“I know.”
“Bolton hasn’t just threatened my reputation,” she said, her voice wavering for the first time. “That I could have lived with. But he has prevented me from ever claiming my paintings. I can never display them again—I will never be able to paint portraits without someone connecting me to Bolton’s work. If we were strangers with similar styles, perhaps . . . But I’m his wife. His widow. And even now he’s dead, he’s standing in the way of the future I always wanted.”
“Louisa,” Henry murmured, rolling and scooping her more firmly against him. Her face pressed against his shoulder, and for the first time in nine years, she allowed herself to cry in front of another person. Bolton did not deserve her tears or her grief—he deserved to be forgotten somewhere small and insignificant—but this was her future and her life, and he had ruined it. Even without Knight. She could paint, yes, but she would never be remembered through her art the way she had dreamed of as a girl.
Henry’s hand cupped the back of her head, and he held her as though she were a gift, something inexpressibly precious to him.
“It was the only thing I ever wanted,” she whispered against the skin of his neck. “And he took it from me.”
Henry leant back, a finger under her chin as he tilted her face to meet his. His eyes were dark, beautiful, the night sky after rain, and that was all the warning she had before he reached forward and kissed her. Sweetly, softly, her tears salty against his lips. The hand on her hip skimmed up her body to her jaw, and he cradled her. Most of the men who had her naked in their beds were interested in nothing more than what she could offer them—understandable, given the transactional nature of their relationships. But she had missed this, the sense of being special and wanted for more than her soft skin and supple curves.
“You deserved so much better than you received,” he said, pressing kisses to her jaw, her cheek, her forehead, her temple, the tip of her nose. “Forgive me, Louisa.”
It was not wholly his fault.
She could not separate her fate from his rejection.
The conflicting emotions rang through her like a gong. She could not forgive him; she wanted him.
Desire was enough.Would beenough.
“Think of him no more,” she said, and licked his bottom lip. His breath caught. “Think only of me.”
“If you would like to—”
“No.” This, she was certain of. “No more talking.”
His nose nudged along her cheekbone, and he kissed the shell of her ear. “Very well,” he said, voice deeper and rougher now,lust darkening every last shade of him. “Last time, I did not conduct myself admirably. Allow me to acquit myself.”
“You need only take me,” she said in answer, and tugged his cravat free.
They moved as though they were in a dream, as if they could sense time’s impatience. And yet, as his hands traced her skin once again, callouses scraping, there was a languidness to his movements.
This time, she undressed him. First came his shirt. Then his breeches. She rose, tossing her hair across her shoulder, and crossed the room to the bucket of water that had been left there. Wetting a cloth, she returned to the bed and washed him. His eyes were on her the whole time, watching with heavy-lidded heat, and when she was done, he waited as she lay back and held out her arms for him. Then, he came to her readily, his weight pressing her into the bed.
“We do not have to,” she said, but he silenced her with a kiss.
“I want to.”
“Good,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. He frowned down at her, though the force of holding back seemed to be causing him physical pain.
“Is there something I should do for you? To prepare you?”
Tenderness bloomed in her chest, a feeling that was so akin to love, she might have panicked had she not been feeling so loose and relaxed, so open. Half smiling, she shook her head. “Usually yes, but now—I’m ready for you. I want you.” Reaching a hand between their bodies, she guided him to her entrance. The tight throb of anticipation turned liquid as he pressed, and she opened underneath him.
His eyes fluttered shut, and he groaned, throat working. Louisa stared up at him, marking the play of pleasure across his face, the way his expression turned lax and soft. His body was delightfully hard against hers, the soft hair on his chest theperfect friction against her nipples. She arched her back into him, and he sank the remainder of the way inside her.
Fullness. A sense of completeness. The intensity of it was frightening, joyful, utterly overwhelming. She knew she should not be feeling this way, like a maiden helplessly in love with her seducer. Like an innocent capable of being hurt again.
His head dropped against her shoulder, and she tightened her arms, holding him close, her doubts aside.
“A moment,” he mumbled against her skin, and when she ran her hands along his back, she could feel how tightly wound he was. “I just need—”
“Shh.” She pressed her mouth against his shoulder, almost as dazed and overwhelmed as he was. “It’s all right.”
“I want to—” His teeth grazed her burning skin, and she nodded, understanding.
“It’s like that, sometimes,” she said, even though this hunger, this urge to consume, as though they could dig under each other’s skin to become one, was new for her as well. None of her previous lovers had ever made her feel as though something missing had slotted into place. A sense of rightness thrilled down to her bones, only deepening when he rocked inside her.
