The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(61)

“No one will question it. Besides, I don’t care about the scandal sheets.” Even if society might frown, he wanted this time with her alone. They’d be discreet and no one would be the wiser. He stood and held out his hand to her. She hesitated a moment as if unsure what the gesture meant. As far as he was concerned, it could mean whatever she wanted.

For him, the touch of her hand in his meant the world.

*

After March had changed her slippers for her sturdy half boots and a warm wool pelisse, Michael had escorted her outside for a tour of Langham Park. He’d explained the design of the formal gardens was the forethought of the second Duchess of Langham. Their destination was a grove of trees of various species deep within the park’s center.

Every ducal offspring for generations had planted trees on their tenth birthday. Michael had chosen a mighty oak, William had planted a sturdy elm, and Emma’s choice was a flashy maple. The trio of trees reigned majestically above them. The slight fog that had developed didn’t hide the magnificence of the trees and the lasting impact they had on the park.

The siblings’ trees on the grounds were a testament to the strength of the family and their heritage. It reminded March of her own history and the ties she had. As if Michael sensed the visit to the park would bring her comfort, he continued to share his family’s history and encouraged her to do the same.

After the walk, he took her to his townhouse where they had a lovely tea. The respite lifted her spirits, and he charmed her throughout the meal with tales of his childhood and shared the trials and tribulations of being the Langham ducal heir. They discussed Bennett’s future education and the possible matches her sisters’ might make this year during the official Season. However, since Parliament had been in session since November, many important social events had already taken place.

After they left Michael’s home, they had taken his carriage to her family’s townhouse. After he’d shared so much of his life, she wanted to do the same with him. She drank in the comfort of his rich voice and his nearness as they discussed everything and nothing during the day. Slowly, her melancholy disappeared, and she found herself laughing and smiling as she led him through the front door.

Once inside, they headed to her father’s library. It was her favorite room in the townhouse as they’d spent many a night there as a family. Michael made quick work of lighting a fire, and soon the room was ablaze in comforting warmth.

“Where did your father get this?” He stood beside the desk where an ornate gold inkstand rested. Engraved with the Royal Arms of Great Britain in the center, each side of the base featured the royal arms of four Continental European powers—Austria, Prussia, Russia, and Denmark.

March smiled at the memory of her father’s pride as she discussed the piece. “My father was instrumental in creating an alliance with those countries against France. He was present at the signing of the treaties and given the inkstand in appreciation for all his hard work.”

Michael’s fingers stroked the intricate scrollwork. The gesture caused a tingling to erupt in her stomach, and goose bumps raced across her arms. She fought the overwhelming urge to close the distance between them. She wanted his strong fingers caressing her in the same manner. He strolled to a drum table next to a settee and picked up several etchings. They were from her father’s travels to Italy during his grand tour. His gaze captured hers, and her heart flipped as if trained to respond to his every glance.

Suddenly, his face beamed. “How did your father get all these portraits of me?”

The rumble of his deep voice and his teasing tone made her gasp in delightful outrage at such an audacious question. Offering such a handsome smile, she was powerless to resist him and moved to stand beside him. “What portraits?”

“Look for yourself,” he offered. In his large hands were three different etchings of David by Donatello, Verrocchio, and Michelangelo. Michael studied her with that fiery heat in his gaze that always caused her cheeks to flame. “Didn’t you call me David once?” he whispered. “Tell me again which one you think I favor?”

“Did I compare you to David? I’d forgotten,” she countered.

“Well, I didn’t,” he smirked. His grin gave her a glimpse of what he must have looked like as a young boy. His expression transformed him from a powerful lord to a playful imp, one who waited to torment her with his pranks.

“Donatello’s sculpture is a youth full of himself.” As she took the etchings from Michael, their fingers touched, and she immediately felt a shock of electricity. She snatched her hand away from the contact of his warm skin against hers. “As he should be, since he slayed the giant.”

“I see that,” he murmured. “But there’s more, don’t you agree?” He traced the length of David’s leg where the decorative wing on Goliath’s helmet wrapped around the youth until it touched his genitals. “In his conquest, David appears almost provocative in a sexual sense.”

His cadence had slowed, and his voice had grown deeper. She straightened her shoulders and regarded Michael as proof to him, but more importantly to herself, that she would control this conversation. His lips spread into a wider smile as if he recognized his effect on her.

March wrinkled her nose in a weak protest. “Andrea del Verrocchio’s sculpture makes David appear cocky, sure of himself and his abilities after he slayed his foe. Goliath’s head at his feet is proof of his prowess.” She hummed low in her throat. “Definitely, you resemble him. The pride and arrogance are unmistakable.” She gazed at the last etching, the one by Michelangelo, and her fingers traced the image of the strong line of his body. Immediately, she imagined caressing Michael in the same manner.