingly, so Grey went exploring and indulged in every wicked impulse ever to delight a healthy man. Addy was slow to arouse, but by inches and sighs, she gave herself up to the moment. By the time she convulsed around his fingers, Grey had lost his boots, his waistcoat, his shirt, and half of his wits.

Addy’s legs were draped over his shoulders, Grey’s cheek pillowed against her thigh.

“I am… I am…” She trailed her fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what I am. I hardly know who I am.”

“Are you pleased?”

“Pleasured would be a more accurate term.” She gave his hair an affectionate yank. “I will have my revenge. You are forewarned.”

He kissed her knee. “That sounds promising. Should I set the sheath to soaking?”

“I am not familiar with sheaths. You must manage without any guidance from me on the matter, and I must somehow find the strength to rise and totter to the bed.”

Gone was the articulate, self-possessed Lady Canmore. In her place was an endlessly dear woman somewhat bewildered by sexual satisfaction.

“We’ll have none of that tottering business,” Grey said, scooping her into his arms. He set her on the bed and let her watch as he undid his falls and stepped free of his breeches. His cock was at parade salute, and while he undid another dozen hooks on Addy’s dress, she stroked a finger down the length of his shaft.

“You’re so… at home in your body. You like being a man.”

He fished the sheath from his coat pocket, poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the washstand, and set the sheath to soak.

“When I’m with you, I adore being a man. Will you leave your hair up?”

He would adore being her man, not simply her lover for a brief liaison. She hadn’t indicated anything more than a liaison would interest her, though, so why speculate?

“I’ll leave it braided, but you can take out my pins.”

A treasure hunt ensued, with Grey searching gently for pins, while Addy, seated on the bed, tormented him with casual caresses to his cock, his flanks, his chest, his balls…

“Are you indulging your curiosity, my lady?” He’d set a dozen pins on the table by the bed.

“I am. I have never…” She rested her forehead against his belly. “Your approach to this undertaking is different from what I’m accustomed to.”

He brushed his thumb over her nape and ignored a regret: He wished he’d been her first and only, wished she’d been his first and only. Ah well. That would mean no Tabitha, and Grey would never regret having a daughter.

“What are you accustomed to?”

She stood on the bed-step to wiggle out of her dress. “Dispatch, I suppose.” She passed him her frock. “Focus, efficiency, purpose. A lusty and pleasurable objective achieved.”

They were eye to eye because she remained on the bed-step. Grey was naked. Addy was in her shift. Her gaze held uncertainty that tore at his heart.

“We do this however you choose, my lady, because my purpose in sharing this time with you is mutual pleasure. If all I want is a few moments of intense sensation, I can bring that about with my own hand. I want you.”

“Do you?” she asked, ruffling his hair. “Bring pleasure about with your own hand?” She’d been married to a supposed libertine, and yet, her gaze was guardedly curious.

“Not as often as I did in my youth. I was a randy boy.” Where had the randy boy gone, and did Grey want any part of him back?

She climbed onto the bed. “Now you are a grown man. How long does the sheath soak?”

“A few minutes. Might I join you?”

Her smile was a little wicked, a little bashful. “Please do,” she said, lying back among the pillows.

Grey climbed over her on the bed and took a moment to relish the feel of his body pressed to hers. She was warm, lithe, and generously curved. Her touch was slow and soothing, more an exploration than a caress. He wanted her with an excruciating intensity, and yet, he lay quietly in her arms and let her hands wander over him.

Some fool—some fool of a husband—had rushed her into lovemaking, as a bride and as a wife. Some idiot had given her the notion she wasn’t worth lingering over and cherishing. Addy traced the slope of Grey’s nose, while he mentally cursed her late spouse.

If Lord Canmore had made marriage a more pleasurable undertaking for his wife, would Addy have a more charitable view of the institution now? Would she even—in a theoretical sense—entertain the possibility of marrying some worthy fellow who esteemed her greatly?

Such speculation could lead nowhere. Grey waited until Addy’s hands stilled, then hitched up to crouch over her and begin a slow kissing tour of her every feature.

“Pass the decanter,” Valerian said, wiggling his fingers.

“It’s empty,” Thorne replied. “Oak, bring the decanter from the library.”

Ash had gathered with his brothers in the estate office, though these impromptu meetings had taken on the feel of a wake. If Grey were here, he’d be assigning them tasks so they’d feel useful, minimizing the damage the rain had done to the hay crop, and coming up with another way to squeeze a farthing from thin air.

“It’s Ash’s turn to fetch the decanter,” Oak replied. He was sketching at the sofa, while Hawthorne prowled the room with a glass in his hand. Valerian lounged against the mantel and Ash remained at the window willing Grey’s gelding to canter up the drive. The earl would swing from the saddle with characteristic energy, and all of Dorning Hall would feel lighter and happier.

Grey would have been out calling on tenants, inspecting the crops and the calves, enjoying a pint at the posting inn with the local tradesmen, not lurking at the Hall like a sulky boy.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Ash said.

“Nothing good can come of you attempting to think.” Thorne shook the last drops of his brandy into his mouth. “Thinking can lead to brooding, and you do too much of that.”

Brooding was the family euphemism for the despair that engulfed Ash regularly. The medical fellows had other names for it. Nobody had a cure other than self-inflicted death, upon which the church at least frowned mightily.

“Think about getting the decanter,” Oak said, glancing up from his sketch pad. “Though I’d rather Valerian fetched it. If you move, Ash, the light will shift.”

The light at Dorning Hall never shifted enough. “Valerian should finish his damned book,” Ash said, which caused Oak and Thorne to exchange a look, before Oak resumed scratching at his sketch pad.

“Oak should sell his paintings,” Valerian replied mildly. “Or teach. I could teach as well—deportment for all the gentry sprigs hereabouts—but a gentleman does not engage in trade.”

“That wouldn’t be trade.” Thorne came to a halt behind Grey’s chair. “That’s not working with your hands, which is what I do best. I should find a post as a steward.”

“Stewards are gentlemen,” Ash said, leaving unasked the question of what he himself should do for a profession. He’d thought to join Sycamore’s enterprise in London, but that wasn’t meant to be. He’d declined to continue working as a man of business with his brother-in-law, Worth Kettering, because he’d reasoned Sycamore’s need was more pressing. Worth promptly had hired another for the position Ash had vacated.

“We should do something,” Valerian said. “Grey at this moment is likely subduing a mountain of correspondence, or he’s dancing attendance on some sweet young lady who will drive him daft within a year.”

The silence that stretched was guilty and frustrated, also much too familiar.

“I’ve wondered lately,” Ash said, “why Grey must send quarterly sums to the Pletchers at the posting inn. His liaison with their daughter was nearly 15 years ago, and he provides lavishly for our Tabby.”

Blonk. Thorne set his glass on the sideboard. “Because Grey’s conscience is overly active. He despoiled the fair Tansy and must make amends.”

Valerian, Oak, and Ash all remained silent. The fair Tansy had more or less despoiled Grey, but even in Grey’s absence, Ash would not make that ungentlemanly observation.

“Tansy Pletcher made a good effort to despoil our dear Willow at the same time,” Thorne went on, “though I think Will’s virtue held firm.”

“Of course it did,” Ash replied. Will’s fraternal devotion had held firm, even if his virtue had been tempted. “Grey is compensating the Pletchers for the loss of Tansy’s labor all these years, but she’s well into her thirties by now and likely has a parcel of children with her tinker. Why does Grey continue to send her parents money?”

“Because he’s Grey,” Oak said. “I continue to paint and draw because I’m Oak, and Thorne must regularly apply himself to the forge because he’s Thorne.”

While Ash sat upon his backside and brooded because he was an idiot. “I cannot abide the notion that Grey will marry some featherbrain who will resent the Hall and her life here more every season.”

“Perhaps you should have remained in London bride-hunting yourself,” Thorne retorted. “Even I know you left a lady pining for you. Lady Della’s settlements might have bought Grey some time.”

Nobody discussed Ash’s decision to quit London, and he wasn’t about to let the topic be aired now.

“I’m off to the posting inn,” he said, pushing away from the window.

“You’ve changed the damned light,” Oak snapped.

“I would like to change a lot more than the damned light, but I’ll start with the posting inn. I don’t want it on my conscience that I did nothing while Grey traded his happiness for my future. That would drive me daft.”

Valerian squinted into the empty decanter. “As Papa was driven daft?”

Thorne beat Ash to the door. “As we are all going daft.”

Grey Dorning had magical powers. He could make time slow, like a conductor bidding an orchestra to play a stately sarabande, or he could make sensations pile up and intensify, a presto finale to a grand symphony of intimate touches, kisses, and pleasures.

He’d kissed and stroked and fondled Addy for a wondrous eternity, until she’d been drunk with sensation, utterly passive beneath his hands. He’d never issued a single instruction or command, never grabbed her or put her hands where he wanted her touching him, though he’d let her know that her caresses pleased him.

He liked her fingers winnowing through his hair. He liked when she bit his earlobe.

She liked his mouth on her breasts, and she loved—loved—the maddeningly slow tempo at which he joined his body to hers. The sheath was different, a little cool, a little rough. She’d watched as he’d tied it around his shaft, nothing self-conscious or awkward about the moment.

Amid all the other revelations and insights washing through her, she saved a thought to consider later: I was married to a selfish boy.

Grey Dorning was not a selfish boy. He was a generous man, a skilled lover, and a demon when it came to self-restraint.

“You will not—” She’d meant to tell him that he’d not send her into pleasure again without finding satisfaction himself, but the damned man got one big hand under her backside and changed the angle of his hips.

“That is diabolical,” she muttered against his neck.

He was taller than Roger, his arms longer, his frame larger. His everything was more generously proportioned, and thank God for that. Addy surrendered to satisfaction again, the intensity of the moment nearly equaling a loss of consciousness.

But better, much, much better, than simply fainting.

“You are a fiend,” she panted, running her tongue along his collarbone. “A devil, an imp of the bedroom.”

“That sounds more interesting than being an earl.” He was pleased with himself, and well he should be.

“You look all gentlemanly and predictable in your various blue waistcoats and sober evening wear, but beneath all that fine tailoring…”

He kissed her temple. “I’m simply a man, Beatitude.”

She fell silent, accepting the reminder that she must not develop fancies where he was concerned, though ye heavenly choruses, she had much to think about.

“You are my lover,” she said, scissoring her legs around him. “And you have yet to gratify your own desires.”

“I have gratified many of my desires in the past hour.”

“Gratify one more.”

Of course, he could not be selfish even in this, driving Addy before him into a frenzy of fulfillment. To her shock, he withdrew and spent on her belly, despite wearing the sheath. The loss of him was both a physical ache and an emotional distress.

That wasn’t how this was supposed to end. “I thought the sheath prevented conception.”

He levered up a few inches. “Nothing prevents conception for a certainty. This is the safest approach I know short of limiting one’s passion to longing glances and bad poetry.”

Laughter was a relief, also precious. Early in the marriage—very early—she and Roger had laughed, though most of his mirth had been directed at her inexperience.

“Shall I untie your ribbon?” she asked, feeling very daring. Roger had never used a sheath, of course, never explained them, never shown her one.

“I can manage.”

Grey got off the bed and ambled behind the privacy screen, giving Addy a chance to admire a very well-made man. Sheep farming put the muscle on a fellow, apparently.

“Will you take off that damned shift?” he asked, climbing back onto the bed. “I understand modesty, but you are beautifully constructed, and I treasure the feel of your skin next to mine.”

Beautifully constructed. Had Roger ever called anything about her beautiful?

Addy pulled the shift over her head, stuffed it under her pillow, and curled down against Grey’s side. “Tell me about Dorset, about your tea meadows and your sheep.”

She liked the feel of his voice rumbling forth as she lay against him, liked the sensation of his hands wandering over her neck, shoulders, and arms. She liked the scent of him, shaving soap and man, and the warmth of his body snug up against hers.

She loved being able to bask in his company, delighting in a leisurely tumble, complete with a cuddle afterward.

She did not like at all that some woman would be at his side when he returned to Dorset weeks hence. Some woman would walk those acres with him. Some woman would have years to enjoy his many talents and considerations as a lover.

And that woman would not be her.

To hold Beatitude while she slept was sweet, also painful. Her exhaustion was deep enough that she hadn’t stirred for a quarter hour. She curled against Grey’s side, skin to skin, giving him time to list regrets.

They all came down to the same lament: I wish I were free to simply love her.

If she didn’t care to remarry, Grey would content himself with the role of intimate companion and dear friend. Widows were permitted to choose their escorts, so to speak.

“I can feel you thinking,” Addy murmured. “Do you never relax, Grey? Never tell the world to go hang while you doze on a blanket amid the fragrance of your tea meadows?”

Oh, what memories he could have made with her. “I haven’t napped in my father’s botanical gardens for years. Playing the harp was relaxation. I painted some, until it became obvious Oak’s talent eclipsed my own.”

She tucked the covers over his arm. “Why should that matter?”

“Because Oak would not have pursued his artistic education if he thought in any way that his talent cast my own in the shade.”

“He did not want to compete with you. Would to God that Roger had had more of that sensibility.”

What etiquette applied for discussing a late spouse with a current lover? Perhaps the etiquette expected of friends would serve.

“You are still unhappy with Lord Canmore.”

She rolled to her back. “A widow is allowed to be upset that her spouse has died.”

The most recent Countess of Casriel had survived her husband by some years. She’d grieved Papa’s passing, but not like this.

Grey shifted to his side, the better to observe his lover. “Do you miss him?”

“I miss having a husband, I miss being the countess, not the late earl’s widow. I miss having somebody else who dwelled with me, took the occasional meal with me, provided me the occasional escort rather than trailed at my heels in his livery. In that sense, I miss Roger.”

Grey took her hand beneath the covers. “But?”

She stared at the canopy, putting Grey in mind of the stone saints guarding the ruins of the Dorning Hall abbey: eternal long-suffering guarding eternal regrets.

“But I do not miss him,” she said. “I was the vicar’s daughter. Only a tavern maid would have been a less likely countess than I, and in hindsight, I can see that Roger chose me in part to twit his uncles.”

“You were dazzled by his charm, too inexperienced to know infatuation from genuine regard, and just well born enough to believe he offered you a love match. I’m surprised you didn’t end up hating him.” Canmore, if he was the typical aristocratic puppy, had not thought of the pain his twitting would inflict on his young, unsophisticated bride.

Addy shifted again, so Grey was treated to the elegant line of her shoulders and the temptation of her nape.

“I nearly did hate him at times. One can’t, of course. Once hate gains a purchase on one’s sentiments, it’s like dry rot or creeping damp. Nearly impossible to eradicate. Roger regretted marrying me, I know that, but we tried hard to remain civil, and I respected that about my husband.”

Grey spooned himself around her, hurting for that young bride, hurting for the widow. “So his death left you feeling both angry and guilty? I certainly felt both when my father died.”

She peered at him over her shoulder. “You did? Truly?”

“I would go to Papa’s grave and lecture him on the unfairness of having abandoned me, then beg him to tell me what to do. All very dramatic, though I think my histrionics served a purpose.”

Addy’s backside fit perfectly against the curve of Grey’s body, just as this conversation—intimate rather than erotic—also fit with his notion of what lovers could share with each other.

“What productive end could such a display possibly serve?” she asked.

“I sorted myself out,” Grey said, searching for words that weren’t also pointlessly dramatic. “I admitted to myself, and to a lot of weeds and dead flowers, that I was angry and afraid. From there, I could tackle the matters that were putting me into such a state. I could use the fear to bolster my determination to safeguard my dependents.”

Addy laced her fingers with his and brought his knuckles to her lips for a kiss. “Hence, the hard physical labor, I suppose. Perhaps I ought to take up hillwalking.”

The hills of Dorset were beautiful. Grey could not say that to her, could not invite her to the Hall as a member of a house-party guest list.

“What one quality are you most annoyed with Roger for? What failing or misstep did he inflict on you that you were simply unable to overlook?”

She was quiet for so long, Grey wondered if she were falling asleep again, then her grip on his hand tightened.

“Roger died when his carriage overturned. He was pinned under the wreckage, and the horses could not get free until his friends arrived. His injuries were internal, and it took him some hours to expire.”

Somebody ought to have spared her that knowledge, ought to have told her that her husband had faded gently from injuries that had caused him no apparent pain.

“You wish he had not been reckless at the reins?”

“He was a skilled whip. I learned a lot from him in that regard. He simply had bad luck, but he also had time to send me a note.”

Did Addy ever drive out? Grey was nearly certain she did not. “He was dying, Addy, probably feeling the effects of laudanum, if not laudanum and drink.”

“I hadn’t considered that. He could hold his liquor, but laudanum…”

Grey was not about to let her dodge off on that rabbit trail. “He wrote to you.”

“He wrote to me: Dearest wife, if you can produce a boy child within the next year, Jason won’t get the title. Even a girl will cost him some wealth. Do it for me. Canmore.”

Addy was motionless, clearly waiting for Grey to react.

“You’ve never mentioned this note to anybody?”

“Of course not. I still have the note, because I cannot fathom… I cannot believe those were my husband’s dying words to me. When I read them, I am again the bewildered bride who could not grasp why her titled spouse laughed at her. The words hurt—reminding me that I had failed entirely as a wife—but even more, they terrify me.”

Grey gathered her close, the only comfort he could offer. “In his relatively short and vastly indulged life, Canmore had been denied only one thing. He had wealth, a title, a bride plucked from contented innocence on his whim, a father who doubtless spoiled him from infancy, and a mother who doted on him without ceasing. He did not need an heir of his body, he merely wanted one, and rather than accept that God or fate or his own vices made that boon impossible, he had a protracted and stupid tantrum. He did not deserve you. He was not worthy of the privilege of being your husband.”

Addy turned so she was wrapped along Grey’s length, face to face. “One should not speak ill—”

“Protect his memory for the sake of others if you must, Beatitude, but we can have truth between us. Roger did not deserve you.”

She held on to Grey tightly, her face against his throat, and Grey braced himself for tears. She was entitled to cry. She was entitled to shatter expensive porcelain, to hurl foul oaths and spend money at the shops like a sailor on shore leave. Instead, she’d kept her dignity and been more of a lady than her husband had ever been a gentleman.

“You aren’t wrong,” she said. “Nobody knew him the way I knew him. Jason probably suspects some of what went on, but he and I have kept our distance. At Roger’s wake, in every mourning call, all I heard was what a pity it was that I had nothing to remember him by, as if five years of marriage were nothing, as if only a child could have compensated the poor man for taking such as me to wife. I wanted a child simply to love, because I questioned whether my husband could ever love me.”

And doubtless, if she’d had a daughter, the lament would have been the lack of a boy child.

“You remind me why I treasure my estate in Dorset. Why a life of practical challenges, beautiful scenery, and family squabbles is preferable to polite society’s inanities. You should burn that damned note. At best, it was the fearful and fevered wanderings of a young man facing a pointless death. You doubtless have other happier mementos of the late earl.”

“Burn it?”

“Crumple it up, toss it onto a blazing hearth, watch it turn to ash.” Grey did not offer to undertake that ritual with her, for he was merely her lover. “Canmore’s foolishness does not deserve to trouble you, and whatever else was true about him, in this Canmore was a damned fool.”

Addy’s hold on him eased. “Burn it. I will think on this.”

While Grey had to think of the passing of the hours. He’d left a pile of unopened mail on his desk at the town house, and his evening would be taken up with a soiree. Such thoughts were obscene while Addy lay naked in his arms, struggling with demons she should never have had to subdue.

Grey rolled, taking her with him so she ended up straddling him.

She regarded her bare breasts. “I seem to have lost my damned shift.”

I’ve lost my damned mind. “The view from where I lie is inspiring. If your ladyship can spare the time, perhaps you’d like another turn on the dance floor?”

She kissed him, her nipples brushing his chest. “A gavotte this time. Cheerful, sprightly, and full of fun.”

“A gavotte it shall be.” Later, when he was alone with some decent brandy, Grey would allow his heart to sing a silent lament.