Eve felt tears pricking her eyes again, tears that had something to do with the horse but more to do with the man who’d brought the horse back into Eve’s life.
She held on tightly to her husband even while she figuratively grabbed her courage with both hands. “I think astride will do for a start.”
She’d surprised him. When she glanced up, he was smiling down at her with more tenderness than she’d beheld in his eyes even under intimate circumstances.
“Astride makes perfect sense. The lads are under orders to stay clear of the loafing paddock, and I bought the mare’s saddle and bridle when I purchased her.”
He’d thought of everything, bless him. And when Eve said she wanted to saddle up her own horse, Deene dutifully took himself off to fetch her a pair of boys’ breeches.
“And, Deene, bring Beast along too. We can go for a ramble down to the stream.”
His smile at this pronouncement would have lit up the entire world—and it scotched any second thoughts Eve had about the wisdom of her decision. As Eve took down the headstall and lead rope hanging outside the horse’s loose box, her smile was quieter but no less joyous.
War changed a man, Deene reflected, and not often for the better. He watched his wife knotting Aelfreth’s signature red kerchief around the boy’s head, and realized marriage was changing him too.
A soldier knew to be only guardedly protective of his fellows. The man sharing a bottle over the evening campfire might be taken prisoner by the French while bathing in a river the next morning.
The promising young lieutenant reciting ribald poetry at breakfast might be shot dead by noon.
When Deene had stopped recently to make a list—something he hadn’t done in the years since Waterloo—he’d realized that, save for St. Just, Wellington himself, Kesmore, and several others, few of Deene’s comrades-in-arms had survived the war.
This made the protectiveness he felt toward his wife somewhat easier to tolerate, but it did nothing to explain the shift Deene had felt toward everything from the weather, to his properties, to the children Anthony claimed to be raising on a tidy manor only several miles away.
Eve patted Aelfreth’s arm and gave him some last-minute instructions before approaching her husband. “My lord, it’s going to rain. Do we remain here or repair to the books?”
She was smiling at him—he had a whole catalogue of her smiles by now, both with and without her dimple—and she was ready to accommodate whatever his pleasure might be.
“We tend to the books.” He could have her to himself that way, and she made even something as tedious as ledgers more bearable. “Aelfreth and Willy can go for a mud gallop while we stay warm and dry.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” She slipped an arm around his waist and wandered with him toward the house. “I’ve had a note from Louisa. She and Kesmore will be calling on us soon, and then I suppose the floodgates will open.”
“Must they?”
He liked her family, liked them a great deal, but he’d loved these weeks to get to know his wife and her smiles. He was developing some sense of her silences too, though, so he settled his arm around Eve’s shoulders. “Tell me, Wife.”
“I should not resent it when my sisters observe the civilities, but, Deene, I do. I am jealous of my time with you.”
“How gratifying to know.”
She punched him in the ribs. “Rotten man. You’re supposed to say you feel the same way.”
Of course he felt the same way. He did not admit this. Instead, as soon as they had gained the library, he closed the door behind them and locked it. At the one small, additional click of the latch, Eve looked up from where she stood by the fire.
“We’re to attend our ledgers, Lucas Denning.”
“Quite. I’ve consulted my accounts and found it has been more than twelve hours since I’ve enjoyed my wife’s considerable intimate charms. Almost eighteen hours, in fact, which deficit must be immediately rectified if I’m to concentrate on anything so prosaic as ledgers.”
“And what of luncheon? What of being conscientious about one’s duties? What of—oof.”
He lifted her bodily onto a corner of the estate desk and stepped closer. “I am being conscientious about my duty to the succession.”
“No one could ask more of you in this regard, Husband, but it’s the middle of the—”
As if they hadn’t made love at practically every hour of the day and night. He’d worried at first about asking too much of her, and he still did. Eve never refused him, but neither did she initiate lovemaking.
Not yet.
“Kiss me, my lady. If you kiss me long enough, it will no longer be the middle of the day.”
She looped her arms around his neck. “You have made a wanton of me, Deene.”
“You worry about this?” Something a little forlorn in her voice had him lifting his face from the soft, fragrant juncture of her shoulder and neck to peer into her eyes. “You do. You worry that a perfectly lovely passion for your new husband is something untoward. What am I to do with you?”
She didn’t contradict him. Didn’t tease or flirt. She regarded him steadily out of green eyes shadowed by doubt. “I know I shouldn’t fret over such a thing. We’re newly wed, after all.”
He had the sense she recited that fact to herself in more moments of self-doubt than he’d perceived. Far more than she should. Was this why she never approached him with amatory intent?
Rather than increase her sense of self-consciousness, Deene started frothing her skirts up at her waist. “Tell me something, Lady Deene. Are you ogling the footmen hereabouts? There’s one fellow in particular, the blond with the cheeky smile, with a nice set of shoulders on him.”
“Godfrey. He’s sweet on the tweeney. Why would I ogle him?”
Deene set aside a moment’s consternation that Eve knew the man’s name and the name of his current interest. “Because he’s devilish handsome, and I suspect some sort of relation to me on the wrong side of the blankets.”
“He’s a boy. I do not ogle—Deene, what are you doing?”
“Removing these wildly embroidered silk drawers. Your sister Jenny should have a shop for gentlemen to patronize, where they might buy such underthings for their chères amies.”
“She’d die of mortification first. Stop looking at me.”
Deene loved to look at his wife. In intimate places, her hair had a reddish tint to the gold, and her skin had a luminous quality. “Lie back, Evie, but tell me: If you are such a wanton, do you ever think of what it would be like to make love to, say, my cousin Anthony?”
She did not lie back. She glared at Deene as if he’d stolen her last bite of cherry tart. “Are you mad? Anthony is a nice enough man, and he bears a pale resemblance to you, but—I cannot think when you touch me like that.”
Like that was with just his thumb, ruffling her curls and glancing over the little bud at the apex of her sex. “You never think of anybody but me in these intimate circumstances, do you, Wife?”
“I cannot think—You’re still looking at me.”
He intended to look a good deal closer, too. Had been thinking about it ever since he’d assisted her at her bath just a couple of hours earlier in the day. “A truly wanton woman would be seeing every man as an opportunity to copulate, Evie. She’d be restraining herself from flirting with everything in breeches, and on occasion, with other women too. She’d be eyeing the lads, the footmen, her husband, as if plagued by a hunger that knew no satiety.”
Deene kissed her, mostly to get her to lie back on the desk, but when he opened his eyes, Eve was studying him.