Henrietta, her hands flying to her bosom, was overwhelmed as the chamber filled up with jostling, laughing men, Matthew calm and robed at their centre.
‘The posset! Bring in the posset!’ The aroma of hot spiced wine tinged the air, chasing away the delicate scent of rosewater. The two-handled loving-cup was splashed full and passed to Matthew by Lord Willoughby who exhorted him to drink deep. ‘Sweet and strong, that's what you need tonight, my boy.’
In the second before she closed her eyes on a tide of embarrassment Henrietta saw Matthew's mouth twitch sardonically. He might not have been to a country wedding before, but he was certainly in no doubt as to the older man's meaning.
‘Thank you, my friends, for your good offices and no doubt excellent advice. I shall endeavour to follow all of it.’ Henrietta wondered if it was possible for the floor to open up and swallow her and the bed both. ‘Now, may I suggest you escort the ladies to the long gallery where you will find a light supper laid out?’
There was loud laughter, and ribald suggestions, then the whole party surged out, leaving an echoing silence behind them.
Cautiously Henrietta opened her eyes. For a moment she thought the big chamber was empty, then she saw Matthew leaning against the panels of the oak door, the key in his hand.
The collar of his nightshirt was very white against the tobacco-brown velvet of the chamber robe tied loosely at the neck. His feet were bare on the oak boards and his green eyes were warm and steady on her face.
For a long moment each regarded the other in silence, Henrietta's breathing so shallow that she could hear his rasping slightly in this throat, the only outward manifestation of his feelings.
Across the courtyard music struck up again as the guests resumed their celebrations, but they could have been a million miles away from the two alone in the candle-lit room. Then Matthew began to walk across the emptiness towards her. At the foot of the bed he stopped, one hand on the hangings, and looked into her eyes. Henrietta gazed back, drowning in the intensity, afraid yet yearning for what was to come, the touch of his hands, the touch of his lips…
‘You are beautiful, Henrietta. Your loveliness threatens to unman me.’
Henrietta trembled, her fingers tightening on the ribbon at her neck. She wanted him to come to her so badly, yet she could not find the words to tell him so. Her tongue did not yet know the phrases.
He must have mistaken her trembling for apprehension. His face softened and he came to kneel beside the bed, his hand covering hers at her breast.
Henrietta waited breathless for his kiss, but instead he threaded his fingers into hers, pulling her hand gently to make her rise. ‘Come, wife, there is something I want to show you.’
Henrietta allowed herself to be led to the south window, the hems of their robes whispering across the bare boards. Matthew threw back the hangings and sat in the window seat, pulled her down to sit in front of him on the wide tapestry cushion, his arms coming round to cradle her against his warmth.
‘What do you see?’ He was whispering into her hair.
‘Why, Winterbourne.’ She could see in the moonlight out over the orchard, past the gatehouse, across the wide fields where a barn owl glided, soft as a snowflake.
‘Yes, Winterbourne. Not the house, but the land and the people. It was here long before our time and it will be here long after we are gone. Here for our great-grandchildren, Henrietta.’
She turned, her cheek on his shoulder, and looked up at the tranquil face above hers. ‘What are you telling me, Matthew?’
‘That you and I are part of the tapestry and we have our own picture to weave that is but part of the greater whole. That now England is at peace we should not war. Let us put aside the past, live in harmony for the sake of our people and our children.’
If he had but spoken of love she would gladly have forgotten everything that divided them: the casket, his politics, his first wife, but no words of love had passed his lips.
But though she couldn't forget those things they could not stop her loving him, wanting him, she knew that now. And he was so close, his warmth and strength encompassed her. With a little sigh, half-regret, half-desire, she twisted in his embrace, her arms around his neck, and sought his lips.
His mouth on hers, Matthew stood, lifted her and carried her to the waiting bed. He laid her among the soft goose-feather bolsters and reached to pinch out each candle in turn.
The moonlight was bright in the room, silvering his skin as he shed the night robe, then the shirt after it. The bed dipped as Matthew joined her, then all Henrietta was aware of was the sensation of his warm fingers as he smoothed back the fragile lawn to brush the sensitive skin of her breasts.
Chapter Fifteen
Hot, bare flesh under her fingers, warm breath fanning her face, an unaccustomed weight next to her dipping the feather mattress. . .
Henrietta blinked and opened her eyes to brilliant sunshine spilling through the uncurtained south window, over the boards, across the foot of the bed to splash a thick golden bar across Matthew's naked back. He was lying face down, his head cradled in the crook of his arm, still deep in sleep. Cautiously Henrietta lifted her hand from his back and eased herself into a sitting position against the pillows. For the first time in her eighteen years she found herself looking at a man's unclothed body. Her husband's body. The body of the man with whom she'd just spent the night.
She had never realised a man could be described as beautiful, but he was. The long, taut, finely muscled body, the smooth suppleness of his skin, the satisfying symmetry of shoulder and hip stirred everything female in her. She stretched out a fingertip to trace the dipping line of his spine then drew it back, afraid to wake him before she had come to terms with this familiar stranger in her bed.
The Matthew who had come to her bed, taken her virginity in the moonlight, he was
a different man from this one who would soon wake in broad daylight, look at her with new eyes. Last night he had wooed her with gentleness, caressed her awakening body with infinite patience and skill until he had swept her up in a passion that overrode all shame.
Henrietta's hand stole blindly out to taste his skin again, feel the unexpectedly smooth texture over the hard muscle beneath. Were all men this curious combination of rough and smooth, force and sensitivity? She could only guess, having nothing in her experience to compare with last night.