He smiled as he turned from his canvas and rubbed his arm across his forehead, shoving wind-ruffled hair out of his face. His hand bristled with paintbrushes, all stained with different oils.
“Yes. You’ve got a letter, I said.” She held out the folded missive, but he shook his head.
“Go ahead and open it. I’m still packing up from Ellery Todd’s lesson. He’s got a good eye, but no interest in learning about pigment and paint. He only wants to draw nude women.”
Frances smirked. “Would you have been any different at the age of thirteen?”
“I suppose not. I’m not much different now.”
He set the fistful of brushes down on a brightly painted orange-red baroque table, the ornate piece incongruous in this outdoor setting. “Perhaps I ought to refresh my memory. How long, do you think, has it been since I saw a nude woman? At least seven or eight hours.”
He crossed the few feet to Frances and wrapped his arm around her, pinning her arms to her side. “Mmm.” He pressed his face to her neck, inhaled. “You smell… not like turpentine. Delicious.”
She laughed. “I chose the scent just for you, you silver-tongued charmer.”
After seven months of marriage, they’d fallen into a comfortable pattern that still surprised her with its easy fit. They spent a lazy—or strenuous—morning together, then taught students each afternoon. Jem and Emily had canvassed the ton for promising young artists who needed a bit more study before haunting the Royal Academy as Henry had once done.
Considering the inconvenient location of Winter Cottage just outside London—a bumpy carriage ride back and forth, plus the lesson itself, could take a student half a day—it was surprising that Henry had as many students as he wanted and more than he could take. Knowing Emily, Frances guessed that the sociable countess had pinned down interest by embroidering Henry’s military past.
That didn’t matter, though. Once proud parents got their curiosity out of the way, they left their young artists under Henry’s tutelage because of his talent. His own painting was still shaky, but his eye for color and his patience as a teacher were unmatched.
Frances’s memory was an unqualified boon, for she taught students in the history of art, and had the pleasure of being right and giving advice every day. When not teaching, she kept everything else running smoothly: scheduling students, checking stores of paints and pigments, arranging for young Cecil Sharpton to come over from nearby Sidcup to mill paints for Henry when he was getting low.
And when life ran slowly, London was not far away. Close enough for Jem and Emily to visit. Even Caroline had come to stay once.
And Frances’s father. He’d come for Christmas, settling his rheumatic bones into a squashy armchair for several weeks and spoiling their dogs with treat after treat. The bustle of the holiday had gone a long way toward filling awkward silences and the distance of long years of separation. Frances wrote to him faithfully now. She would not be lost to him again.
Frances broke Henry’s hold around her arms and slid them around his waist, pulling his hips to hers. “Are you finished for the day? I can have one of the servants stow all of your supplies.”
He squinted in the afternoon light. Against his tanned skin, his eyes were a startling blue.
“Yes, I’ve been out here long enough. It’s chilly for March. I hadn’t noticed before.” He bumped his forehead against hers. “You must have been keeping me warm.”
“Since I was inside our house all morning while you painted with the aspiring nudist, that’s not possible.”
“Ah, but every time he asked about drawing naked women, I thought of you.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Just open your letter, you wicked man.”
He winked at her, then took the fat folded paper from her hand. His brows knit. “This can’t be right.”
“What is it?”
He flipped the letter to show her its reverse. “It’s the Great Seal. Why would I be getting a letter from the Prince Regent?”
“Because Emily hounded him into calling you to court?”
“She wouldn’t be so unkind.” He tucked the letter high under his right arm and cracked the seal with his left thumb. Such gestures were getting smoother, more natural as the months passed.
His sapphire-blue eyes flicked over the lines of the letter, then he raised his eyebrows and pulled his mouth down in the expression Frances thought of as well-there-it-is-then.
Sure enough. “Well. There it is, then.” He handed the letter to Frances.
She read the finely inscribed lines quickly. “They want to give you a medal?”
“Waterloo,” he murmured. “Always Waterloo.”
“They’re calling it the Waterloo Medal. But Henry, it’s for you. For the men who fought at Quatre Bras and Ligny too.”
“Then why call it a Waterloo Medal?”
She met his eyes over the thick paper. The loosened wax seal flapped in a faint breeze. “I don’t know. Maybe just because it was the last battle. Everyone was so glad when the war was over.”
He inclined his head. “That’s true. I certainly was.”
He folded over the top of the paper in Frances’s hand. “Waterloo.” He sounded amused this time, as if Waterloo were a puppy that kept yanking the draperies down in a bid for attention.
Frances squeezed his hand. “The Prince Regent might just be amusing himself with pomp or seeking to honor Wellington. But it would be impolite of you to refuse the medal. Being so close to London, we could easily journey for you to accept it in person.”
Henry groaned.
She trailed her free hand down his chest, teasing. “And if we give enough notice, Emily could plan a great ball in your honor. You could wear your medal and be the center of all attention.”
“You paint a very vivid picture, my dear wife.”
She slipped fingers between the buttons of his waistcoat. “Is it to your liking?”
“Some of it. This part.” His heartbeat thudded strong under her fingertips, and he flexed his arm to pull her fully against his body.
Frances cleared her throat, tried to summon the companion’s brisk voice. “I’m talking about London.” The crisp tone was hardly convincing.
He shook his head. “As you said, I’m just glad it’s over. I don’t need a medal. I haven’t needed one for a long time.” His fingers found hers, entwined with them. “Although I wouldn’t mind going back to London. Students would be glad to call on me in a more convenient location. I could even finish ruining Emily’s Axminster carpet with spilled paint.”
“She would love that even more than hosting a ball for you.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. When he smiled, it was bright and warm even in the bracing March air. Never that desperate, dented look anymore.
“I would welcome the chance to see Caroline again,” Frances mused. “And you could visit with Bart. He’ll probably return to London soon.”
“You’re very persuasive. All right. If you want to go, we’ll go.” With a quick, fluid gesture, he raised their linked hands and twirled her as if in a scandalous waltz, so that she faced away from him, turned toward the house. He slid a hand down her back and placed a heated kiss just where her neck met her shoulder. She shivered, and not only because the breeze quickened, ruffling her skirts and nipping at her exposed skin.
“Now let’s go inside. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What is that?”
“Oh, nothing, really. It’s just an excuse to get you back into bed.” He stepped up to walk at her side toward the house. “Wasn’t that a favorite trick of yours before we married? You see, I have a good memory too.”