Trem huffed at the suggestion and applied a particularly blissful pressure to the sole of her foot.
“And, after all, I really am the one who seduced you.”
He slid off the chair and came to the edge of the tub.
“And how do you reason that? Is this where I am to discover that you slept with the Earl of Hartley only to get my attention?”
“I wish I could claim such genius,” she said, their faces nearly touching. “But alas I can only take credit for the robe.”
“The robe?”
“Shocking that you’ve forgotten it. That night, when you came to the door with Hartley and Drent, I was wearing a robe.”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten it. That robe nearly put an end to my reputation as a man of honor, I do believe.”
Henrietta laughed. They both knew that reputation had been quite threadbare.
“Well, I spied you and Drent dragging Hartley from the window that night. I was wearing a rather drab evening gown—so I shuffled out of that and put the robe over my chemise instead.”
“Minx,” he said, leaning in to kiss her, and the teasing of his lips sent her mind reeling into that pleasant, warm place where she could feel no shame. “Let’s remove you from this bath. I am resolved to have my way with you this evening.”
As he helped her from the bath, he said, “I must remind you, as well, that we can name at least one other couple that was also precipitate in their wedding vows.”
“Cassandra and Sebastian, certainly,” Henrietta said, as Trem wrapped her in a bath towel. “After our wedding, Cassandra told me that they couldn’t help themselves—even Mrs. Seymour looked the other way, apparently.”
“Ah, yes,” Trem said. “That we know. But I was not thinking of Cassandra and Sebastian. Nor your brother and his wife, who might have been the most prodigious premarital couplers in England, if we hadn’t snagged the title from them.”
Henrietta tutted in disgust at such a reminder.
“Rather, I was speaking of those who were allowed to shape our young minds. Mr. Foxcroft and Mrs. Morrison. How could we have known that those who lectured us so vigorously on propriety were so lacking in it themselves?”
Henrietta giggled as Trem dried her. “Well, I’m glad they were able to resolve the confusion that kept them apart for so long. To think that faulty post could have such a dramatic effect on two peoples’ lives.”
As it turned out, Mr. Foxcroft had written to Mrs. Morrison after her visit to Tremberley. But she had never received the letter. Whereas she had assumed he had never written, he had assumed she had never answered. However, while in her that had created resentment, in him it had merely resulted in melancholy.
Luckily, at their wedding, when Mr. Foxcroft had asked Mrs. Morrison why she had not responded, the matter had been cleared up. It had been cleared up so well, in fact, that by the end of Trem and Henrietta’s honeymoon, Mrs. Morrison had agreed to marry Mr. Foxcroft and come live at Tremberley Manor. Mrs. Morrison had been very content to make this alteration, especially now that Henrietta would be at Tremberley. It had felt, Mrs. Morrison told her, right in all ways.
Last summer, they had worked with Mr. Foxcroft and Mrs. Morrison to set up the renovations on the old barn to make it habitable. Trem had decided to call it The Artemis Inn and, once the renovation was done, it would be open to any woman who needed a safe haven.
When he was done drying her, Trem led Henrietta to their bed, helped her get in, and then settled down beside her. He pressed his hand to her swollen belly. Trem loved to marvel at her body and what it was doing. She loved to receive these attentions. In truth, she felt very proud that she held his babe inside of her.
Then, it occurred to her that she had heard something at tea with Cassandra today—who was nearly six months pregnant herself—that Trem would want to know. She and Cassandra saw each other almost every day when they were in London. Their first issue of The Lady’s Magazine would soon be out and neither woman could contain her excitement or her anticipatory pride. Henrietta knew that, really, they were a bit obnoxious, but they couldn’t help it.
“Did you hear the news about Hartley?”
“No,” he said, and she felt his body tense.
“Nothing to do with us,” Henrietta said, hoping to soothe him. “He married.”
After the reception, Trem and Henrietta had left for their honeymoon in Scotland, which had left the rest of the Rank Rakes to take care of Hartley. True to Trem’s word, they had sent a dispatch to his aunt, explaining the situation. She had shown up six days later to rescue her family’s putative leader from the root cellar. He had emerged from his cell, to hear Montaigne tell it, looking and smelling worse than the latter had thought humanly possible. After he and his aunt had returned to London, his family elders had demanded that he take an extended tour of the Continent. When Trem and Henrietta had returned from their honeymoon, he had already left the country.
“Who?” Trem asked.
“An heiress. Her father runs a button factory.”
“I guess she doesn’t mind a raving madman if it gets her a title. Do you think he married her for the money?”
“No,” Henrietta said, contemplating the question in earnest. “That wouldn’t be like him. He is addlepated, but romantic.”
