“Every night?”
“Not the mornings, too?”
He was teasing her. Teasing from Oliver Hartwell was as intimate as having him inside her.
“The mornings, too. I’m very desirous of my husband, you see, and I need to be satisfied.”
“Or?”
“Or nothing. I’m your wife, no matter what.”
“I will do my best. But don’t forget, you married an old man.”
“I married anolderman. Who has already given me my first son, the dearest boy in the whole world. Who has cared for me with a great deal of tenderness. But now . . .”
“Now?”
“Now, I’m ready for passion.”
“I can’t still care for you tenderly, Mrs. Hartwell?”
She reached up and stroked the lock over his forehead and wound it around her finger before tugging on it. “I will insist on it, Mr. Hartwell.”
Nineteen
It was the best night of not sleeping Oliver had ever had. They passed the hours talking and touching and kissing. At times, the kissing and touching took on an urgency and moved one or the other of them to climax—more often Henrietta than Oliver, since, after all, she was younger and he owed her all the pleasure she could demand from him. But, still, he was astonished by his own seemingly insatiable desire for her and her beauty.
The generosity of her loving spirit was matched in the generosity of her body. Her heavy, full breasts threatened to overflow his hands even as her oh-so sensitive dark-rose nipples hardened under his tongue. The heft of her tall, thick legs. Juicy, plump buttocks that made his mouth salivate. The velvety folds of skin and deep creases on her flanks. Her round belly curving down to her succulent quim.
And everything, everywhere, was all sweetly scented softness. All woman. His woman.
After he had found his fourth release of the night, she laughed. “You see? You’re not an old man.”
No, he wasn’t. She made him young again. In fact, tonight he felt younger than he had ever felt in his actual youth.
Just before dawn, Henrietta sat up and wove her fingers through his.
“I want to show you something wonderful. Something I did. We must get out of bed and get dressed.”
He obeyed her. He would always do anything she asked of him. Even though he thought they should never leave this bed and she should never again wear any clothes, existing always in a state of bare beauteousness.
He dressed and she put on her riding habit and he helped her, but he was so drunk on lust and affection, he did not think about what might happen next.
She took him out to the stables. One groom was already awake, checking on the horses.
“Will you get the saddle, Fenton? You know the one I mean.” She winked.
“It’s time to show your mister what you can do, eh?” The groom grinned.
It was a strange looking thing Fenton brought out from the harness room. Somewhat like a normal sidesaddle but with a horn, sticking out the side and curved downwards.
He watched the groom and Henrietta put it on Zephyr.
“What’s the extra horn for?”
She raised her eyebrows. “You’ll see. Get your own horse saddled.”
Henrietta was on Zephyr and waiting for him in the muddy stable-yard when he came out on his own mount. The sky had turned rosy with the dawn, as rosy as Henrietta’s skin after she had experienced the heights of pleasure. He knew that now, and it gave him a proud and proprietary warmth in the middle of his chest.
