Theresa Romain - It Takes Two to Tangle

“Chocolate, Em?” Jem held out a cup. Emily pulled a face and shook her head. “Lady Stratton, then?”

Caro took the cup from him as they all arranged themselves around the laden table. “I simply have to tell you all something, though it may not be dignified enough for the occasion.”

“Ah—do we have to be dignified today?” Frances made a mock frown. “I hadn’t planned on that. After we’re done with breakfast, I thought we would all dance a hornpipe on the table.”

“Or a minuet,” Henry said, nudging his foot into hers under the table until rose stained her cheeks. Henry felt her toes flex within her thin slippers, as if they were turning together again in the center of a ballroom, with eyes only for each other.

Caro set her cup down on the table with a hollow clink. “Dance if you must, but for heaven’s sake, hear me out. You’ll all adore this. Two days ago, I was looking through the sweetest china shop, trying to find a vase to replace the one I was unfortunately required to throw. And who should walk in, just as I was lifting the vase up to look at the potter’s marks?”

Bart spluttered into his tea. “Not Wadsworth.”

Caro nodded. “Exactly. As soon as he clapped eyes on me—well, I’ve never seen a man turn so pale or spin on his heel so quickly.”

Henry laughed. “Jittery, is he?”

“Awfully. I don’t suppose he’ll be able to look at a tree for some time either after what you did to him, Henry.”

Emily took a dainty bite from a slice of brioche. “I can’t say I’ve got any sympathy for the man. He’s had undeserved good luck, timing his humiliations for the end of the season. By next spring, everyone will have forgotten them.”

“He won’t forget,” Caro said. “I will do my utmost to make sure of that. Nearly every house has a vase in its drawing room. I only hope I happen to call on someone at the same time as Wadsworth. I shall draw my fingers across the vase and watch him turn pale as a fish belly. It will be…” She bared her straight teeth. “Smashing.”

Before Henry could reply, Sowerberry ushered in two violinists and a man carrying an ivory flute. “As you requested, my lady,” the butler said with a bow to Emily.

“What is this, Em?” Jem asked.

“A little surprise for our newlyweds,” Emily said, failing to keep a pleased smile from her face. “You’ve only ever had one dance. You simply must have one more before you leave London. It’s my wedding present to you.”

Frances set her cup down so quickly that a drop of coffee sloshed over the edge. “I was only joking, my lady—Emily. I really didn’t plan to dance a hornpipe this morning. Especially not on the table.”

Emily dismissed this protest with a wave of her hand. “Not that. But you haven’t danced for weeks. You simply must dance on your wedding day.”

Jem choked on a bite of eggs. “Not in the dining room, surely.” Stuffed into the corners of the dining room, the three musicians were beginning to look uncomfortable.

Henry didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. At last, he felt a blessed certainty. He’d returned home at last, and he’d carry it with him always.

“No, indeed,” Emily said. “When everyone’s eaten their fill, we’ll return to the drawing room.”

Frances lifted her eyebrows at Henry, and he nodded. Certainly, he could dance today.

“All right,” she agreed with a wicked half smile. “If Mr. Middlebrook cares to invite me to stand up with him, I suppose I’ll agree.”

Caro looked equally mischievous. “Bart, we can have that waltz at last, since you won’t be pressed into service at the pianoforte this morning.”

Bart fumbled his fork. “Yes. Yes, absolutely we could. I’d be—it would be my honor.” He turned the pale pink of a tomato’s inside.

“Glad you stayed for the wedding?” Henry murmured to his old friend, and Bart shot him a sideways glance, a smile.

This room contained Henry’s family, the people most precious to him in the world. Jem and Emily. Bart, close as a second brother. And today it had grown to include Caro, and—dearest of all—Frances herself.

Twang.

Oh. And those three musicians too. One of the violinists had shifted his instrument, clearly wondering when the quality were going to cease this bizarre, buoyant behavior.

Certainly not today.

“I think,” Henry said, “I’d like to dance with my wife now. Frances, do you agree?”

He held out his hand to her, and she took it at once, pushing her chair back in a swift scrape and allowing Henry to pull her to her feet. Lovely as any painting. Art come to life.

“I do.”

March 1816

“A letter for you, Henry,” Frances called as she carried the post past the east wall of Winter Cottage, trailing her hand on its rough stone exterior.

Henry was, as usual, in the garden. He was to be found there every day, unless the weather was cold enough to thicken his paints into uselessness. His art students found many more subjects for study outdoors than in. Besides, he wanted to spare Frances the smell of the turpentine used to clean his brushes whenever they worked in oils.

She brushed through dried grass and found the gravel path to Henry’s favorite spot for lessons, amidst a tangle of winter-sere rosebushes and a view of the ancient stone bridge that crossed the creek to the east of Winter Cottage. A frozen crust still blanketed the creek; it was too early for the damask roses to bloom. Soon, though, they would be putting forth leaves and tiny buds. Frances rubbed one of the rosebush’s waxy stems between her fingertips. This would be the first time she saw them blossom in her new home.

Crushed stone crunched under her feet as she stepped closer, alerting Henry to her presence. “Frances. Did you say something?”

He smiled as he turned from his canvas and rubbed his arm across his forehead, shoving wind-ruffled hair out of his face. His hand bristled with paintbrushes, all stained with different oils.

“Yes. You’ve got a letter, I said.” She held out the folded missive, but he shook his head.

“Go ahead and open it. I’m still packing up from Ellery Todd’s lesson. He’s got a good eye, but no interest in learning about pigment and paint. He only wants to draw nude women.”

Frances smirked. “Would you have been any different at the age of thirteen?”

“I suppose not. I’m not much different now.”

He set the fistful of brushes down on a brightly painted orange-red baroque table, the ornate piece incongruous in this outdoor setting. “Perhaps I ought to refresh my memory. How long, do you think, has it been since I saw a nude woman? At least seven or eight hours.”

He crossed the few feet to Frances and wrapped his arm around her, pinning her arms to her side. “Mmm.” He pressed his face to her neck, inhaled. “You smell… not like turpentine. Delicious.”

She laughed. “I chose the scent just for you, you silver-tongued charmer.”

After seven months of marriage, they’d fallen into a comfortable pattern that still surprised her with its easy fit. They spent a lazy—or strenuous—morning together, then taught students each afternoon. Jem and Emily had canvassed the ton for promising young artists who needed a bit more study before haunting the Royal Academy as Henry had once done.

Considering the inconvenient location of Winter Cottage just outside London—a bumpy carriage ride back and forth, plus the lesson itself, could take a student half a day—it was surprising that Henry had as many students as he wanted and more than he could take. Knowing Emily, Frances guessed that the sociable countess had pinned down interest by embroidering Henry’s military past.

That didn’t matter, though. Once proud parents got their curiosity out of the way, they left their young artists under Henry’s tutelage because of his talent. His own painting was still shaky, but his eye for color and his patience as a teacher were unmatched.

Frances’s memory was an unqualified boon, for she taught students in the history of art, and had the pleasure of being right and giving advice every day. When not teaching, she kept everything else running smoothly: scheduling students, checking stores of paints and pigments, arranging for young Cecil Sharpton to come over from nearby Sidcup to mill paints for Henry when he was getting low.

And when life ran slowly, London was not far away. Close enough for Jem and Emily to visit. Even Caroline had come to stay once.

And Frances’s father. He’d come for Christmas, settling his rheumatic bones into a squashy armchair for several weeks and spoiling their dogs with treat after treat. The bustle of the holiday had gone a long way toward filling awkward silences and the distance of long years of separation. Frances wrote to him faithfully now. She would not be lost to him again.

Frances broke Henry’s hold around her arms and slid them around his waist, pulling his hips to hers. “Are you finished for the day? I can have one of the servants stow all of your supplies.”

He squinted in the afternoon light. Against his tanned skin, his eyes were a startling blue.

“Yes, I’ve been out here long enough. It’s chilly for March. I hadn’t noticed before.” He bumped his forehead against hers. “You must have been keeping me warm.”

“Since I was inside our house all morning while you painted with the aspiring nudist, that’s not possible.”

“Ah, but every time he asked about drawing naked women, I thought of you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just open your letter, you wicked man.”

He winked at her, then took the fat folded paper from her hand. His brows knit. “This can’t be right.”

“What is it?”

He flipped the letter to show her its reverse. “It’s the Great Seal. Why would I be getting a letter from the Prince Regent?”

“Because Emily hounded him into calling you to court?”

“She wouldn’t be so unkind.” He tucked the letter high under his right arm and cracked the seal with his left thumb. Such gestures were getting smoother, more natural as the months passed.

His sapphire-blue eyes flicked over the lines of the letter, then he raised his eyebrows and pulled his mouth down in the expression Frances thought of as well-there-it-is-then.

Sure enough. “Well. There it is, then.” He handed the letter to Frances.

She read the finely inscribed lines quickly. “They want to give you a medal?”

“Waterloo,” he murmured. “Always Waterloo.”

“They’re calling it the Waterloo Medal. But Henry, it’s for you. For the men who fought at Quatre Bras and Ligny too.”

“Then why call it a Waterloo Medal?”

She met his eyes over the thick paper. The loosened wax seal flapped in a faint breeze. “I don’t know. Maybe just because it was the last battle. Everyone was so glad when the war was over.”

He inclined his head. “That’s true. I certainly was.”

He folded over the top of the paper in Frances’s hand. “Waterloo.” He sounded amused this time, as if Waterloo were a puppy that kept yanking the draperies down in a bid for attention.

Frances squeezed his hand. “The Prince Regent might just be amusing himself with pomp or seeking to honor Wellington. But it would be impolite of you to refuse the medal. Being so close to London, we could easily journey for you to accept it in person.”

Henry groaned.

She trailed her free hand down his chest, teasing. “And if we give enough notice, Emily could plan a great ball in your honor. You could wear your medal and be the center of all attention.”

“You paint a very vivid picture, my dear wife.”

She slipped fingers between the buttons of his waistcoat. “Is it to your liking?”

“Some of it. This part.” His heartbeat thudded strong under her fingertips, and he flexed his arm to pull her fully against his body.

Frances cleared her throat, tried to summon the companion’s brisk voice. “I’m talking about London.” The crisp tone was hardly convincing.

He shook his head. “As you said, I’m just glad it’s over. I don’t need a medal. I haven’t needed one for a long time.” His fingers found hers, entwined with them. “Although I wouldn’t mind going back to London. Students would be glad to call on me in a more convenient location. I could even finish ruining Emily’s Axminster carpet with spilled paint.”

“She would love that even more than hosting a ball for you.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. When he smiled, it was bright and warm even in the bracing March air. Never that desperate, dented look anymore.