Page 59 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

With the warmth of shared lives.

Earlier, in the late afternoon, when they’d returned to Albemarle Street with Violet, Penelope had bustled about settling her new secretary into the household. Barnaby had checked through and dealt with his correspondence, spoken with Mostyn, then retreated to the nursery to share his thoughts on recent events with Oliver. Eventually, Penelope had joined them; she’d been enthused, engaged, and more energized than she’d been since Oliver’s birth.

Leaving Violet to her own devices—something she’d assured them suited her perfectly—Penelope, Oliver, and Barnaby had spent the evening at a family gathering at Calverton House with the entire Ashford family, children and all, gathered about the long table, with Minerva, Dowager Viscountess Calverton, seated in the center and, gracious and delighted, presiding over all.

Everyone present had done all they could to please the ageing matriarch; Minerva had devoted her entire life to her brood, and in turn they were, one and all, devoted to her.

To Barnaby’s mind, the illustration of the Halsteads’ shortcomings could not have been more marked.

On returning from Mount Street, he and Penelope had settled a deeply sleeping Oliver into his crib, then had stood hand in hand looking down at their son for several of those precious minutes Barnaby was coming to treasure. Then, in silent accord, they’d turned away and come downstairs to their room.

With the curtains drawn over the second pair of windows, Penelope whirled, a delighted grin on her face. “But the excellent news is that we are, indeed, progressing.”

Shrugging out of his coat, Barnaby demurred. “I wouldn’t go so far as that—we’ve still no clue as to which of the Halstead men is the murderer.”

Pausing to set the necklace and earrings she’d removed on her dressing table, Penelope threw him a pitying look. “I didn’t mean progress with the investigation, but in how to manage investigating, how to balance it along with everything else.”

“Ah.” Barnaby nodded. “Your inspired idea of hiring Violet as your secretary.”

“Precisely. You have to admit it was a masterstroke—multiple birds killed with one stone.”

He smiled to himself, then confessed, “If you hadn’t suggested it, I would have. Mostyn has even complained to me about the dust enveloping your desk.”

She sighed. “Yes, well, I had no idea having a baby—or rather, said newborn itself—would prove such a very distracting distraction. You have to remember I’m the youngest of my family—I had no idea babies were so sweet and funny and altogether delightful. Oliver just has to start waving his hands and I’m enthralled, and an hour wings by before I even notice.”

He humphed. “You can’t claim any distinction on that score—I’m the same.” Reaching out as she passed, he looped an arm around her waist and drew her to him—into his arms, into a kiss.

She kissed him back, her lips moving with familiar and confident ease beneath his, then, as he did, she drew back.

He looked into her eyes, so dark in the muted lamplight that their expression was impossible to read, then, very much feeling his way, he murmured, “I wonder if the effect will still be the same once our second child comes along.”

Her hands gripping his upper arms, leaning comfortably back in his embrace, she studied his eyes, then her lips lightly quirked upward. “My guess would be probably not, for us—you and me—at any rate, but I daresay we’ll find out—in good time.”

Tilting her head, she went on, “I want to enjoy this time—this first time, with our first child—fully before we complicate matters further. I want to know, to feel confident that I’ve worked out this balance thing—that I’ve found the ways to organize all the facets of my life so that I can fully enjoy all of them, that I can get the most and give my best to each aspect without neglecting any other, rather than feeling as I have in recent times that all the aspects are constantly tugging at me, pulling in different directions, and that although I’m trying as hard as I can, I’m failing to properly succeed with any of them.”

He studied her face. “I hadn’t realized it was that . . . problematic. That it—everything all together—was tearing you apart.”

She nodded, one of her usual decisive, definite nods. “That’s exactly how it felt—like a mental drawing and quartering.” She met his gaze, and her lips gently curved. Twining her hands at his nape, leaning back against his hold, she swayed a little, side to side. “But, as I said, we’re making progress, and, indeed, we’re well on the way to getting it right—to finding the way for me to keep my balance and be happy and satisfied in all areas of my life.”

“That’s why you’re so pleased to have Violet as your secretary—she’s a part of your plan.”

“Exactly. The weight of papers on my desk is not something Griselda can assist me with, but Violet can—and, indeed, I rather suspect she, too, is one who would feel shortchanged by life and ultimately unsatisfied if her skills weren’t appreciated and put to use.” Pausing, she studied his eyes. “But what of you? What do you think of the new order taking shape, of my new and better balanced life? For, of course, you are one of the areas of my life I’m seeking to better service.”

Knowing full well her choice of verb wasn’t in the least accidental—a fact underscored by her pressing closer and suggestively continuing the side-to-side sway of her hips against his upper thighs, her taut stomach, encased in sleek silk, stroking over his already significant erection—he couldn’t help but grin, yet he could see in her expression, tell from her watchfulness, that her question was serious and his answer important. He looked inward—and somewhat to his surprise found the truth waiting to be uttered, all but on his tongue. “I like it—I like having you beside me, mentally if not always physically, in an investigation.” He paused, then confessed, “I didn’t know how much I’d missed it—your involvement—not until you insisted and pressed, and forced your way back.” An idea—a truth—occurred to him; for an instant, he considered holding it back but then drew breath and, with her warm and vital in his arms, admitted, “I suspect—I believe—that I need your intelligence, your mind, engaged and committed, to strike the brightest sparks from mine.” His voice lowered; his next words came from somewhere so deep that their utterance felt like a catharsis. “Without you by my side, I will never be the best I can be.”

Penelope read the truth in his blue eyes, the cerulean hue brilliantly bright even in the muted light. She heard the echo in his deep, rough tone, felt it in her heart, in her bones.

Letting the curve of her lips deepen, she stretched up and drew his lips to hers. Murmured, in the instant before their lips met, “We’re a pair, you and I—just as well we’re doing this together.”

She pressed upward and sealed his lips with hers, kissed him—then let her lips part in invitation, let the reins slide from her grasp, and sensed him make the same decision, and surrender to the moment, to the night. To her.

To them, together.

Clothes fell to the floor, hands whispered over skin. Stroked, caressed, and kneaded.

Pleasure was their only goal—that, and togetherness.

Sharing, not just their bodies but each other’s delight, the joys and the thrills and the passion-filled yearning, they divested each other of all restraint.