Theresa Romain - It Takes Two to Tangle

She turned her face toward the window, as though the outside world held some answers for all her unknowns. The high-slanting remnants of morning sun found her profile, gilded her skin, and picked out bright tints in her hair. Henry forgot to think in colors; he only let himself look at her—proud as ever, and limned like an earthy angel.

Somehow, it lessened his pain to know he wasn’t the only one who hurt.

Inappropriately, this talk of her long-dead husband made him want to touch her, stroke her, kiss her until she forgot the man.

He settled for a bit of comfort. “You cannot think that your husband went to war because he did not love you enough to stay.”

“Maybe.” That word again. Frances’s mouth twisted up at one corner, though it was not a smile. “No, I suppose he went because he felt he had to. Because we are all human, and we must all eat and drink and have the means to live. And we cannot live in agony.”

With a swift, decisive shake of her skirts, she stood and grasped both of his hands across the swooping back of the sofa. “Henry, you enjoyed the familiar pleasure of a ball during war. This does not mean you should never have pleasure again. And you asked the soldier to help with your arm because you could not imagine living in pain.”

She rubbed her fingers over his right hand, and he almost thought he could feel it, so starved was he for touch. “I’m glad you did. I could not wish for you to live in pain either.”

“And I would not wish it for you,” he said hoarsely.

“So we do the best with what we have,” she said. “We carry on even though our lives alter.”

“Simple as that,” he murmured.

“Oh, there’s nothing simple about it.” She dropped his hands and pressed hers together tightly in front of her chest. “Sometimes it seems like the hardest thing in the world. But what else is there to do?”

Now it was her turn to move about the room, fidgeting with the blotter on the desk, giving vases of flowers a little twist so the brightest blooms would face forward.

Just think of who makes you happy.

That’s what there was to do.

Two steps brought him behind her, only a breath away from her tall body. She faced the orpiment-yellow wall, seemingly studying the painting of the hunting scene, but she knew he had drawn close. He could tell by the way her shoulders tensed, her head turned a fraction to the side.

“Frances.” His voice still sounded hoarse, as though the name itself was weighty on his lips. A few loose strands of her hair danced in the heat of his exhale. He rested his left hand on the wall, circling her as much as he could with his body.

His right arm hung motionless, of course; he couldn’t encircle her completely. She could escape if she wished.

But she didn’t even try. She simply turned around and tilted her face up to him, so they were almost nose-to-nose. “Henry.”

The movement of her lips as she spoke his name, the quick sweep of her lashes as she blinked only inches away—these were bits of everyday magic, wrapping him in a spell of peace. The whisper of her breath was warm on his face, the slight movement of air a promise. A beginning.

It was easy, within the spell, to lower his head, to brush her lips with his own. It was a gentle question.

Her answer was immediate. Her mouth was hot on his, her hands swift as they slid up his chest and gripped his shoulders.

“Mmmm.” A sudden nervous laugh tried to escape his throat, and he lifted his mouth from hers.

He breathed deeply, trying to banish the sudden weakness in his knees. She fidgeted, so he slid his left hand to her upper arm and rested his forehead atop her dark hair.

Inhaling the clean scent of her hair, all sweet citrus and soap, and the warmer smell of a woman’s skin. One breath at a time.

“What is it?” She wiggled her head so she could fix him with those clear eyes, so true and honest. He would not hurt her with an excuse, making her feel as if she were not good enough.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered.

She didn’t press him further; she only nodded and ran her thumb along his jawline. “I am too.”

“What do you have to be afraid of?”

She gave her own little mmm of a suppressed laugh. “You are golden,” she said. “You are young and noble. I do not know why you should choose me for your company and your confidence.” Her hand slipped over his body from jaw to neck to chest, and it felt like a blessing.

“You truly think that of me.”

“I do.”

I do. She spoke the words from the deepest of vows. She wanted him when he thought he would never be wanted again.

He chuckled at the marvel of it. “I think you do not see me accurately, but I cannot wish you to be less generous than you are.” Again, that startled warmth within his body of frozen stone. She had taken hold of his heart with her words. How glad he was that it still beat, that it still yearned for a women’s passion and thudded in response to her touch.

Her hands were roaming now, pressing the planes of his chest, sliding beneath the heavy superfine of his coat, tugging at the fabric until they found their way beneath the barrier of his clothing. Ten fingers—beautiful fingers, Frances’s fingers—touched his sides, slid up his ribs until his close-fitting waistcoat stopped her.

They stood face to face, her hands halted. She raised her eyebrows, wicked and gleeful, asking.

The worry vanished from his body, burned off in a swift fire of hunger. He wasn’t stone anymore, but skin and bone and muscle and sinew, all eager man. Her wanted her hands moving over his body; he wanted her body moving over his. He wanted to touch and wake her most secret places, now that he’d told her his most secret truths.

“Yes,” he said, in answer to the words she hadn’t said. “God, yes.” His thumb traced the straight, sweet line of her jaw.

“Then we are agreed,” she said with a smile. “How glad I am that you asked me to lock the door.”

It took both of them to shrug Henry free from his coat, to coax the tight-fitting sleeve down the unbending length of his right arm.

Miraculously, this didn’t bother Henry in the slightest.

It was as though the soldier part of his brain that worried and analyzed had been shut off; now the artist part could take the lead. The artist part with every sense alive, that could savor the whisper of the still, warm air through the thin linen of his shirtsleeves, that could notice the spreading flush on Frances’s skin as her eyes roved over his body—face to chest to groin to feet, and back up again.

He hardened. How could he not?

“I could positively eat you,” she murmured. “It’s simply not fair that you look so good.”

Henry shivered and shut his eyes for a brief moment. “That is a matter of opinion,” he said with a choked laugh. “I’m of the opinion that you’ll look good enough to eat once we take off a few of your clothes.”

She raised her eyebrows. “All in good time.”

With a wicked smile, she faced him, her nimble fingers teasing at the knots of his cravat. She stood closer than close, so close that his vision went hazy and she was just a blur of darks and roses and the blue of her gown, the press of her long, soft body against his hardness. He tilted his head as the tugs and pulls pressed at his neck, scratched starched linen against his skin.

Any more of these tiny ecstasies and he would embarrass himself. He took a half step back, away from the tantalizing pressure of her body, and studied her face as she picked apart the mathematical folds of his cravat. She was biting her bottom lip, concentrating on her work. Her cheeks were the loveliest tint of rose, and her thick dark hair was springing from its pins.

He could never capture life in oils again; he knew that now. He hoped only that if he looked his fill, he would remember it indelibly. This sparkling moment when a woman had chosen him, and he had chosen her.

The cravat fell open, and Frances ran cool fingers over his throat. The light scrape of her nails on long-untouched skin woke nerves throughout his body, and he had to shut his eyes against the bright shock of it.

Amazing. As she drew gentle fingers over his neck, he let himself feel. Let his body wake and remember.

It had been years since Henry had been with a woman. He’d never been a rake about Town, never sought the company of whores or willing widows while in the army. When he’d taken a lover to his bed, it had always meant something.

This time, it meant everything. It meant everything to be home again, to be honest. To be naked, yet still to be wanted.

His throat closed, and he caught Frances’s hand, interlacing their fingers.

“Are you all right?” she asked. Her eyes were clear as a mirror. In them, he could bear to look at himself again.

Yes. Yes, he was all right. He nodded and coaxed her mouth to his again.

She fit against him like the piece he had been missing. Her lips parted for his kiss, her belly brushing against his as he gathered her tight in the cradle of his arm. They were body against body, heat against heat, and even through layers of fabric, Henry could feel her form—the soft press of her breasts, flat against his chest; her fingers gripping his shoulders, tighter with every kiss.

He could have kissed her for hours, sinking into the wonder of it. The magic of human hands, of mouth on mouth. The way lips fit together, nipped and pulled. Such small gestures that could wake such tremendous needs. This time, his need came not from starvation but from fullness. He was brimming with awe, sipping gingerly at the pleasure of her touch, then drinking it in greedily.

Frances tugged her hand free from his and slid her arms around the middle of his back, encircling him and pressing their chests more tightly together. She wiggled her hips, her breasts, and the friction buried Henry under a torrent of sensation. The whisper of linen over his skin. Her heat against his hardness.

All right, enough kissing. He had to get her clothes off.

Her mouth clung to his and opened, licking him with tiny flames, and he felt as if he must swallow all of her. He fumbled for the buttons of her gown, but even if he had two hands, they would have been shaky with need.

He finally eased a button free at the back of her bodice. Then another and another, more quickly. As soon as the bodice was loosened, Frances pulled and tugged, and her clothes began to slide to the floor. Her gown was first, and he saw the stays he’d imagined in the Blue Room, the stays that had so frustrated him. Her breasts were lifted high, separated, two gifts in a fine linen wrap. He ran his hand up her arm, savoring the warm pliancy of it, then slipped a finger inside the top of the stays. He stroked the soft skin, finding the edge of her nipple, but he could do no more than torment them both.

“Help me,” she gasped, and she turned to present him with the back of her stays.

A foot or more of tight lacing, and he with one hand.

Well, if there was anything to motivate a man to new feats of dexterity, it was the promise of seeing the naked body of a woman. Henry went to work, tugging at each loop with a swift dexterity that surprised him.

“My goodness,” Frances breathed as the fabric parted and fell, leaving her only in a thin linen chemise. “I do believe not even a lady’s maid could have done that so quickly.”

“A lady’s maid has not my incentive,” Henry said low into her ear. She still faced away from him, her head turned roguishly over one shoulder. He placed his mouth at the curve where her neck met her shoulder, slid his lips over its softness and licked it with the tip of his tongue. Her skin was damp and faintly salty from the heat. She smelled of oranges, sweet and tangy.

He liked the taste of her, the scent of her. He licked her again, then blew on the moistened spot. She shivered and laughed, and the sound of her delight was a victory.

He was pleasing her. Thank God, because he could not keep his mouth from her now. He lipped at the curve of her neck, sucked at it, bit it gently until her head began to sag and she made a low sound of need.

His hand roved over her unseen breasts. They were soft and full, with hard little gems at their tips. His fingers caught and plucked at her stiffened nipples, rubbing the light fabric of her chemise over them. She gasped and staggered at the touch. “Yes.”