Page 90 of Why Do Earls Fall in Love?
Reaching down, he adjusted her again, just the slightest bit. “Now move, Charlotte. See how it feels.”
She did as he asked, and her head snapped up. An astonishing ripple of pleasure went through her. Experimentally, she moved again. A little faster. A little more forcefully.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Ride me, Charlotte. Take your pleasure.”
She did just that, bracing her hands on his chest as she thrust and rolled and ground against him, in all the ways that her body demanded. The beauty of it was that she pleased him even as she pleased herself. He felt huge inside of her and she was tight and hot and wet around him. They rocked together, climbed higher, reaching—and it came. Her inner muscles pulsed, and he thrust high and hard against her. They rode the wave together, on and on, until with a last, helpless shiver, she collapsed against him.
He shifted her and they lay entwined, exhausted and replete. Charlotte thought she might have dozed a little, but she woke with her head on his shoulder and his finger caressing her arm in lazy circles.
“Do you remember when you asked me about Monkford?” he asked softly.
“Hmm?” Her head was still fuzzy with the aftermath of passion. Yawning, she snuggled in closer. “Monkford?” She had to think for a moment. “Your estate?”
“Yes. Leave it to old Lady Chester to figure out what I’m doing there. The sly, old meddler,” he said affectionately. “But I’d like to tell you about it.”
She was awake now. Leaning back, she looked up into his face.
“About what you are doing there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now I am awake—and curious. Tell me.”
He looked up at the ceiling. “It’s nothing, really. It started out just a small thing. It’s growing now, though. It’s almost become an enterprise.”
“What is? You are torturing me, Gabriel!”
He grinned, and was that a hint ofbashfulnesson his face?
“It started when Chapman and I found the first refugee.”
“Yes?”
“He was not a French aristocrat. He was a farmer, actually, but he had worked on the royal properties. Someone named him a traitor to France, though, and well, that’s all it took for a death sentence in those dark days.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Monsieur Montespan did not fare well in England. We found him in a parish workhouse, starving and nearly dead. Chapman and I managed to nurse him back to health, but I didn’t know what to do with him. He’d had a gold ring stolen, but returning its value was not enough to accomplish much, and he refused further charity.”
“What did you do?”
“I got the idea from Keswick. He had bought an estate for himself and was making a tremendous success of it. I already had Monkford, and it was lying there, doing nothing much, barely making enough to pay for itself. It needed attention. Montespan needed a job. I spoke to him about the work he’d done on the royal farms. He’d helped develop a specific breed of sheep—the Rambouillet. They were developed to be a larger breed, with significantly longer and softer fleece. They are also prized for their meat. We came up with the idea to start a flock at Monkford.”
“Oh, well, that makes sense.”
“Montespan didn’t have a family, but he knew others like him, those who hadn’t adapted well to life in England and hadn’t been able to go home, after the war. He brought in a few of them. I’ve added a couple more refugees, as well. Notably, a noblewoman who had run a seamstress shop after she relocated. Her eyes are not good enough for fine needlework anymore, but she’s at Monkford now, working on creating a new blend of fabric. Something about a warp of cotton and a weft of wool? Or something similar.”
“How wonderful.”
“There were always a few people at Broadscombe who were not happy there, those who had run afoul of my father, or tangled with the Hurleys. I sent a few of them to Monkford, too. And now, the herd is growing well. We have a few contracts for mutton and lamb as well as markets for the wool. It’s become a busy, happy place.”
She beamed at him. “I’m so impressed, Gabriel. You’ve given people a home and a purpose together. And it sounds as if it has room to welcome all sorts. You must be proud of the work you’ve done. But I don’t understand why you’ve been secretive about it. Why were you reluctant to tell me before?”
He shifted further onto his side, reached up and began to wind a lock of her hair around his finger. “I don’t know. It’s just easier to let everyone think ill of me.”
She sat up on one elbow. “Gabriel! No one thinks ill of you.” She made a face. “Well, perhaps your father, but we know what his opinion is worth. Surely no one else, though.”
He snorted. “Just ask anyone in society.”
