His war injuries had been slight: a piece of shrapnel lodged in his thigh from cannon misfire, a scar on his right knee from a bad landing. Memories that never left him.
In the next few days, he’d have something on which to concentrate, an occupation bridging his past and present. He needed something familiar, and his airships would provide that.
As he stood staring at the main part of the structure, lights greeted him from the family wing. He knew Veronica was still awake.
A silhouette stood at the window. Could she see him? If she did, what did she think about the strange American she’d married? Should he confess to her that he was still angry about their marriage? That he’d not wanted to be her savior and had become so reluctantly? What would Veronica say if he told her she annoyed him, confused him, and intrigued him too much for his peace of mind?
He could still feel her on his palms and the tips of his fingers, hear her soft moans, see the shocked awareness in her eyes as her body climaxed.
In her arms, he’d found intense pleasure.
Only a fool would resent that.
A few minutes later, he entered the house, took the stairs two at a time to his bedroom, passed through the lavatory to the sitting room, and opened the connecting door.
Veronica was standing there, still staring out at the night, a look he couldn’t quite decipher on her face.
“I thought you’d be asleep,” he said, walking toward her.
She turned to face him.
“I was waiting for you,” she said, surprising him. “Have you been walking the grounds?”
He nodded.
She didn’t ask what made him so restless, only reached out her hand to touch his arm. A gentle, wifely touch, one of reassurance and comfort. She’d done the same earlier, when he felt as if he were being pummeled by memory.
As he looked into her eyes, he wondered what, exactly, she felt from him. If he believed in such things.
He reached down and picked up her left hand. The back of her hand was soft, the tips of her fingers rough. Surprised, heexamined her palm, and when she curled her fingers rather than allow him to see, he pulled her hand back.
“Why do you have scars on your hand?”
She looked away, and when he tried to uncurl her fingers, she pulled them back, wrapping her arms around her waist.
“Veronica,” he said gently. “It doesn’t matter to me. I merely wanted to know how you hurt yourself.”
She glanced quickly at him, then away, but didn’t answer.
He placed his hands on her arms, rubbed them slowly up and down, then gently pulled her into his embrace. Reluctantly, it seemed, she sighed and laid her head on his shoulder.
Surprisingly, he felt the cold hard center, that had been there since first viewing Doncaster Hall, begin to melt. Maybe this was what he needed, communion with another human being, the ability to touch someone, to feel her warmth.
Her breath tickled his neck, and he smiled. He turned his head a little, and kissed her forehead, the softness of her skin an attraction for his lips. His mouth trailed down her nose, over the edge of her jaw, and up to her temple.
His hands flattened on her back as she wound her arms around his waist, anchoring him there. He closed his eyes, breathing the scent of Veronica: warm woman and roses. Comfort and welcome, soft curves and passion: a lure he didn’t want to ignore.
He released her from his embrace, but only enough to unfasten the buttons at her cuffs. She didn’t speak, didn’t question his actions. Slowly, he began to unbutton her bodice. Her eyes followed his progress, but she remained silent. He pulled her bodice free of her waistband and began to work on her skirt.
She stood, completely proper, yet about to become unveiled an inch at a time. Her bodice was open, but only a small squareof skin was revealed. He bent to kiss that spot above her corset, feeling the increased pulse rate.
Although he would have liked to continue kissing his way down her body, he attended to his task, that of loosening the waistband of her skirt and freeing the tapes of her petticoat and hoops. If he’d been profligate, he would have simply sliced through them with a knife. He gave more than a passing thought to doing just that, with the reasoning he was wealthy again. What was money for if not to use it to one’s advantage? He could certainly afford a few dozen petticoats and hoops, but just as he was at the point of leaving her in search of a knife, the knot loosened in his fingers. Slowly, he allowed the hoops and petticoats to drift to the floor, along with Veronica’s skirt.
He slipped the bodice from her shoulders and watched as it slid down her arms, the material catching on her elbows. With a shake, Veronica loosened it, and it fell to the floor.
She was a Botticelli Venus. Instead of emerging naked from a shell, she stood straight, clad in her corset, shift, pantaloons, and stockings.
“Women wear entirely too many clothes,” he said.
