“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Oliver!”
He allowed himself to take one hand off the crumpled newspaper in his lap and pat her back lightly, tentatively.
“You’re welcome.” He swallowed, committing this embrace to his memory, adding it to his catalogue of her caresses. “Henrietta.”
She pulled back slightly, her eyes enormous with delight, her arms still resting on his shoulders. “You’re the dearest husband in the whole world.”
“At Crossthwaite, certainly,” he said and raised his eyebrows. Her puffery embarrassed him, especially when he knew he wasn’t anything like a real husband to her.
But she didn’t smile or laugh at his deflection. She just shook her head.
“Oliver Hartwell, when are you going to realize Crossthwaiteisthe whole world to me?”
A moment came and went when he could have leaned forward and kissed her lips. But it was not for him to do that. He had done that once and ruined her life.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth and he felt a throb in his cock at the thought that she might kisshim.
Kiss me, he willed her.I could live happily, forever, on just one more kiss.Kiss me.
She did not. She withdrew her arms and went back to her chair, settling to her embroidery in a most industrious manner, avoiding his eyes.
Would she ever feel anything for him beyond companionship?
No. He was too old, and even when he had been younger, he had not been a man who inspired passion in women. Certainly not in a beautiful woman like Henrietta who should have married a prince or an heir to a dukedom or, at the very least, a man closer to her own age. A happy man. One without his scars. One who knew how to give and receive love.
He must remember Henrietta was just a remarkably caring and affectionate person and as her husband, he was lucky enough to receive some of that care and affection. That was all.
Why then did he still long for more?
From the grave, a wrathful Violet answered him, her words stabbing at what remained of his heart.
Because you’re a filthy beast, Oliver Hartwell.
Thirteen
June. 1819.
One fine summer morning, Oliver took a jaunt. Every month or so, he would set out with his drawing tools, his viameter, and explore a new patch of land, taking notes and sketching in preparation for adding the area to his map.
To his great joy, Henrietta had come along several times, and now she asked if Nathaniel could come, as well.
“I’ll keep Nathaniel diverted, so you can do your work,” she assured him.
It wasn’t work for Oliver, but he liked that she thought of his map making as a serious undertaking.
All three of them rode out in the brake with several large baskets packed into the back. Nathaniel sat between his father and Henrietta, occasionally bouncing with excitement.
Once at the chosen spot, Oliver walked and measured and sketched the view from the high meadow while Henrietta and Nathaniel played with the shuttlecock and battledores, even at times using one of the ancient dry stone walls as a separation between them to bat the shuttlecock back and forth.
After a while, Nathaniel asked Henrietta for the butterfly net she had fashioned for him. He leapt and ran and swoopedthe net with precision and caught butterfly after butterfly with astonishing ease. All of which he let go.
The day had started off cloudless, but suddenly the sun dimmed and a light rain began to fall. Henrietta laughed when a particularly large drop hit her nose with a splash, but Nathaniel scowled, saying he couldn’t catch butterflies in the rain.
“Let’s have our picnic under that tree, then,” Henrietta said, picking up the baskets.
“I have a better idea,” Oliver said.
The horse had been unharnessed from the brake and was tethered to the ground nearby, grazing, undisturbed by the rain. Oliver got on his hands and knees and went under the brake and spread the picnic blanket on the dry grass there.
