Page 23 of The Virtues of Christmas
Henrietta had undone her coronet, so her braid hung down to her bum. “I might cut it. For years, I didn’t.” Because long hair, according to Beltram, was seductive. By his reasoning, ridiculously long hair was ridiculously seductive.
Though Beltram’s opinion now mattered…not at all.
“That is a diabolical smile, Miss Whitlow.”
“You inspire me, and if we’re to share a bed, you might consider calling me Henrietta.”
“I’m Michael.” He draped his coat over the back of the chair by the hearth. “After the archangel. Have you other names?”
“Henrietta Eloisa Gaye Whitlow. Is there a warmer to run over the sheets?” Warmed flannel sheets would be a bit of heaven.
“I’ll be your warmer.”
They shared a smile, adult and friendly. Henrietta decided that her hair could be in a braid for this encounter, and to blazes with the loose cascade most men had expected of her. She’d always spent half the next morning brushing out the snarls, half the night waking because she couldn’t turn without pulling her hair loose from her pillow first.
Michael-for-the-archangel removed his clothing in a predictable order, laying each article over the chair in a manner that would minimize wrinkles. He pulled off his own boots, and used the wash water at the hearth with an emphasis on the face, underarms, privities, and feet.
He was thorough about his ablutions, and his soap—hard-milled and lavender scented—was fresh.
“You are not self-conscious,” Henrietta said. A surprising number of men were, if the gossip among courtesans was to be believed. Several men might cheerfully aim for the same chamber pot while the port was consumed, but they’d do so without revealing much of their person, or overtly inspecting any other man.
“I was one of eight children sharing a one-room sod hut,” Michael said. “Growing up, privacy was a foreign concept.”
While hard work had doubtless been his constant companion. Michael had the honed fitness that came from years of physical labor and constant activity. Some wealthy men came by a similar physique by virtue of riding, shooting, archery, and pugilism. Michael had a leanness they lacked, a sleekness that said he eschewed most luxuries still and probably always would.
“Growing up, my modesty was elevated from a virtue to an obsession,” Henrietta said. “I like looking at you.”
He wrung out the wet flannel over the basin, arm muscles undulating by candlelight. “Does that surprise you?”
“Yes.” Henrietta hadn’t chosen her partners on the basis of appearance, not after Beltram. He’d been a fine specimen, also selfish, rotten, deceitful, and lazy. She hoped whatever woman he took to wife could match him for self-absorption and hard-heartedness. He’d come by months ago to tell her he’d be wife-hunting, as if his eventual marriage might dash some hope Henrietta had harbored for years.
What a lovely difference time could make in a woman’s perspective.
Michael laid the cloth over the edge of the basin and crossed to the bed. “Won’t you join me, Henrietta?”
What need did the Irish have of coin when they had charm in such abundance? Michael sat on the edge of the bed wearing not a stitch of clothing, his arm extended in invitation. He was mildly aroused, and his smile balanced invitation with… hope?
Henrietta kept her dressing gown about her. She had no nightgown on underneath—why bother?—but neither did she want to parade about naked, and that too was a surprise.
“I’m all at sea,” she said, taking the place beside Michael on the bed. “I know how to be a courtesan. I know what a courtesan wants, how she plies her trade. But this…”
A courtesan never confided in her partner. She managed every encounter to ensure he would be comfortable confiding in her, and what a bloody lot of work that was. The physical intimacies were so much dusting and polishing compared to that heavy labor.
Michael took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “If you’re at sea, allow me to row you to shore. This is being lovers. You don’t need to impress me, please me, flatter me, or put my needs above your own. We share pleasure, as best we can, and then we share some sweet memories.”
“How simple.” How uncomplicated, honest, and wonderful—so why did Henrietta feel like crying?
Michael slid his palm along her jaw and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Simple and lovely. Will you get the candles? I’ll start warming up these sheets.”
How many times had Henrietta made love with the candles blazing? She couldn’t fall asleep that way—lit candles were a terrible fire hazard—though her partners had succumbed to slumber following their exertions with the predictability of horses rolling after a long haul under saddle.
She blew out the candles one by one. Michael had three sheaths soaking in water glasses on the bed table, and he’d already informed Henrietta that she was to notify him of any consequences from their encounter.
She suspected she was infertile, a courtesan’s dearest blessing, and for the first time, the idea bothered her. A baron needed an heir, not that Michael’s succession was any of her business.
“Come to bed, love,” Michael said as candle smoke joined the scent of peat in the night air. “Mind you don’t trip over that valise.”
Considerate of him. Henrietta hefted her traveling case onto the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, then shed her dressing gown and climbed into bed with… her first lover.
