A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,48
draining half the glass gave her a moment to consider Oak’s question. He sounded amused, and sitting with his back against the pillows, his dark hair tousled, he looked delectable.
So why wasn’t she devouring him? “I thought I was ready for this. Ready to be the self-possessed widow indulging in a discreet liaison.”
He took the glass, had a sip, and set it aside. “But?”
“But I have stretch marks. I want to use my toothpowder before I kiss you. I loved sleeping with you, but all I can think now is what if you’re seen leaving my rooms? An astute maid might find a short dark hair on my pillows, and then—”
He scratched his chest, which was dusted with those short dark hairs. “And then?”
“And then I’m somehow less loyal to my husband’s memory? I don’t know what comes and then. I wasn’t raised to frolic with handsome fellows passing through on the way to London, and I didn’t expect to be widowed seven years after I spoke my vows.”
He slouched down onto his side to regard her, stashing a pillow under his arm and propping his head on his palm.
“I thought the fact that I was passing through on the way to London was half my charm.”
It wasn’t. A tiny part of his charm, perhaps, but also part of why Vera hesitated. “I’m making a hash of this.”
Oak surprised her by taking her in his arms and situating her against his side. She went into his embrace willingly, even gratefully.
“Here is what I think,” he said, smoothing a hand over her hair. “I think too many of us go a-romping without taking into consideration whether we truly want to romp, or whether romping is simply foolishness or a consolation for more elusive joys. Men do this, you know. Swagger about, waving their pizzles around like the boom of a ship caught in the eye of the wind. That’s my father’s analogy, by the way. He once told me he remarried in part to simply have done with the foolishness.”
Foolishness. This discussion didn’t feel foolish. It felt honest and intimate. “I’m supposed to be in my romping years,” Vera countered, thinking that was quite the strangest admission she’d ever made. “Dirk always said I took life too seriously.”
“Dirk.” Oak kissed her temple. “He was born to a founding member of the Royal Academy. His uncle was a court painter to old George. He was talented, charming, and well placed to line up commissions from an early age. He arrived on this earth at a time when a Grand Tour was still possible and thus had the further benefit of directly observing the greatest masterpieces on the Continent. He was never without paying work, never without friends and supporters. To his credit, he was generous to his peers and kind to those in need of encouragement, but what would such a man know of life’s sorrows?”
Well, yes. Dirk had been lucky. Very lucky. “He lost his Anna. She was his muse.”
“And he married you within a year. Perhaps he was incapable of dealing with life’s most serious challenges, while you haven’t had a choice.”
That was a conclusion worth pondering—some other time.
“What of you?” Vera asked, brushing dark curls from Oak’s brow. “Have you had serious challenges to deal with?”
The pleasure of awakening in female company was a wonderful rarity, and Oak’s male body rejoiced at the possibility of impending intimacies. Of course, he usually awoke in the same state of reproductive rejoicing even when he was alone. Ignoring his arousal, however, had never been so difficult.
Vera was nearly naked, her braid a frazzled rope, and her body… Blessed Saint Luke, her body was the feminine ideal, and she seemed oblivious to her own endowments. She nestled against Oak’s side like a stray kitten given shelter before a toasty hearth.
Oak longed to take her hand and wrap it around his cock, but how selfish would that be? Instead, he kissed her fingers and placed her palm on his chest.
“You ask if I’ve faced serious challenges. The answer is no.” Ignoring a cockstand was not a serious challenge. Not at all. “I was ridiculed for pursuing art, of course, until my father asked me to illustrate his botanical treatises. My brothers stopped teasing me then, though I caused some consternation at university. Losing my mother was sad, but she hadn’t been happy for some time and rather washed her hands of us several years before her death.”