Page 100 of The Picture of Desire
Her life was full to the brim, and she washappy.
His lips brushed her forehead as he eased them further into the waves, until they no longer broke around them. The swell rose from her chest to her chin, then back down.
Horrifically cold, but as he had promised, she was already growing accustomed to it.
“Do you forgive me?” he asked, his hand cupping her buttocks and giving a squeeze. Despite the temperature, she felt him stir against her stomach.
“Perhaps I could be persuaded to,” she said, and he laughed, kissing her again. “Though I am certain my hair is ruined.”
“No more so than mine.”
She sent his head a scornful look, where he always kept his hair unfashionably short. “I hardly consideryouto be a judge.”
He merely hummed, turning so the swells rose against his back, not hers. Behind his shoulders, she could see the expanse of the ocean, the sky lightening to the ambiguous shade of the horizon, where distant clouds gathered.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” she said.
“You really would get cold then.”
She wrapped her legs around his waist. “Perhaps, but I can think of ways to keep warm.”
“Not forever,” he said firmly, and she laughed.
“I’m expecting Arabella Princely to be back in England next month,” she said, and he glanced down at the sudden change of subject. “I should be in London when that happens.”
“Weshould be in London.”
“You are interested in meeting her?”
“I’m interested in playing the role of protective husband,” he mused. “Perhaps the novelty will wear off, but it will be a nice change.”
Her hair, long and loose, tangled about them both as a particularly large swell breached her chin. “I suppose I’ll allow it, so long as you keep to your corner of the room and only speak when spoken to.”
He smiled against her mouth. “I would never dream of interfering.”
“Liar.”
His laugh was infectious, as warm as the summer sun. “I would have to be a fool to think you incapable of handling yourself.” He licked her earlobe. “But it would give me great pleasure to scowl from a corner.”
“You are particularly good at scowling.”
“A man must have an occupation.” He brushed the strands of her brown hair off his shoulders. “You know,” he said, a little too casually, “I was thinking that it might be time for you to start painting again.”
“I was painting just this morning.”
“I meant to display in the Royal Academy.” His eyes met hers, serious once more, the same colour as the sea below and the sky above. A hook straight for her heart; it was no wonder she had never been able to resist him. “Perhaps you can no longer paint as Louisa Picard, but that doesn’t mean the world can’t know you under a different name.”
“The risk is—”
“Negligible. No one will for a moment suspect a thing.” He half-smiled. “I would hate to see you give up on your dream just because one man did his best to take it from you.”
Her heart thudded in her chest. This was a thought she’d had on occasion after sending Knight back to the country with his tail between his legs. But she had never been able to decide if that was still her dream.
Until Henry offered it to her on a platter, no strings attached, just an earnest wish to see her happy.
How she loved him—how earnestly, desperately, wholly she loved him. “And what name would you suggest?”
“That choice is yours.”
With him, her choices always had been.
“Beaumont,” she said, and smiled. “Perhaps I could paint as a Beaumont.”
