She drank him in. He had wrapped a blanket about his hips, and his chest was bare, his hair loose. He would have been at home on the bow of a Viking ship. But instead of a fearsome blade cradled in his hands, he held…breakfast?
She blinked. “You cook?”
He smiled sheepishly at her. “Not well. But enough to survive on.”
She grinned, lurching to her knees on the soft mattress. Only realizing when his eyes dropped to her chest and turned molten that the sheet had slipped to reveal her breasts.
“Then again,” he murmured, “I do believe eating is overrated.”
Which was just fine with Lenora. The next hour was spent quite happily pursuing activities other than food. Finally, spent, ravenous, they pushed aside the tangled sheets and brought the tray onto the happily rumpled bed.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” Lenora said around a mouthful of eggs—cold after their interlude but delicious nonetheless.
Peter grinned. His smile quickly turned to something wicked, however, when she bit into a piece of buttered bread and let out a low moan. “You’d best not make that sound, love, or the food shall have to be put aside again.”
She laughed, and they ate in companionable silence. Finally the last morsel had been devoured and they lay back in each other’s arms.
His hand stroked over her hip languidly. “I saw your painting.”
Lenora trailed her fingers through the pale gold hair dusting his broad chest. “Did you?” she murmured.
He nodded, his beard rasping in her hair. “It’s beautiful. And the other sketches, the ones laid out on the table…they’re incredible, Lenora.”
These were no mere words. This man, who so often hid his feelings behind a stoic mask, was trying to convey to her the importance of what her art meant to him. She rose up on one elbow, gazing down into his face. “You helped me unleash that part of myself, you know.”
He flushed, tried looking away. She put her hand on his face, brought his gaze back to hers.
“It’s the truth. You were right, when we fought before you left. I did try to bury anything that gave me happiness, including my talent. I didn’t believe I deserved it.” She took a deep breath. “You helped me to see that the good in life is worth the pain of the bad. And that I should embrace both. Otherwise I’m not living.”
His hand came up, the rough calloused palm cupping her cheek with infinite gentleness.
“I was no better,” he admitted. “I clung to my pain, let it drive me, until it was all that I was. Not realizing that it was a life, but no way to live.” He smiled, his eyes shimmering. “You made me see that, Lenora. You gave me peace, and happiness.” His throat worked as he swallowed hard, his voice gruff as he said, “A day will not go by that you will not know how much I love you, Lenora.”
Tears blurred her vision. “I love you, Peter,” she whispered. As their lips met, she wove her fingers with his, as surely as their hearts were bound.
Epilogue
Lenora rinsed her brush out in the water, the tinkle of the wood handle on the glass a beautiful accompaniment to the faint pianoforte music playing in the distance. It had taken time for the atmosphere at Danesford to lighten again after the duke’s passing. Yet now the laughter and happiness that rang through its halls were natural, lovely things, sweet memories beginning to take the place of their grief.
Focusing again on the work before her, Lenora turned to her paints. A quick dab of blue, a hint of purple, a splash of green, and she swept the bristles across the page, melding and combining in a rich medley of hues. Another rinse, and this time she worked the naked brush through the still wet paint, lifting and blending until the depth was just right.
She lowered her hand, tilted her head, looking over the newest portion. Yes, that was it exactly. Already thinking of the next section to tackle, she dipped her brush again into the water—and stilled as a pair of warm, firm lips found the nape of her neck.
She smiled, embracing the arms that stole around her waist, and leaned into the solid wall of chest at her back. Then, with an impish grin, she asked with coy innocence, “Who is it?”
He growled, giving the sensitive skin under her ear a playful nip. “You know well and good who it is, wife.”
She giggled, then sighed as his clever lips did wonderful things to the side of her neck. “And how was your lunch with Mr. Tunley?”
“Wonderful,” he murmured against her skin. “He had the most ingenious idea for a mill, one that would revolutionize weaving techniques. I recall seeing something similar during my time in Boston. It could prove to be quite lucrative and would bring an amazing increase in revenue for the Isle.”
Lenora fought to focus on Peter’s words as his lips continued to play along the side of her neck, amazed that he could make something so dry sound so very seductive. Just as she was thinking of ways she could coerce him into an interlude on the small couch that graced the corner of her studio, he raised his head. “Nearly finished with Mrs. Harris’s painting, I see.”
“Yes.” She studied the watercolor critically. A fae creature, ethereal and delicate, sat at the pond’s edge, dipping her fingers in the water. About her, branches reached for the heavens, mist swirled, and small creatures peered out from the leaves. “I do hope she likes it. I admit, I did not expect such paintings to become so popular.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Peter murmured, his arms tightening about her midsection. “You have an uncommon talent, and people could not fail to be charmed by your work.”
She flushed, pleased beyond words by his defense of her. Even so, she could not help saying, “It is certainly not Royal Academy worthy, though.”
