Page 10 of The Viscount, the Blacksmith, and the Lady
“Quickly,” he whispered, voice gruff with unsated need. He straightened his apron and ran a hand through his tousled, sweat-dampened hair, while Zee scrambled to straighten her gown.
“Stay here. I’ll get rid of him,” he said as he moved toward the entrance.
He promptly took care of his caller, then returned to Zee. By now, reason had returned, and he stayed out of reach. He wasn’t sure which of them was more likely to start something again. He just knew the time wasn’t now for them to kiss, or anything more pleasurable. “There’s no need for you to wait. I’ll take your horse to the stable later, after I replace the shoe.”
“Thank you, Owen.” She leaned toward him as if to kiss him again, perhaps just a brief farewell, but she turned and left.
He watched her walk away, curious about her reaction to him. Did the fact that she was so eager for his touch mean she found him to be the better lover, after all? Or had they simply awakened a hunger in her she’d kept under control until now?
Either way, he planned to keep her happy as often as he could in the future. He didn’t want to wait until the harvest festival to make love to her again. He’d have to find a way to see her alone before then.
CHAPTER SIX
Simon settled into the rigid chair in his grandfather’s study, his posture as straight and formal as the severe lines of the desk before him. The room was a shrine to somber reflection, every inch polished to a meticulous shine. Portraits of long-dead ancestors glared down at him from their gilded frames, each face etched with disapproval for any deviation from duty. The weight of expectation hung heavy in the air, thick as the damask drapes that shielded the room from the comforting light of day.
His grandfather’s summons had been a succinct, though non-revealing, note. Since Simon hadn’t exceeded his income in the past three years, and it was even longer since he’d seen the friends with whom he’d pulled several pranks at school, that left only one topic of discussion.
Marriage.
His grandfather’s silhouette loomed large in front of the window, the earl’s back turned toward Simon as he detailed the state of his properties, all of which would one day be Simon’s.
Then he got to the point, turning to face Simon. “It’s time you took a wife.”
Simon’s jaw clenched, a visceral reaction to the words that seemed to echo through the room. “I am scarcely five-and-twenty. There is time yet before such measures need to be taken.”
The earl leaned forward, his gaze piercing as if it could carve the very thoughts from Simon’s mind and lay them out upon the desk between them. “Time, my boy, is a luxury we do not possess. Your father was but thirty-four when consumption took him. Your uncles fared little better, all with poor health and your siblings... well, you know the sorrow that befell our house.”
Simon didn’t need his grandfather to list everyone in their family who had died tragically young. He’d lost an older brother and younger sister, both before they’d reached their teens. His mother succumbed to a fever just before his twentieth birthday, leaving him alone, other than his grandfather, who’d never been a nurturing sort.
“Secure the lineage, Simon,” the earl urged, his voice a blend of command and entreaty. “For the sake of our family, for the future of Staplegrove.”
Simon’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as he prepared for the discussion he knew was coming. They discussed his future from time to time. He didn’t want the type of marriage his grandfather had. To marry without love, to bind himself to a stranger for the sole purpose of producing an heir—it was anathema to all he desired.
Yet as he looked into the eyes of the earl, he saw not only the reflection of his own apprehension but also the fear of a legacy extinguished. The echo of his father’s laughter, the ghostly memories of his uncles’ wisdom, and the fleeting joy of siblings lost too soon swirled around him, a chorus urging his acquiescence.
The earl took a seat behind the desk, resting his elbows on the polished wood, steepling his fingers. “I had initially contemplated a match with Lady Vivian Crestwood?—”
A distant cousin, Simon recalled, whom he had met once at a summer ball, a pretty sort with little conversation to recommend her. His chest tightened at the prospect, the walls of the study seeming to inch closer with each word Grandfather uttered.
“However,” the earl continued, oblivious to Simon’s growing discomfort, “I have since considered a more advantageous match.”
Simon’s breath hitched. This was not the life he enjoyed—bartering his happiness for lineage, his future traded like livestock at market. He fought to keep his expression placid, though internally he raged against the notion of such cold pragmatism dictating his heart’s fate.
“Sir Edward’s daughter, Miss Anne, is to make her debut in the spring. An alliance with their family would be most beneficial. His father lived to be eighty-three.”
The words struck Simon like a winter chill cutting through the heavy velvet drapes. A young woman—a stranger—whose name was now being etched into the ledger of his destiny without so much as a by-your-leave. His mind rebelled at the image conjured. He’d end up standing beside a bride whose eyes held no spark for him, whose touch would never stir the deep well of passion he yearned to explore.
“Her dowry is substantial, and her breeding impeccable,” Grandfather pressed on, as if listing the qualities of a prized mare rather than a wife.
Simon’s hands flexed, the joints hurting from being fisted so tightly. The very idea of laying claim to a woman he did not know, could not love, felt akin to donning a suit of armor that would suffocate all that lay within. Yet, he could not let the turmoil show. It would serve no purpose but to deepen the rift between duty and desire.
“Your considerations are most thorough, Grandfather,” Simon managed. He’d been to London during the Season and had met some lovely ladies of the sort the earl sought. They were well-mannered, excellent dancers, and would be proper wives.
They wouldn’t fit into the life he preferred. He envisioned a woman who shared his love for such pastimes as fishing. A woman whose laughter blended with the bubbling of the river, whose delight in the simplicity of country life matched his own.
Xenia’s face came to mind. If this imaginary woman were daring enough to slip from her garments beside the river, her skin kissed by sunlight as he partook of her beauty, all the better. Her spontaneity would ignite a fire within him, a fire that only grew as she glanced over her shoulder with an impish smile, inviting Owen to join in their secluded revelry.
The thought of Owen being part of that tryst sent a shiver through Simon. The shared pleasure of pleasing her, watching her surrender to the dual sensations they provided—it was a thought both scandalous and intoxicating.