“You surprise me, dear boy. I have only ever heard you speak of your wife or your waistcoats in such glowing terms.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lord Dunston at said gentleman’s unexpected praise for Lord Holstoke’s numerous talents.
A week later, Dunston was still crowing over Phineas’s shot. “Why did you never say you were an archer, my good man? I thought you favored blades.”
Phineas lifted a brow. “A preference for one does not imply incompetence with the other.”
He withdrew one of his daggers. The blade gleamed in the light of the morning room. “True. When you are next at Fairfield Park, we must test your facility with knives.”
“Henry,” Genie chastised. “Do put that away. The only knives we should be discussing at my table are those required to slice ham.”
Her brother-in-law gave her a wink and returned his blade to its sheath.
She finished her eggs and pushed aside her ham. She still could not bring herself to eat it. Once the memory of biting into a madman’s arm diminished, perhaps ham would seem palatable again.
Around her, Dunston and Phineas and Mr. Drayton all ribbed one another. Mr. Drayton was inexplicably proud of the wound he had delivered to the poisoner’s leg.
“Serves ’im right.” Mr. Drayton shifted in his chair. “He shot me first.”
In fact, the recipient of Mr. Drayton’s rifle shot was the very same man who, six years earlier, had fired upon Mr. Drayton to escape capture. Theodore Neville had owned an apothecary shop in Weymouth for the past four years. Before that, he’d been Lady Holstoke’s associate, using his position as an apothecary’s assistant in London to craft her formulations. He’d poisoned his employer when Drayton and Mr. Reaver had drawn too close. Then, he’d fled London and wandered from city to city for a time. Eventually, he’d been drawn to Dorsetshire, where Lady Holstoke had last resided. He’d established himself as an apothecary. Everyone had thought him a rather pleasant fellow, including Phineas’s physician, who had expressed horror upon learning of the man’s murderous insanity.
Indeed, Neville’s obsession with Lady Holstoke had driven him mad. He’d purchased Lady Holstoke’s former home and subsequently taken in another of her former associates, Edgar Erwin. Edgar’s family had thought he’d drowned or run away while they visited Weymouth, as he’d simply disappeared without a trace. Instead, Lady Holstoke had recruited him. Drugged him. Seduced him. Used him.
A young boy of thirteen.
Genie had wanted to vomit when she’d learned that bit.
Soon after Neville had moved into Lady Holstoke’s house, he and Erwin had begun some very strange habits. They’d experimented with poisons, particularly plants, using both themselves and the livestock from local farms to test new formulations. They’d amassed sheaves and sheaves of detailed notes, chronicling their findings.
They’d also regularly sacrificed rabbits, chickens, and several goats to the woman they came to regard as a goddess. Perhaps it had been the substances they imbibed or the warping influence of evil or simple madness, but Neville and Erwin had worshipped Lydia Brand. Murder had been their “offering.”
In addition, they’d kept records. Stacks and stacks of records. Phineas had found Neville’s vast collection of notes and journals on shelves lining the house’s entire second floor. Neville had tracked his sacrifices and experiments with greater care than a rector keeping a church register. Strange, indeed.
It was Neville who had mixed the poisons and Erwin who had delivered them to their victims. In the case of the poor woman who resembled Hannah, Erwin had brought her to the house in Knightsbridge, where Neville had delivered her death.
Phineas had found explaining matters to the magistrate rather trying. Another string of sinister occurrences and poisonous murders. Another death on Primvale land. And this time, the killer had not merely been shot with a pistol. He’d been stabbed with a fork, bitten like a ham, shot with a hunting rifle, and speared through the neck by an arrow. Good heavens, it was a miracle the magistrate had only demanded Phineas surrender Neville’s journals.
Now, days later, Dunston and Mr. Drayton were preparing to leave. And so was Mr. Hawthorn. The Bow Street officer remained weakened from his injuries. Mr. Hawthorn sat across the table from Hannah looking grim as death, his square jaw hard, his interest in breakfast slight.
But, then, Hannah had not eaten more than a bite or two, either. She was coldly composed and beautifully gowned. She sipped her tea and refused to look at Mr. Hawthorn for any reason.
He refused to take his eyes from her.
Genie ached for them both, but she’d done all she could. Hannah had shuttered her heart to the man. Understandable, she supposed. Having suffered deep, permanent wounds, Hannah’s past distorted the shape of her future in much the same way as Edgar Erwin’s. Charging forth into love, risking her strong-yet-fragile heart, was simply out of the question.
“One day, you will want it enough,” Genie had told her gently the previous night. “And then, you’ll be brave. Because you are. Though you may not be ready.”
A single tear had slid down Hannah’s cheek. She’d tilted her chin to a proud angle. “I will learn to ride, Eugenia.”
Genie had grinned. Squeezed her hand. “Splendid. We shall start there, dearest.”
Now, as breakfast ended and the men prepared to depart, Hannah retreated to her bedchamber while Mr. Hawthorn eyed her with visible hunger. Dunston had arranged for a coach to take him back to London. As soon as she was out of sight, he climbed inside without another word.
Genie looped her arm through Phineas’s as they stood on the castle steps watching the men disappear down the drive. “I quite like Mr. Hawthorn.”
Phineas frowned. “He was helpful, I suppose.”
“You should attempt to like him, too.”
“I fail to see why. The probability that I shall ever set eyes upon him again is low. Five percent. Perhaps ten.”
“Oh, I’d put it higher than that.”
His eyes met hers. “I prefer to contemplate the probability that you’ll be naked within the hour.”
She chuckled. Drew him down for a kiss. “Easily one hundred percent, I daresay.”
He sighed and touched his forehead to hers. The scents of lemon and mint washed over her. His eyes closed for a moment. “I need to touch you again, Briar. I need to see that you are … well.”
Grinning, she stroked his jaw and gazed up into glowing green. “I rather thought you had verified my improved health several times last night.”
“A man of science must be diligent.”
“And this morning.”
“Inconclusive.”
“Twice before breakfast, if I recall.”
“Additional experiments are needed to ensure full rigor.”
She moaned, her belly heating. “I do enjoy your rigor.”
He bent and scooped her into his arms. She clung to his neck, kissed his jaw, his ear, the corner of his fascinating lips. Every part she could reach. By time he laid her upon his bed, she was trembling with heated shivers. Sliding amidst the emerald velvets and silver silks, she propped herself on her elbows to watch him disrobe. His eyes shone brightly as they lingered upon her breasts and hips.
Slowly, she tugged her skirts up her legs. “How naked should I be for your experiment, my lord?” She paused at her knees. “This naked?”
“More.”
Her thighs. “This naked?”
He discarded his trousers and climbed into bed, propping himself above her. “More.”
“Show me,” she whispered against his mouth.
He stripped away her stockings. Her skirts. Her bodice and corset and petticoats and shift. He stroked his palms across her nipples. Took the hard tips into his mouth—first one, then the other. He kissed his way down her center, pausing to linger, as he often did, upon her belly.
“Our babe will grow here, Eugenia.” He nuzzled her navel. “Our family will grow here.”
She smiled and stroked his hair. “How right you are, my love.”
Next, he traced a finger along her hip, near where Neville’s bullet had grazed her. The injury still smarted a bit, but she was healing remarkably well, thanks to Phineas’s teas and salves. He laid the softest kiss above and below the bandage.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Feverish.”
His eyes flew to hers, crinkled with concern.
“Your touch sets me afire.” She stroked his cheek, her hips undulating into the mattress. “Now, do get on with it.”
He laughed, low and flinty. The sound was wicked pleasure.
He kissed her belly. Lower. Then lower.
His fingers stroked her thighs. Higher. Then higher.
“Your petals are soft, Briar. Eager.” His fingers parted her folds and slid with maddening strokes around her swollen center. His eyes devoured her there, almost another touch. He dropped his head. Teased the little nub with his tongue. “Sweet, sweet nectar,” he whispered, his hot breath another stimulation. Two fingers slid easily inside her while his tongue worked and worked and worked.
The bright burst of heat and light expanded endlessly like a thundercloud over the sea as she lifted herself into his mouth. Writhing and clutching at silver silk, she demanded, “Now, Phineas. Oh, please, my love. Now.”
Within seconds, he was filling her. Hard and deep and true. She held his eyes. Kissed his lips. Held him tight and gave him every ounce of pleasure she could.
Because he was hers. Every part of him. The scientist, the husband, the protector. The man. Whole and wondrous.
“God, how I love you, Briar.”
“Phineas,” she breathed. “My heart.”
When her peak came, his body thrust inside hers with mad fury. His eyes blazed, desperate and devouring. She held them as long as she could, wanting him to see her ecstasy. To know that his touch was the only one that could deliver it. And, as his name broke from her throat with a wrenching sob, she could see that he knew.
She was his and he was hers.
She would make him laugh when he grew too serious, and he would strengthen her when her confidence was shaken. Their family would grow. Their love would grow.
Genie knew it as surely as she knew red silk roses looked dashing with indigo plumes.
For, while their marriage might have been sown in the soil of scandal, their roots were now forever entwined.
*~*~*