Alexander and Catherine need a mother, and as to that, I’m not sure Miss Diggory and Mr. Forester are the best staff I can find for my nursery.”
“Neither am I.”
Vera drew off his waistcoat and hung it over his jacket. “Why do you say that?”
“Because they are involved in a not-discreet-enough liaison, not mere stolen kisses. I nearly walked in on them canoodling in the guest room across from my studio.” He held out his hand, and Vera removed a sleeve button from his cuff. “I thought a cat had got stuck behind a closed door, but no cat makes that sort of thumping and groaning.”
She undid the second sleeve button. “Dear heavens. I want to scold them, but…”
But Oak was involved in a fair amount of thumping and groaning with Vera, and the two situations weren’t that different. That admission made Oak want to kick heavy furniture and paint battle scenes.
“I don’t begrudge anybody shared pleasure with another willing adult,” Oak said, “but the business requires discretion.”
Vera put his sleeve buttons on the clothes press. “Something like that. I’ve asked Mr. Forester to tutor Catherine in mathematics. If he’s blatantly accosting Miss Diggory, I’m less comfortable with that arrangement. Am I being ridiculous?”
Vera appeared more confident in the role of lady of the manor than she truly felt. Oak had come to this realization only gradually, as their late-night visits shifted from an immediate, mutual devouring, to this cozy domesticity followed by mutual devouring.
“Miss Diggory might be doing some of the accosting,” Oak said. “For Forester’s sake, I hope she is. The issue isn’t that they enjoy each other’s company, it’s that I’ve become aware of it.”
He tugged off one boot then the other, and Vera set them at the foot of the bed. His stockings came next, but he kept his breeches on and took a seat in the reading chair.
“Alexander does not like to return to the schoolroom,” Oak said, patting his knee.
Vera cuddled into his lap without further prompting. The weight of her, the feel of her in his arms, settled some unrest that talk of canoodling and skulking had agitated.
“I see that,” she said. “I watch him pelting across the garden at the beginning of his outings with you, then see him trudging back to the house an hour later. He becomes a different child, and yet, Mr. Forester says he’s making progress.”
“Shall I question Alexander about his studies?” Oak asked, stroking Vera’s back.
“Please. I have already become that great superfluity in a boy’s life, his mother.”
Oak kissed her cheek. “You are not superfluous to him or to me. I’ll have a word with him and report back. Is the vicar coming to luncheon tomorrow?”
They chatted about the local parson and his wife, about Catherine’s talent, about what sort of puppy Alexander might like. All the while, Oak was aware of a pleasant, humming arousal, a quiet joy to be ending the day yet again with a woman he esteemed and desired. The closeness Vera offered him in these domestic discussions called to him, every bit as much as the intimate pleasure did.
And that was…. That was lovely, though why in the bloody hell did these delights have to be mere passing pleasures?
Rather than dwell on that frustrating topic, Oak introduced Vera to the experience of sex against a sturdy wall, sex on all fours, and then—what desperation had come over him?—sex in a reading chair.
Chapter Ten
Vera lay in Oak’s arms, torn between the peace that follows passionate lovemaking and the turmoil that had been growing since she’d first kissed him. Oak offered her an intimate friendship, and for a man intent on the worldly sophistication of London, perhaps that was an offer easily made, a bargain cheerfully kept.
For Vera… inventive lovemaking was only a small piece of what Oak’s version of friendship yielded her. He was attentive to the children, kind, and patient; he brought a level of learning and graciousness to conversation at meals; he made a fine impression on Vera’s neighbors. He was affectionate—ye saints and angels, was he affectionate—and Vera had missed the profound pleasure of an undemanding, caring touch.
“I can hear your thoughts,” he said, his fingers trailing over her arm. “You are already up and about, taking the day by storm.”
The cool, sweet notes of a mistle thrush’s song warned of approaching dawn. Vera wanted to close and lock the window, climb back in bed, and pull a pillow over her head.
“You give me much to think about.”
He slipped