He held her in his arms as her body shivered, coming down from the devastating pleasure.
“Do not move,” he signed, quickly going to the bed and tugging off the thick, voluminous coverlet. Hugh went back to the windows and drew her to him so that her back was flushed to his body and the top of her head bumping his chin. He wrapped them both in the thick coverlet, cocooning them in the warmth as they watched the sun disappear through the large windows of his chamber.
He recalled to mind what had prompted them to be here, hidden away from the world, as he buried his grief and all unexpected emotions in her welcoming body.
Hugh turned her to face him, and he smiled at how small and adorable she looked bundled inside the coverlet.
He lifted his hands. “Thank you for not letting me go.”
Her eyes softened. “I am sorry that you had to lose him, Hugh. The old earl was a wonderful man.”
“I expected it.”
“That does not lessen the pain of it,” she murmured, brushing a kiss across his knuckle.
He took a deep, steady breath. “There was a time I wondered at the identity of my real father. There were many rumors. He could have been an Italian count…so I visited Italy for several months. Then he could have been an ambassador from China.”
“So you visited Italy and China.”
“Yes. Even Egypt. It was a bit silly. I searched without even understanding what I searched for. For a long moment, I felt an odd sort of guilt, a feeling I had never endured before. That I somehow dishonoured the old earl by trying to find the man who had the affair with my mother, and I am the consequence.”
She cupped his cheek, and he turned his face and kissed the middle of her palm.
“There is nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing. I should never know a moment’s peace if I had such a hunger. It is only human, my love.”
Her eyes flared wide, and he could see the wild flutter of her pulse at her throat.
My love.
They stared at each other, and he wondered at the painful throb that went through his entire body. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and then turned her back around so they could watch the stars.
My love.
Am I really your love? he was tempted to ask, but he remained still, for he was not sure what he would do if she said yes. They watched the skies, which held a few streaking stars for a long time. His wife did not shatter the beauty with speech but lifted her hands and signed, “I feel safe…cherished.”
A wave of tenderness swept through him. And you make me feel I can slay the world. Yet he did not sign the words brewing within. Instead, he merely closed his hands around her waist and held her to him. His heart trembled perilously with an emotion never felt. Hugh turned it around on its head and tried to examine it, and with a sense of shock he realized it was happiness. A feeling he vaguely remembered having as a child as he ran in the apple orchard, his mother laughing and chasing after him. And when she caught him…the kisses she would rain upon him had been a treasure unto themselves. Instead of closing his eyes against the memories and shutting out the images of her, he let them flow through him.
He lifted his fingers and she looked at them.
“I feel happy.”
Then he lowered his hands and wrapped them around her waist. In the reflection of the windows, he observed the wide, beautiful smile that curved his wife’s lips.
Chapter Sixteen
Only a week had passed since the first night he had made love with his wife and six hours since he had last kissed her, touched her soft skin, inhaled her unique scent into his lungs. He missed her. How terribly fascinating was the ease with which his wife had captivated his senses and his attention? She had taken her usual morning ride, and he’d noted that she took a basket with a book. Sometimes she lay under the large tree near the cliff and read before heading back to spend time with their daughter. Sometimes, like yesterday, she would fall asleep, and it was Hugh who would go for her, lift her in his arms, and take her back to the main house in a carriage.
Whenever she left the house for time to herself, he did everything to allow her that peace and gave orders that she was not disturbed. Though she had a small army of servants to tend to their daughter’s needs, his wife was incredibly involved in reading to Franny. At times he could see her exhaustion—though he suspected that the passionate way he commanded her in his bed every night added to that.
His heart hitched when he recalled the hours of delight they would indulge in before succumbing to sleep. It was as if every night, each kiss and touch, brought a new discovery.
Hugh exhaled silently. Stop acting like a besotted fool.
He frowned. Is that what I am…besotted?
“You seem distracted,” Caroline said, humor dancing in her eyes. She reposed on the chaise reading a children’s story because she believed that even at this age, Franny understood. Hugh agreed and often read to his daughter as well using his signs while Phoebe told the story.
Caroline sent him a considering glance. “Dare I ask what—or who—you are thinking about?”
“No.”
She sent him a naughty grin that should have alarmed him, but Hugh only smiled. His sister would have much to curtail when she entered the ton. Franny stirred where she slumbered against his chest, and he gently rubbed her back in a soothing motion. She calmed, and a fierce sensation clutched at his heart. His young daughter already trusted and relied on him.
A rumble of thunder echoed, and she stirred again. How he wished he could talk to her and offer reassurance or even sing to her, as he often witnessed Phoebe doing. Never had he regretted his muteness. Before it had simply been a part of him, and it was a foolish exercise to waste emotions on a situation that he knew could never be changed. But sometimes, Hugh found himself just wishing Franny would be able to hear his voice, even once. It gladded something inside of him that she loved whenever he played his flute for her.
“Would you like me to take her?” Caroline asked softly.
He shook his head and made his way over to the sofa and sat.
“You seemed troubled,” Caroline said with a small frown. She came off the longue, padded to the large armchair close to him, toed off her slippers, and sat, curling her toes in the soft carpet.
He lifted one of his hands and slowly signed. “More contemplative.”
At her birdlike look of inquiry, and after a brief hesitation, he said, “Franny will never hear me read to her.”
“I already see Phoebe speaking and signing to her. Franny…and all your children will know how to speak your language early on.”
He had seen his wife doing that, leaning over the basinet and singing to their daughter. Another never felt but very pleasant sensation had expanded in his chest when he realized his wife also signed along.