He probably shouldn't be here, the ornate decorations and bolts of fine pastel fabrics reminded him.
He should be managing the afternoon's printing or reading through the dozens of editorials stacked on his desk, but he found himself in the front room of Grégoire's shop, being the faithful escort for his wife and sister. Most husbands sent their wives alone or, at the very least, made their way to the exclusive club four blocks away for drinks and entertainment. Instead, he was here, sitting on the plush stuffed chair pretending to read the late edition of yesterday's paper. He would never admit it, perhaps even beleaguered and under the threat of certain death, that he enjoyed listening to the endless gossip in the dressmaker's shop and from where he was sitting, could just see Pam through the heavy velvet curtains. The sliver of visible space between the deep red drapes revealed his wife trying on various gowns and dresses atop a wooden box in front of a wall of mirrors. Only it was the newspaper that held his attention, naturally.
"Do you think he will marry her, Mademoiselle? Surely he will know of her troubles." Grégoire swirled around the seamstress like a buzzing bee. James could see him passing back and forth in front of the opening.
"I do not know, Grégoire, but that man has sent three maids out of his employ, one as recently as last spring and yet no one seems to question his worthiness." Larrisa's firm voice clearly heard from somewhere behind the curtains.
"A good maid would not allow herself to get in such an unfortunate position, non?" He replied briskly.
"Circumstances are not always in her control, Grégoire, you of all people should know that." Larissa added low and hushed before returning to her original volume, "One would question why a bachelor would be in need of so many female servants in the first place. My brother has only had a head housekeeper and groundskeeper since purchasing his home. There are only a few maids and stable hands and none of them sleep there, not even a lady's maid, now that he has a wife."
"You do not have a lady's maid yet, Madonna?" He asked, concerned.
Pam turned to face him, the full skirts of the gown she wore spinning slightly, "No, I haven't yet required one honestly."
"Nonsense, Pamela, even I have a lady's maid and I do not even run a household like you do."
"I would not even know where, or how, to begin to find a suitable one." Her voice soft and unsure.
"I might have a solution, Madame, excuse me."
Appearing out of nowhere, Grégoire was suddenly in front of him, "Monsieur, your lovely bride tells me she is still in need of a suitable maid to assist her. Is this true?"
James felt somewhat guilty. They had been in Philadelphia for several weeks now and with all the distractions, the task of procuring her someone had been neglected.
He folded his barely read paper neatly at his side, abandoning its pretense, "Yes, we have not yet begun looking."
"If you will allow, Monsieur, I may have a solution. My niece has arrived from France several weeks ago and is in need of employment." He leaned forward and lowered his voice, "She was employed by a Baronesse in France that unfortunately did not survive the birth of the young Beauchamp and the Baron sent her away in grief."
"That's terribly tragic," James glanced at Pam as she turned slightly, looking over her shoulder to admire the details on a dark blue gown in her reflection.
"She was heartbroken indeed. Would you find it agreeable to interview her?"
He gestured with a lift of his chin in Pam's direction, "Whatever she wants. It's her decision and she will be the one doing the interview."
Grégoire bowed slightly as he retreated excitedly, "Of course, Monsieur. You are most generous. I will find a suitable time for Madame and send her."
"James! You know I did not know you were home. I would have sent your usual coffee to your study." Eleanore always seemed to admonish James when he entered the back of the house, and it continually amused him.
"Good afternoon, Eleanore, ladies," he acknowledged the other servants in the room with a slight nod. "Don't bother yourself on my account, please."
He turned to the unfamiliar face, knowing instantly it was Grégoire's niece, "You must be Julienne."
She curtsied slightly, "I am, Monsieur."
"I was just showing Julienne where everything is located. The Mistress requested she begin as soon as possible as to help her prepare for the dinner at the Halpert mansion tomorrow evening."
James nodded in approval as he poured himself a large cup of the boiling coffee on the stovetop, "Ah, yes. The dinner."
"Master Halpert, is there any instruction for me, Sir?" She was pretty, but not overtly. Her large chestnut eyes looked up at him genuinely with her dark brown hair pinned loosely up and away from her face. He thought she looked to be only marginally older than Pam, which he guessed might be a good thing, although admittedly he had no idea what a lady looked for in such a personal servant. All he knew was that the long-standing lady's maid employed by his mother hardly left her side and seemed to be her confidant, as much as one would for a woman like her, anyway.
"The one thing I request is that you refrain from using titles for me. Pam and Eleanore only let me think I am the master of this house, I assure you."
"Oof, that is not true, mein Liebling," Eleanore added with a small embarrassed laugh.
"All I ask is that you meet her every need. She is ...very important to me and I want to see her happy." He leaned casually against the edge of the large cooking surface behind him, blowing over his cup to cool it.
"From what I can see already, Monsieur, you make her very happy indeed."
Her frank implications slightly startled him, and he only smirked at her in response. He could see why Pam had liked her.
"Julienne!" Eleanor nearly shrieked, mortified, "You do not speak about things you should not! You have many things to learn about this house, dear."
"It's fine, Eleanore." He waved off her indignant response.
Julienne, however, seemed unfazed, "My apologies, Sir. I shall go see if the Mistress requires anything." With another small curtsy, she excused herself and he could see Eleanore was about to burst with commentary.
"Does Pam seem to like her and where is my wife, for that matter?"
"She was in her study, writing letters when I saw her last. The Mistress seemed pleased. The girl has a bit of a loose tongue for my taste, but perhaps it is because she is French." She barely contained the disdain in her voice.
"What do you mean, loose tongue?"
"She is far too casual, but the Mistress found her humorous, I could see it." She bustled around the kitchen as she spoke, placing a basket of vegetables in front of a young maid, and wordlessly motioned for her to begin to prepare them.
"Pam will prefer casual, as long as she can fulfill her duties. She will live in the servant's wing, I imagine?"
She nodded affirmatively, and he took a sip of the hot coffee, steam drifting warmly around his face, satisfied the task had been completed. He was nearly set to return to his study when he noticed a troubled look in Eleanore's expression.
"Something bothers you?"
She looked at him, wiping her hands nervously in her white apron, "I dislike a stranger in this house."
"Pam was a stranger, and you welcomed her."
"Pam was not a stranger. You love her, mein Junge, that was all I needed to know about her."
It was early, that he knew. The beginnings of the house coming to life could be heard below, and a faint light through the window spilled over every surface. The heavy, rich fabric that hung from the canopy bed frame closed in around them like a shroud and he longed to hide there, no one else in the entire world he cared to see but her.
His father came home today, and he had hoped to continue forever in the blissful avoidance brought on by circumstances, but the time had come to face his disapproving glares. He knew he would have to rise soon, a long day stretched before him, but for the next few minutes, he would enjoy one of the indulgences of a married man.
She rolled towards him, facing him fully in her sleep as if his thoughts had willed it, and he slid his hand under the sheets seeking her skin. He was endlessly thankful that his wife seemed to toss away the conventions of what was considered proper for a lady, and often slept in his bed without so much as a stitch of clothing, not bothering to slip on a nightgown after their lovemaking. In her natural state, as she was now, she was infinitely soft. His hand found what it sought and slid around her smooth backside pulling her lower half closer to his and she stirred awake slowly, much the same way his own body was.
"Mmm, it's early," she murmured, turning her face into the cotton of her pillow.
"It is, my love," he whispered, placing a gentle kiss on the crest of her shoulder, "This is just a fevered dream. Go back to sleep."
She saw the corner of her mouth lift in a small, knowing smile as he pulled her top leg over his hip, aligning their bodies perfectly. He heard her breath intake sharply as he sank into her fully, savoring the depthless warmth of her that caused him to ache in every way, that he seemed to want to return to at every available opportunity. The rhythm he set, ancient and leisurely, promised to hypnotize them both when he heard the unmistakable footsteps of someone coming determinedly down the long hallway to toward their room. He tried to focus on the little mewling sounds she made with each thrust and the downy softness of the skin under his mouth as the footsteps continued closer. The servants knew not to disturb him before he came down for breakfast, and certainly not when his bedroom door was locked and that fact alone caused him cautious alarm. He stopped his motions, and she opened her eyes to look at him to see what was wrong.
"Someone is outside our door," he whispered as he pulled away from her, quickly grabbing his trousers and the pistol in his nightstand and moving in the direction of the intruder.
He blindly pulled back the hammer slowly to minimize the small click and his other hand turned the key of the lock silently. In one smooth motion, he whipped the door open and raised his weapon, only to immediately drop it when he saw a nervous Eleanore.
"Eleanore! What the devil are you doing? I might have shot you!"
"I'm so sorry, Sir! I know you wish to not be bothered when you are in your bed chamber but it..." she hesitated and he could swear the well-seasoned housekeeper was shaking.
"What is it?"
"It's your father. He is downstairs and wishes to see you immediately."
"My father? Is here?" His mind raced with questions.
"Yes, Sir. Forgive me."
He heard Pam stir behind him, the quiet sounds of cotton and silk moving.
"Mistress, my apologies," Eleanore lifted her voice and added as she looked past him to her and it brought him out of his own thoughts and back into the present.
He softened his concerned expression at her worry, "Eleanore please do not fret, all is fine. Tell him I will be down in just a moment. Will you prepare breakfast as normal and send Julienne up for Pam?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I much prefer it when you call me mein Liebling."
She exhaled with a slight dip of her head and a smile as she hurried back down the hallway.
He shut the door again behind him and she watched him dress from her place on the edge of the bed; the sheet wrapped around her.
"Would you like me to join you?" She asked quietly, and he could sense her uncertainty at this unknown element of his family dynamic.
"No, let me face his ire alone. You will meet him at dinner tonight soon enough. Although he will likely suspect I'm hiding you away to conceal evidence." He tucked his shirt into his pants quickly.
"Evidence of what?"
He paused to look at her, her hair unruly around her sleepy demeanor, and smiled at her innocence that sometimes took him by surprise.
"That you are with child already and that is the true reason we were married hastily."
Her brows furrowed, "But I am not, and we have only been married weeks-" He stopped her with his lips on hers, a deep inhaling kiss that he hoped would fill him with what he needed to face what waited for him in the parlor.
When he pulled back, he could see the dozens of questions written behind her eyes, "I know how my father thinks. I will tell you all about it later, I promise you."
His hand slid down her arm and grasped her hand between his in reassurance. "I love you," he whispered, and with a quick kiss to her fingers, leaving her to face his inevitability.
As he entered the front parlor, Gerald Halpert was looking out the window at the side gardens, standing will all the authority he encompassed, and he took a few seconds to study him unnoticed. Four years had aged him considerably, his trimmed gray beard framing his aristocratic features, and his expensive suit fitting his slightly heavier frame as only a well-tailored one would.
"Father?"
At the question, he looked at him and the two men stood frozen in mutual consideration for a flicker of a moment.
"It does my heart well to see you, my son. I consider myself one of the fortunate few that all three of my sons have returned from the battlefield alive."
"I didn't realize you were home from Washington. I expected to see you at dinner tonight."
"I took the late train last night immediately after the last session and came here directly. I surmised you might already be leaving for the office and that I could catch you before you left." His eyes ran down his hastily dressed appearance.
James gestured slightly upstairs, "I was just beginning to get ready and-"
Gerald pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped it open, "It's nearly quarter to seven," he snapped it shut again and returned it to its pocket, "be careful your marital duties," he drew the words out with faint disgust, "do not make you sluggish. Eleanore nearly refused to trouble you, claiming your door was locked as the reason, even though it was your father calling. What sort of house do you run here, James?"
It was masterful how one statement from him had reignited long-forgotten flames of guilt and fear of disappointment in James and made him feel twelve all over again. He opened his mouth to offer an explanation, but he continued undeterred.
"Which brings me to why I wanted to speak to you straight away. You have made a mess of things by breaking off your engagement with Miss Moore. Did you get this girl in trouble? If that's the case, things can be handled, you know," he stated matter-of-factly as if the responsibility of a woman with an unwanted child were as easily dismissed as an improperly prepared dish at dinner and it occurred to James that it very likely was. He was hard-pressed to know of any wealthy households in Philadelphia that did not have the rumored servant or daughter that "took ill" and was sent away to never be seen again.
He shook his head exasperated, fully expecting this line of questioning, "No father, she is not and I did nothing inappropriate to her."
"Then what could this union possibly offer that the other arrangement could not?" He pushed off the mantle where his hand had been resting frustratedly, "Did you even consider the ramifications of all this? Christ, James, if you needed to dip your wick into something there are dozens of whorehouses between the Carolinas and here."
He huffed out an incredulous sound as his eyes floated heavenward before refocusing on his Father and stepping forward, "That was not the reason. I wanted to marry her and not Miss Moore. It's rather simple, really, despite how everyone is trying to make it seem."
"Good God, you love the girl," he stated, horrified at the terrible revelation.
James threw his hands up slightly with a frustrated sigh and turned away again.
"I spent a very long time crafting this alliance. It is important to keep the Moores on our side, and this was the only way given Charles's somewhat nasty inclination to want to play chess with his power and influence. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you know how precarious all this is and how important a role you play."
He lowered his voice in patronizing empathy, "James, I don't pretend to know the affairs of the heart, but you must use your head about this. It is not too late to reverse the damage done here. Send this poor girl home to her family, beseech forgiveness of Miss Moore for your indiscretion, and go about this the way it was intended. Many men have come home from the war with mistakes, and I am certain they will overlook this as a misguided choice made in the fog of war."
James stared at him in disbelief. The twelve-year-old boy that once looked in awe and reverence upon the man in front of him was now long gone, replaced by someone who had experienced far too much to still maintain that opinion. The glistening pedestal he had once placed his father on now seemed tarnished and damaged. He felt a part of his youth surrender itself; tolling in his head like Donne's bell.
"I will not," he turned squarely to face him, despite the thundering of his chest. "I took a vow, and in case you have forgotten, or Washington politics has indeed changed the constitution of your character, you have raised us to commit to vows with honor, Father. She is the one I have chosen and if you had even a scrap of respect for me, you would accept that. Find another path to shore up things with the Moores. This matter is finished. I do not want to hear it suggested again that I send her away. She is my wife and she will remain my wife."
He exhaled tremulously at the bewildered expression on the family patriarch's face, "Now if you will excuse me, I have a paper to run. I will see you at dinner tonight, Father."
He saw her, out of his peripheral vision, pause at the door of the library at his unexpected presence, "Are you not going to work today?"
"I have already returned. I only went to retrieve some things, but I wish to work from home today."
She began in measured steps in his direction, thoughtfully, "Are you afraid your father might make an appearance there then?"
"Nothing gets past you, does it?" he smiled and inclined his head at her, "Yes, I wish to avoid that particular unpleasantness a little longer."
The groundskeeper had been diligently working to paint the foyer and front hallways all morning, the resulting heavy canvas covers and misplaced furniture scattered about. He moved the ladder further into the foyer with a loud clamor that drew their attention.
"What color did you choose?"
"A pale shade of yellow, more of an ochre really. That hallway was much too dreary."
He smiled warmly at her, secretly enjoying the effects a woman's touch was having to his home and thankful she seemed to be embracing her new life with him.
The groundskeeper's grip slipped and the heavy wooden ladder slammed to the marble floor with a loud crack; everyone jumping in surprise at the noise. The sound echoed in his mind, a reverberation that coursed adrenaline through his veins. He was suddenly there again, a grass field painted in red with gray-clad splotches and terrible, horrible sounds of suffering filling his ears; bitter gunpowder stinging his nose. He saw him a few yards away. A boy, no more than ten and four, crying trembling apologies to the ghost of his mother who was not there, but he looked upon as if she was; clutching desperately what was left of his abdomen.
"James?" her concerned voice brought him back to his study as the bloody battlefield faded from around him like mist.
"James, you are shaking. What is wrong?"
He inhaled deeply, breathing in her and the safety of their home. "It is nothing; the sound only startled me."
She studied him, he could feel her gaze as he reached to retrieve the papers that had spilled from the table at the disruption and he cursed the embarrassing tremors of his hands. He hastily set right the inkwell that had tipped, spilling a trickle of black across a letter.
"Tell me." Her voice was soft and smooth and unreasonably comforting to him. He let it wash over him as his drumming heart slowed.
When he didn't respond, she reached for his unsteady hand and put it between her own and pressed it to her chest; he felt it still under the persistent pressure of her affection.
"You won't tell me what happened?" She asked again, her voice impossibly lower.
He looked up at her, her worried brow and somber expression urged him to supply some sort of explanation. "I find it hard to put into words what I sometimes see, what sometimes haunts my sleep, only that I would never want you to endure such horror."
"Perhaps, you should let me choose whether I would bear that burden with you."
He slipped his hand from her grip and stood, his composure reasonably returned, "What kind of husband would I be if I did that?"
She frowned slightly at his attempt at levity but acquiesced, allowing the subject to drop.
"Do you think this dress suitable or should I have gone with something more formal?" she asked nervously as the carriage passed the wrought-iron and stone gate of the rather large front gardens.
"Pam, you are beguiling," he answered her honestly. "I am incredibly fortunate and proud you are on my arm tonight and not another. Although I know my opinion means very little under the circumstances."
The carriage rolled to a stop as she looked at him fiercely, "Your opinion is the only one I find myself caring about, James. I only do not wish to create you any more hardship than marriage to me seems to already have caused."
He put his hand on the carriage door, preparing to open it when he stopped thoughtfully, "Others may create difficulties for us because of our union, but the decision to marry you was the easiest one I have ever made."
For the second time, they arrived for dinner at the Halpert mansion. A much different affair than the previous visit; far less formal, but no less without its loud undercurrent of things left unspoken. His father was cool but speculative in his reception of Pam but to James's relief, undramatic; which was the very least he had hoped for after the morning's conversation.
However, with the sudden presence of his sister next to him, it would surely prove to be an entertaining evening.
"Did you get my editorial?"
He looked at her quizzically before the realization made itself known in his mind, "I thought I recognized that penmanship.'
"Well, I cannot exactly write it under my own name, dear Brother, you know that. Besides, none of the papers will print anything from a woman that is not about fashion or floral arrangements. Surely, our limited minds cannot grasp anything beyond the superficial niceties and the male gaze would not dream of allowing otherwise."
"You know I do not hold that opinion, so don't bring your anger at me."
"Yes, but will you print it?"
"I have not shied away from controversial topics in the editorial column so long as the arguments are intelligent, well-stated, and logical. There was one printed last week that was in support of a universal male suffrage amendment."
"Male being the key," she huffed as she pulled at the edge of her glove, "You know Pam is in agreement with me."
"You think the fact that my wife agrees with you would somehow sway me?" The look Larissa gave was vaguely sardonic, and it caused him to give up the smile that threatened. "You are right, it does."
"Do you think I am that transparent?" He asked quietly after a moment, hating the vulnerability in his voice. "You are not the first person to point that out."
"James, anyone who spends longer than five minutes with the two of you can see it. It is written all over you. To be honest, it is written all over the both of you, which is why her acceptance here has been so hard-fought."
His brows furrowed in confusion and she continued thoughtfully, "Men see it and resent her. She is rather unencumbered by the stiffness that seems to define women in society, and she clearly only has affections for you. Women see it and envy her. She has managed to secure what we dare not name: genuine love and adoration of a husband; far beyond the mere toleration most married women endure. I see it and it gives me hope, however. Perhaps I will not grow old as a spinster."
After a long moment of contemplation of her words, he added, "You are very insightful, Sister. You will find a suitable match and, God help the man, he will appreciate all the strong opinions that reside in that stubborn head of yours."
She looked at him affectionately before regaining her composure and gesturing across the room where Pam sat surrounded by the other Halpert women, "I should probably go save your wife from Cindy and Marcie before she leaves on the first train southbound."
Dinner was everything he remembered them to be growing up, safe topics and gentle sibling ribbing, never too much to upset the delicate balance of civility his mother fought hard to maintain. The courses passed without event, Betsy only mentioning once, and with uncharacteristic emotion, that she was so thankful to have all her children back at the table together.
"Are you enjoying Philadelphia, Pam?" Marcie asked slyly from her place across the table.
Pam nodded pleasantly, finally being spoken to. "It is lovely, particularly in these fall months."
"I imagine it quite different from the wilderness," Betsy added cooly as she sliced a roasted potato delicately in two.
"Pamela did not live in the wilderness, Mother." James returned defensively, "Asheville has many fine things and the mountains are tremendous."
He reached under the table and brushed his fingers against the hand in her lap, "Pamela is an accomplished artist, you should see her drawings."
Pam blushed furiously, "You are too generous, they are sketches really."
"I find art to be a fruitless waste of time, needlework, on the other hand, has many benefits," Cindy remarked unsolicited from the other end of the table.
"Eleanore just adores Pamela. You should hear her." Larrisa added helpfully, eyeing Cindy with annoyance.
Betsy changed her impassive expression instantly, "Oh, how is Eleanore? Please tell her we miss her. I can't say I am surprised that she chose to move her employ to your house, son, you were always her favorite."
"Well, it seems that favor might pass on to Pamela."
"Larissa, I hardly think-" Pam began, embarrassed
"Shall we all join in to sing Ms. Beesly's praises then?" Gerald spoke gruffly from the end of the long table, his rancor clear.
"Father," James growled and his one-word warning was enough to plunge the temper of the room into an uncomfortable silence; everyone but James and his father refusing eye contact, instead preferring to study the plates in front of them.
Betsy cleared her throat demurely, and he was reminded that if there was anything his mother disliked, it was an uncomfortable silence at the dinner table. "Shall we begin dessert? I understand the cook made a delightful lemon cheesecake and I, for one, am dying to sample it."
His father's study had always been a rather grim and masculine room, an overbearing hand in its use of dark oak and mahogany trimming, as shelves lined an entire wall; an enormous stone fireplace, the focal point. As always after family dinners, men and women separated, and it was the first time in many years that he had shared cigars and drinks with his brothers and father.
"There has been a new disparaging article every day in the Star, and two on Sunday. Either Edward Warren has a new preoccupation with my voting record, or Charles is up to something." Gerald slapped the folded paper down on the cherry wood of the small table next to him.
"You think he is using Edward to cast doubt before the election?" Thomas asked as he leaned against the large formidable mantlepiece.
"I'm sure Charles is far more duplicitous than just typical election politics. There are a half a dozen property dealings at the shipyard tied up in Freedman's Bureau funding, particularly the construction of the Freedman's bank."
"That you voted to extend." Peter supplied after a long draw of his cigar.
"Charles is hoping that Philadelphia lives up to its history as a border city and finds support of such policies appalling." James looked up at him wryly. Politics and business were rarely separate issues, and the Moores were not known for keeping their views to themselves on either account.
"He has no reason to not take down anything impeding his expansion, including Father, especially now that..." Thomas let the unspoken words hang in the heavy air.
They all looked at James as he swirled the dark liquid in his glass uncomfortably under their gaze.
"Well, we all know where James now prefers to place his allegiances." Gerald sniffed in disapproval from the deep green high-back chair he sat in.
James glared at him at his statement and spoke in excruciatingly even tones, "I have printed several articles in support of you, Father, in recent days so it remains clear my allegiances have never faltered. Just because you do not approve of my-"
"There has been quite an upheaval taking place at the shipyards, I must confess," Thomas interjected quickly to refocus the conversation. "Owners are selling quite rapidly and there seems to be one buyer, " he continued as he pushed away from the fireplace, apparently too warm and, James noticed despite his anger, to fill his glass again.
"Charles Moore." Peter supplied needlessly.
"I, too, have felt the pressure. His goons harass business owners completely unfettered. I was even told to watch my back at my open defiance of them." Thomas finished his bourbon and quickly poured another.
Peter exchanged a worried look with James, "Well, let us hope those threats are idle, shall we?"
He had developed a bit of a fascination with her hair, admittedly. Most of the day it was pinned up, the curls contained by glass and bone combs, twisted and high. But when they were alone, when they retreated to the sanctuary of their room, she let it down; bountiful in all its burnt amber glory.
Her nightly ritual included brushing it at length until she seemed to grow tired of the endeavor, finally resting the brush neatly on her vanity, often with a weary sigh. Some nights she would braid it loosely, knotting the end in a sage ribbon to keep the tangles away. Other nights she seemed more daring, more reckless, and she left it unbound and he savored the feel of it between his fingers when she was beneath him.
He moved up behind where she sat in front of the ornate mirror of the vanity; the candlelight making her hair glow incandescently.
"May I?" He gestured at the brush and she paused her motions, studying him in the reflection before handing it to him.
"Do you know how to brush a woman's hair?" she queried as she betrayed the slightest of smiles.
"Well, I've no experience in the matter, but I have brushed a horse's tail on numerous occasions and I can't imagine it much different."
She tilted her head with a small quirk of her eyebrow, "That charm, James. Did you purchase it at discount?"
He smiled mirthful as his hand slipped beneath her hair, the backs of his fingers brushing the fine hairs of her neck, and he felt her shiver in the warm room. He pulled the brush slowly through her curls, working any tangles gently as she continued.
"I learned quite a bit today."
"Mmm? About what?"
"I sought out Eleanore to get her opinion on what I might ask Julienne. I imagined she would want to be included in the hiring of staff, and I am still learning how to run the household." He felt her eyes watching his reflection. "We shared a delightful tea where she not only met the topic at hand but also divulged quite a few stories about you growing up."
"I can only begin to imagine what yarns she told," he smirked carelessly as he focused on his task.
"Oh, they were quite interesting indeed," the small laughter she held spilled into her words. "One was how you loved to race your pony -Leopold," he spoke the name simultaneously with her, "Yes, Leopold, which I thought was a peculiar name for a pony."
He stopped his brushing and looked at her through the mirror, "Why, what did you call your pony? And do be honest, I know you had one."
"Buttercup."
He snorted a small laugh as she gaped at him, "I don't think I'll be accepting any more criticism on that account."
"Fair, I suppose," she continued with a chuckle, " She also told me about how you and your brothers would arrange boxing matches between neighborhood children and even set up a betting ring until your father put a stop to it. It sounds like the Halpert boys were troublemakers."
"We were undoubtedly so. However, I rather think us industrious. Being I was the youngest, I was often used to charm and coerce while they ran the business side of matters."
"So that is where you finely tuned that skill?" She smiled at his reflection shyly, her lush mouth tempting him from breathing.
He gently pulled her hair to the side and bent down to inhale the skin of her neck, letting his lips drag across the surface as he spoke low, "Do you think I coerce you?" His eyes held hers in the mirror, "I find you to be an active and willing participant."
It was a probing and slightly dangerous question he posed. If she were to be a respectable married lady admitting she might actually enjoy the activities of the marriage bed, it should surely scandalize him. He hoped, however, that she knew by now how little regard he held the standards that society had set for them. If the instruction he had received as a young man would be believed, it only allowed for twelve acts a year and only to create a child; beyond that was reserved for a mistress and should never be expected of a wife. By his estimations, they had surpassed that number in their first week. When she only blushed and looked down into her lap, he set the brush down, abandoning one task for another; determined in reassuring her that nothing pleased him more than her enjoyment of it.
His hand pushed back her robe, slipping the other down beneath her thin cotton shift to her breast; his mouth seizing his favorite place behind her ear.
Her eyes fluttered closed as she whispered, "You haven't nearly finished. I must brush it one hundred times a night."
He looked up at her in the mirror, her wanton, breathless perfection staring back at him in the yellow candlelight, "I promise you, I will redouble my efforts tomorrow evening to make up for it."
She raised a single brow at his double entendre and he grabbed her hand, walking backward as he led her to their bed with a wolfish grin.
"It seems a somewhat pointless exercise when it is likely to gain several more... entanglements."