Page 23 of Loving a Dowager
“Mary Shelley!” Bronwyn scanned the room. “You have the book—Frankenstein?”
Of course she had a copy, along with every volume printed by Minerva Press. “Aye. I shall allow you to borrow it on one condition. That you promise to cease confusing fiction with reality.”
“I don’t believe it isIwho is confused.” Bronwyn rose from the table and padded over to the door to leave. One hand on the door handle, she turned and said, “I’ll have Morris deliver an invitation to Lady Irene and Theo for tea this afternoon—that should allow you plenty of time to dress and rejoin us in the here and now.”
Henrietta took a bite of her toast as the door clicked closed. What in tarnation was Bronwyn’s departing statement all about? Oh, her daughter-in-law was a force to be reckoned with when she chose to be. It was one of the many fine qualities Henrietta admired about Bronwyn, and an absolute requirement to have married her stubborn firstborn.
With no appetite for food, Henrietta took one last sip of tea and then shuffled back to bed and slipped between the cool sheets. All alone, the swirl of emotions that had plagued her in the early hours of the day returned. Images from the eve before taunted her. She had lain upon the settee, naked. A willing participant as all the while, Walter avoided her attempts to divest him of his clothing. He pleasured her until she was limp and fully sated and then he stopped, sensing doubts she had buried deep within. She repositioned her pillow over her head to block out the light and replayed the events of the prior evening over and over in her mind.
Walter had mentioned his promise to George to ensure her happiness. Were his attentions out of duty not desire? Attempting to reconcile memories from their childhood and the man who stirred passions within her, Henrietta let out a low growl. It was so confusing. Walter had a way of making her forget he was four years her junior. His mere presence bolstered her confidence in a way that helped her believe she could accomplish anything. An image of a younger version of Walter demanding he escort her when he discovered she planned to secretly meet George in the gray early morning light flashed behind her closed eyelids. In an odd way, it had been Walter standing guard that had given her the courage to elope and marry George. The notion had her pressing her face further into the pillow.
Marrying George had meant she escaped the scrutinizing eyes of matrons who each season determined a lady’s success or failure on the marriage mart. Her elopement also introduced her into a world of clandestine investigations and mysteries. Together, she and George had assisted in monitoring the activities of gentry and of the Network to ensure the preservation of the secret of PORFs’ existence. George had given her access to a life she never could have imagined for herself. But last night she realized the effect Walter had upon her heart and soul—with him she was whole, not lacking in any manner. Walter’s selflessness was pure. His love was unconditional.
Suffocating, Henrietta pushed the pillow aside and rolled over to her side. She skimmed her palm over the empty section of the bed—the space George had occupied throughout their marriage. Eyes closed, she pictured George, his lips always on tilt, ready with a quip to make her smile. A week prior to his death, he had cupped her cheek, and with seriousness he’d only displayed once before when he asked for her hand, the blasted man told her that she was still young and as a widow she should take full advantage of the liberties she was allowed as such.
Until now, she’d not given a second thought to George’s words. Preoccupied with raising their boys, there was no time for flirting or liaisons. She ran her hand over her tender nipples that Walter had grazed with his teeth over and over. The glorious physical sensations Walter had evoked, ones she hadn’t experienced in years, were nothing compared to the empowerment he unleashed within her. George had wanted her to be happy. Walter was a good man, a man George trusted with secrets he shouldn’t have shared.
None of that changed the fact that Walter was four years her junior and sought after by others, including her close friend Bertha.
Chapter Thirteen
Pacing, hands firmly clenched behind his back in front of George’s gravesite, Walter muttered, “Why did you make me promise?”
He wanted to rail at the dead man. George had known how much Walter cared for Henrietta. The man had even proposed the preposterous idea of Walter joining them in the sanctity of their bedroom when Walter had come of age. When Walter had laughed at the suggestion, George had smiled and never made mention of it again. He knew George to be a free thinker, but Walter would never touch another man’s wife—at least as long as the man was alive. Oh, he was no innocent. He was fully aware that couples engaged in many and varied activities. The truth was, he was selfish. He wanted Henrietta all to himself. The memory of Henrietta coming undone as he laved at her core stalled his movements.
Walter stood there staring at the tombstone of his dearest secret friend. “Why did you not caution me of the dangers? Of the mystifying emotions that would ensue?”
Last night he had been imminently close to having his dreams of holding the woman his heart ached for all these years in his arms, but the ghost of a dead man had come between them once more. “I’ve tried to honor your memory and fulfill my promise to make her happy. But I’m at a loss as to how I can best satisfy everyone’s wants—including my own. George. Forgive me.”
The crunch of leaves halted his rant. Walter swung around to see who was approaching. The same lady in disguise as the local flower girl. She wore the same clean gray dress that peeked from beneath a great coat as she marched towards him.
Head bent with her hood pulled down low to mask her features, she stopped a foot away. “Me lord.” She dipped, not quite a curtsy and not quite balanced. “Pardon fer interruptin’.”
“I suppose you’ve come to claim the blunt I owe you.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crown and rolled it between his fingers. “Except you don’t need it, do you, my lady?”
The woman rolled back onto her heels. “Sumfin’ wrong with yer eyes, me lord?”
“I think not.” He took a step toward her and she mirrored his forward movement backward.
Upon a huff, she pushed back her hood.
“Lady Archbroke!”
“Pfft. Don’t act surprised. You are the first and only to have questioned me to date. Pray tell, what was it that led you to question my identity?”
“Lorna has been selling me flowers for years. While you mimicked her tone and cant extremely well, your soft skin and lack of grime under your nails and upon your skirts were clues to your real identity.”
“My thanks. I shall have to endeavor to remember those items for the future.”
“You think Lord Archbroke will continue to endorse such behavior after you begin to fill your nursery?”
“He’s none the wiser at present, and I wish for that to continue. Landon assured me should you discover my identity I could trust you keep it a secret that I’ve yet to cease partaking in the occasional undercover activity.”
“You are a Neale. I’d expect no less from you.” He offered his arm, and she looped hers through his. “Why are you here today?”
“Landon suggested you might care for some company. Insinuated you had a complex matter that I might be able to assist with.”
“Is that so?”
