The Masque of the Black Tulip

Chapter Thirty

"The threshold appears to be closed," pointed out Henrietta. "So little faith," complained Miles. "Watch and learn."

"If you even think of using me as a battering ram…" warned Henrietta, as Miles lifted a booted foot and rammed it hard against the door.

On the third kick, the door flew open, propelled by an indignant individual with white hair growing in tufts from either side of his forehead like the horns of an untidy devil.

"In civilized establishments," he began strongly, chest puffing out to alarming proportions, before registering the identity of the heedless hoodlum who had been battering at the hallowed portals of Loring House. Henrietta, held horizontal at just that level, watched with fascination as the irate personage's chest abrupdy deflated. "Master Miles! Master Miles?"

The butler's eyes flew from Miles to Henrietta and back to Miles in a state of evident alarm. The Loyal Retainer's Guide to Better Buttling, while excellent with regard to tips for polishing silver and removing the cloaks of foreign dignitaries, was highly unclear as to the proper protocol for receiving prodigal sons and prone women.

"Hullo, Stwyth," said Miles exuberantly, not in the least bit daunted. Henrietta resisted the urge to hide under his cravat. "This is your new mistress, Lady Henrietta."

Henrietta gave a sheepish little wave as Miles bore her triumphantly across the threshold beneath the nose of the flabbergasted butler.

"Stwyth?" she whispered to Miles.

"He's from Wales," Miles whispered back. "They haven't discovered vowels yet."

"My lady," stuttered Stwyth. "Sir. We weren't informed of your arrival. Your rooms… the house… we didn't know…"

"That's all right, Stwyth. Neither did I," Miles tossed back nonchalantly over his shoulder as he strode towards the stairs. "But we'll be staying here from now on."

The butler hastily gathered the tattered shreds of his composure, drawing himself up to his full height, which was somewhat shorter than Henrietta's, or what Henrietta's would have been, had she not been dangling several feet off the ground. Henrietta tried to remedy that fact by dint of rolling sideways, but Miles held firm.

"May I say, sir, on behalf of the entire staff," announced Stwyth, trotting along behind, "how delighted we are that you have finally decided to make your home at Loring House."

"You may," acceded Miles, starting up the stairs, Henrietta squished firmly against his chest, "but preferably some other time. You can go, Stwyth. Go…" What did butlers do when they weren't opening doors? "Go buttle."

Under the crook of Miles's arm, Henrietta saw Stwyth's rigid features curve into what, in a lesser mortal, would have been a grin.

"Indeed, sir," he intoned, and bowed himself hastily out of the hall.

Henrietta turned bright red and banged her head against Miles's cravat. "Oh dear," she moaned. "He knows."

"Hen?" Miles jiggled her to make her look up. "We're married. It's allowed."

"I still don't really feel married," admitted Henrietta.

"We can work on that," said Miles, kicking open a door at the head of the stairs. "In fact, we will definitely work on that."

The door opened onto a small room furnished with a writing desk and several delicate chairs. It was hard to tell what else the room might contain, because the drapes were drawn, and most of the furniture shrouded in Holland covers to protect against dust and the ravages of time.

Miles backed out again. "Damn. Wrong room."

"Shouldn't you put me down?" asked Henrietta plaintively, as her dangling feet narrowly escaped amputation on the door frame.

"Only" — Miles leered dramatically down at her — "once I've found a bed."

Just in case she had any ideas of escaping, Miles boosted her higher into the air. Henrietta let out a squeal of protest and clasped her arms more firmly around his neck. "Don't drop me!" she demanded, laughing.

"That's more like it," said Miles with great satisfaction, hefting her happily in his arms. His voice softened. "I like it when you laugh."

Something in his expression made Henrietta's throat tighten. "With you, or at you?" she quipped uneasily.

"Near me," Miles said, tightening his hold on her. He rubbed his cheek against her hair. "Definitely near me."

"I think that could be arranged," Henrietta managed, doing her utmost to refrain from blurting out embarrassing declarations of love that could only alarm Miles and put an end to their precarious entente.

"I think it already has been," Miles countered, striding down the hall. "Or didn't you hear that bit this morning?"

"I was a bit distracted."

Miles sobered. "I noticed. But," he said firmly, stopping in front of a door at the end of the hall, "we are not going to think about any of that tonight. Tonight, there is just us. No French spies, no angry relatives. Agreed?"

Henrietta was quite sure there was a flaw in that plan somewhere, a rather large flaw, having to do with someone chasing them while hurling bullets in their direction, but it was very hard to think logically when Miles looked at her like that, his brown eyes intent on hers. He was so close that she could see the little crinkles at the sides of his eyes, crinkled caused by a lifetime of smiles, and the darker hue of his hair near the brow where the sun hadn't touched it.

"Do I have any choice in the matter?" asked Henrietta with mock solemnity, wishing her voice didn't sound quite so breathless.

"You did promise to obey." Miles tipped her towards the doorknob. "Would you mind getting that, please? My hands are full."

"I'm not sure I would exactly call that a promise," Henrietta hedged, obediently leaning over and turning the doorknob. "It was really more of a… um…"

"Promise," reiterated Miles smugly, shouldering open the door and edging sideways into the room. It smelt of dust and disuse, but in the light from the hallway, he could see that it contained the crucial item: a bed.

"Strongly worded suggestion," Henrietta finished triumphantly, tipping her face up towards his, with an expression that dared him to try to top that.

"So what you're saying," said Miles, with a mischievous glint in his eye that Henrietta knew of old, combined with something new and infinitely more unsettling, "is that I have to find other ways of making you cooperate."

"Ye-es," said Henrietta, noticing slightly uneasily that they were rapidly approaching the bed. Beds and wedding nights did tend to go together. She tried to look as though being borne off to a very large bed were a commonplace occurrence.

Which, she thought with a slight pang of jealousy, for the marquise it probably was. Whether the marquise had been borne off by Miles was too distressing a question for Henrietta to consider.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked instead.

"This," said Miles, and kissed her before she could say anything else, kicking the door closed behind them.

As a technique for inducing cooperation, it had much to recommend it. By the time Miles lifted his mouth from hers, Henrietta was having a very hard time remembering what they had been sparring about in the first place. She wasn't even entirely sure about her own name.

"But…" she began dazedly, since Miles couldn't be allowed to have the last word — or the last kiss.

Miles grinned roguishly. "Not convinced yet?" he asked rhetorically, and kissed her again, a kiss that made its predecessor feel like a discreet peck in a drawing room. His arms were warm and tight around her, pressing her so closely that Henrietta lost all sense of where her body left off and his began. The rising heat between them burned layers of clothes into nothingness. Henrietta's senses were filled with Miles; the scent of his hair and his skin, the sensation of his tongue filling her mouth, sealing her lips to his, the press of his waistcoat buttons against her side, and the prickle of his hair beneath her fingers, all melded into a complete cosmos, a world where nothing existed but the unit formed by their joined lips, hands, bodies. The room tilted and swayed, like a planet spinning on an astronomer's model.

Henrietta made a muffled noise as her back connected forcefully with something soft and springy, followed by something large and heavy landing on top of her. It abruptly dawned on her that the falling sensation had been more than the effect of Miles's kisses.

"Mmmph!" protested Henrietta, poking at the large lump on top of her. Not being able to breathe while Miles was kissing her was one thing, having all the air forcibly squashed out of her quite another.

The large lump rolled onto his side, taking her with him. "Sorry," he whispered into her ear, his breath reawakening all the nerves that had been squashed into silence with her precipitous descent to the bed. "I tripped."

"I noticed," replied Henrietta, although she was having trouble noticing much of anything at all as Miles pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat.

"Did you?" It was clear Miles's mind was not on the conversation either, as his lips trailed down her collarbone, to the bodice of her dress, which was obligingly drooping far below where it ought to be. His teeth nipped at the edge of her bodice, which obediently slipped another crucial inch. Momentarily distracted, Henrietta realized that the shivers down her spine were caused by more than the sensation of Miles's breath against bare skin. At some point, the long row of buttons that had fastened her twill traveling dress had been deftly undone.

Henrietta's chin dropped sharply down, nearly banging Miles on the head.

"How did you do that?" she asked incredulously. "I never even noticed."

Miles freed her arms from the dress with an expert tug. Henrietta made an automatic grab for the fabric as her bodice plunged to her waist, but Miles grabbed her hands, lifting them one by one to his lips. "I have many talents of which you know nothing — yet," he added meaningfully.

"Evidently," said Henrietta bemusedly, as the rest of her dress followed her bodice.

"Absolutely." The pile of fabric landed with a dusty thump by the side of the bed.

Henrietta propped herself up on an elbow, resisting the urge to dive under the covers. Clad only in her chemise, her arms felt very bare. "Have you ever considered a career as a lady's maid?"

"I'm better at the undressing bit" — Miles yanked his shirt over his head, revealing a very impressive expanse of chest — "than the dressing."

"Hmm," said Henrietta, watching the ripple of muscles along Miles's chest as he tugged the sleeves from his arms. She wasn't going to think about the women he had undressed in the past. They were in the past. Gone. Finished.

And Henrietta was seized with a determination to make quite sure there was never another. He was hers now, all hers, and even if he hadn't married her for love, well, there was nothing that said she couldn't do her best to seduce him, was there? Even if she had no idea how to go about it. Even Cleopatra had had to start somewhere.

Tentatively, Henrietta placed a hand on Miles's chest, fascinated by the way the muscles contracted in response. She ran her hands up to his shoulders, tilting her head back so that her hair flowed over her shoulders. It felt oddly sensual against her almost bare back, and she swished it back and forth.

"Hen," whispered Miles, staring at her transfixed, in a way that made Henrietta feel lithe and beautiful and bold.

"Hello," she said softly, tracing the line of hair on his chest down until she encountered the waistband of his breeches.

"Hello to you, too," gasped Miles, grabbing her hands before she could go further. Lifting them over her head, he leaned in for a long kiss, trying to bring his raging passions under control. His body, unfortunately, had other ideas.

He wanted to jump up and down and shout, "Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!" but since he had the sense to realize that might alarm Henrietta — and overset the ancient bedstead — he rendered his message in a more subtle way, running a ringer down the strap of her chemise until it slid down her shoulder. She shivered, looking up at him with wide, unfocused eyes.

Miles decided subtlety was highly overrated.

"You," pronounced Miles, "are wearing too many clothes." Grabbing the thin fabric in both hands, he tugged. Rüüüip. The chemise parted jaggedly down the middle.

"Miles!" gasped Henrietta.

"I'll buy you another," said Miles thickly, cupping her breasts in his hands. "Just not now," he added, as his head lowered to her chest. "Maybe next week."

For once, Henrietta was in no condition to argue. The sensation of Miles's tongue teasing her nipple wiped out coherent thought, and what would undoubtedly have been a highly witty rejoinder turned instead into an inarticulate gasp, as her ringers threaded through his hair, instinctively drawing his head closer. His lips tightened, tugged, sending shivers of sensation rolling straight down to Henrietta's toes.

Together, they sank back into the ancient mattress, arms locked around each other, bodies fitting perfectly together. Feeling wonderfully wanton, Henrietta pressed closer to him, sensing more than hearing him groan as she brushed against the bulge in his breeches. Emboldened, she wiggled against him, enjoying the way his breath speeded in her ear, and his hands tightened on her back.

Desperately trying to school himself to go slowly, Miles wrenched his mouth from Henrietta's, trailing kisses along her neck, her ear, as his hands explored the tantalizing arch of her waist, the generous curve of her hip. Her skin felt like silk beneath his fingers as they slid up the inside of her thigh. Somewhere between her knee and the tangle of curls between her legs, Miles had stopped breathing. He didn't notice. What remained of his mind was concentrated on far more pressing matters.

Spitting out a mouthful of hair he had accidentally ingested, Miles scrambled with the fastenings of his breeches, yanking them hastily over his hips. Clumsily, Henrietta tried to help, laughing breathlessly as Miles tried to kick the breeches off his legs, cursing as the fabric clung to his foot.

"Laugh, will you?" he demanded, triumphantly sending the breeches flying, and pouncing on his wife. "We'll see about that."

Henrietta's laugh turned into a squeal of surprise as Miles pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. His tongue moved higher, flicking between her legs, sending quivers of sensation jilting through her. Her skin felt too tight for her body, tension building in the core of her being. She suddenly desperately needed Miles's arms around her, his lips on hers.

She tugged on his hair, and he surged up along the mattress to join her, his hand moving to replace her mouth. Henrietta knew she was making little mewing noises, but she couldn't find it in her to care; she pressed herself against Miles's ringers.

"I don't think," Miles's voice came as though from a long way away, even though his mouth was right next to her ear, "I can wait any longer."

"Mmm," said Henrietta, which Miles correctly interpreted as license to proceed.

Slowly, he began to enter her. At least, he intended to go slowly, with proper deference to her virginal state. Instead, Henrietta twined her arms around his neck, making little panting noises as she moved anxiously against him, driven by the restless pressure building inside her. Murmuring her name, Miles plunged deeply into her, ripping through the thin barrier that barred his passage.

Henrietta let out an indignant gasp. Miles froze, suspended above her.

"Hen?" he rasped. "Are you all right?"

Henrietta considered. Miles's heart wrenched in a way that almost distracted him from the clamorous demands of certain parts of his anatomy as Henrietta's nose squinched and her lips quirked in a heart-stoppingly familiar expression. After an endless moment — as Miles's arms began to quiver with the agony of holding still — she gave a little nod.

She moved experimentally against him, arching her hips the tiniest bit.

"I think so."

"Are you sure?" gasped Miles, even though he wasn't at all sure what he would do if the answer were no. Jump out the window, most likely. He was spared that fate by Henrietta tightening her legs around him in a way that left no doubt as to her intentions. She strained against him, nodding as emphatically as she could, because little jolts of pleasure made speech a perilous prospect at best. She could feel him beginning to move, rilling her, his shoulders warm and familiar beneath her hands, the fine hairs on his chest teasing her already sensitive nipples.

Henrietta clung to sanity, fighting the waves of sensation threatening to sweep over her.

"Miles?" she said uneasily.

"Still here," he murmured into her ear, his hands moving tenderly over her waist, her hips, stroking, coaxing. Using his hands to gather her closer, he drove deeper and deeper into her, pressing to the very core of her being. "Always."

Henrietta cried out in surprise as pleasure scintillated through her, like a thousand champagne bubbles glistening by candlelight, oscillating and bursting in a golden glow. As she convulsed around him, Miles groaned and surrendered to his own release. Together, they collapsed back against the dusty counterpane in a state of satiated somnolence.

Miles rolled to his side, taking Henrietta with him. She sighed contentedly, fitting herself against his side, one leg thrown over his, and her head tucked in the crook of his neck. Miles rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, enjoying the scent of her hair, the feel of her sweaty skin against his, the pressure of her breast against his side. He ran one hand down the tangled length of her hair, enjoying the silky feel of it beneath his palm. Henrietta gave an irritated wriggle as his finger snagged on a knot, but didn't say anything.

"Hen?" Miles poked her. "Are you alive?"

"Mmm," murmured Henrietta.

"That's all you have to say?" protested Miles.

"Mmm," repeated Henrietta, and nesded deeper into the crook of Miles's shoulder.

Miles grinned. "Eighteen years, and I've finally rendered you speechless."

Henrietta shifted slightly. "Mrr-grr-grr," she mumbled into Miles's shoulder.

"What was that?"

Henrietta tilted her head back. "Wonderful," she sighed. "Splendid. Superlative. Superb."

"Couldn't resist, could you?"

"Blissful, ecstatic, euphoric, brilliant…"

"Enough!" exclaimed Miles, rolling her over onto her back.

Henrietta had a decidedly wicked glint in her eye. "Marvelous," she said deliberately, "magnificent, glorious…"

"Right," said Miles. "You leave me no choice."

By the time the first rays of dawn began to peek through the bed curtains, Henrietta was forced to agree that there were moments for which even adjectives were entirely inadequate.