Page 48 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

She slid the sleeves of the gown down her arms, pushed and wriggled until the skirts shushed to the floor, then stepped out of them. Tossing the gown over her dressing table stool, she set her spectacles on the table and, clad only in a gossamer-fine chemise, turned to him. “Special consideration as to whether there was any danger involved.”

“Ah.” He reached for her and she came into his arms, her small hands slipping under the hanging halves of his shirt to spread, tactilely greedy, over his chest, even as his fastened about her waist, the sleekness of her skin screened from his touch only by the finest silk.

Tipping back her head, she looked into his face, then arched a questioning brow.

They hadn’t bothered to light any lamp. Through the dimness, he met her gaze. “While I’m glad—and relieved—to know that you do, in fact, stop to consider that point, I have to admit that the key issue for me, and Stokes, too, in you and Griselda involving yourselves to a greater extent in our investigations is the question of the danger such involvement may bring. The risks you might, even unwittingly, take, the physical threats that might eventuate.”

She tilted her head, a particular habit, as she studied his face, reading not just his eyes but his expression, then her lips gently curved. “You might be interested in a particular insight Lady Osbaldestone shared with us today. While she was speaking of the Halstead family, both Griselda and I took due note—as one needs to do when a lady as old and wise as Lady Osbaldestone shares her views.”

“Indubitably,” Barnaby said, the cynicism in his tone quite clear.

Penelope grinned. “Regardless, I—and Griselda, too—believed this was one time, one revelation, that was too apt not to give due weight. In describing how the Halstead family, the current generation, came to be such a fractious brood, Lady Osbaldestone pointed to the single fact that, as children, they did not have the direct presence of their parents. Their parents weren’t dead, but they were not there. Not present to guide and steer, to act as examples. In Lady Osbaldestone’s view, that’s the reason why, despite the senior Halsteads being exemplary people, their children are anything but.”

Barnaby arched his brows. “And the lesson you and Griselda took from that?”

“Is that whatever balance we strike between investigating, and, indeed, all the other endeavors of our lives, it’s our responsibility, and even more our duty, to ensure that, regardless of all those other distractions, we give our children the time with us they need.” She arched a brow back. “And, incidentally, as the Halstead example also illustrated, that mandate applies as much to fathers as mothers.”

Barnaby held her dark gaze, saw, investing her expression, the commitment to finding her way forward, her balance, her wish to engage in investigations already tempered by her devotion to their son—and to any other children that might come—and with equal commitment, inclined his head. “I have no wish to argue that.”

Penelope smiled. Reaching up and wrapping a hand about his nape, she stretched up and brushed her lips over his. “So, you see, you and Stokes have nothing to be concerned about.”

His lips were hungry, following hers. “Why’s that?” he murmured, then closed the gap to sample the sweetness of her delectable mouth.

When he raised his head, she murmured, her tone suggesting impatience, “Because, having taken Lady Osbaldestone’s dictum to heart, we’ve agreed, Griselda and I, that, regardless of temptation, we will never do anything that might keep us from returning safe and sound to our children every night.”

“Ah. I see.” There were times, especially when she was explaining the intricacies of feminine thought, that he felt quite dense, but as the links between all she’d said finally formed, he realized . . . and did, indeed, feel relieved.

Shifting to raise her other arm and drape both about his shoulders, she stepped closer still, pressing her luscious curves against the spare planes of his harder frame. “And just to settle the matter, I promise we won’t go beyond the fashionable areas without Phelps and two grooms, exactly as I used to do before Oliver came along.” Tightening her arms, she brought her lips to his. “So you can stop worrying.”

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, to read in them her inherent understanding.

To appreciate anew that this was one of their strengths, their empathetic connection; it still made him uneasy at times to know how lacking in barriers he was when it came to her, how accurately and effortlessly she read him, yet there were benefits, too, and this was one.

She understood, and because she did, they would walk hand in hand through the minefield of their emotions. Of her wants and his needs. And they would find the balance.

A balance that would allow them both to enjoy their lives to the fullest, to exercise to the utmost the talents they’d been blessed with so that they gained the greatest, the deepest, and broadest satisfaction from their days. From the contributions they made, to themselves, to their family, to society.

He saw and appreciated, and inwardly acknowledged. Holding her gaze, he murmured, “Thank you.”

Her lips curved. “Perhaps,” she whispered, as at her command he bent his head, “you might express your gratitude in a way that doesn’t involve words.”

His laugh rumbled in his chest but never made it past his lips. She sealed them with hers, drank in his delight, and gave him her own, her passion and her joy, in return.

They moved into the dance in concert, in effortless accord.

Shedding their clothes, they let their hands roam, let them shape and sculpt, possess and surrender.

They found their way onto the bed, rolled and writhed, arched and gloried.

Delighted anew, as they did every time, in the passion-filled, desire-laced moments. In the exquisitely intense intimacies.

Heat rose as the last barrier fell.

Their bodies came together, merging on a single shared gasp.

Eyes closed, fingers laced, lips brushing, kissing, mouths melding, then parting, they journeyed through the familiar landscape that, as always, bloomed anew.

He’d wondered if they would lose this, if with the familiarity bred of matrimony this intimate intensity would fade.