A talk of the future

*Julia*

I don’t feel quite comfortable not wearing black, but neither do I want to go down to dinner wearing the austere bombazine, with buttons secured up to my throat and at my wrists. So I chose a gown of black silk and lace, an off-the-shoulder style that is at once elegant and respectful, and if I were honest with myself, also seductive.

I see the approval in Nick’s eyes when I join him in the library before dinner, and am very much aware of it during dinner. In the small dining room, I sit at the foot of the table that would accommodate eight, so I can look at him head-on, rather than his profile.

I want, need whatever it is we may be moving toward to be different from what it is we are edging away from.

“I was thinking of rearranging the family wing,” I announced during our third course.

Studying me over his glass of red wine, he nods. “Rearrange the entire residence if you like.”

“Not the furniture so much as the people. I thought about moving into another set of suites.”

Where I have no memories of being with Noah, where everything will be fresh and new and different.

His gaze never waves from mine. “Splendid. But I also want you to feel free to replace any furniture, any art, anything that isn’t to your taste. Neither my brother nor I ever had any sentimental attachment to anything here. We never knew much of the history behind the items. A consequence of not living here in our youth.”

“I’ve always found the residence welcoming. I only want to move to another set of suites for a bit of a change.”

“As you wish.”

I didn’t expect that he would deny me; I didn’t think he would deny me anything I asked.

Our conversation during dinner isn’t as lively as it has once been. We are both treading lightly. I worry now about revealing something to the servants I shouldn’t, slipping up. I can’t call him Noah. I know differently now. Although I know wives who refer to their husbands by their title, I have always found it a bit odd, Greystorm or my Alpha being so formal and distant.

When we are finished with our desserts, he invites me to join him in the library. As I walk into the room that no longer reminds me of Noah, but rather of Nick, I stroll over to the shelves, studying the volumes lined up like well-disciplined soldiers. “I thought I might read aloud tonight.”

Having some form of planned entertainment will remove a little of the strain of striving to come up with conversation.

I am suddenly acutely aware of him at my back, the heat radiating from his body warming my exposed flesh. My breath holds, I wait, even as my heart pumps with a madness that makes me light-headed. He reaches up toward a bookshelf, the opening of his jacket barely floating over the curve of my shoulder, as light as a butterfly’s fluttering wings just before it lands on a petal. Inhaling deeply, I take in his purely masculine fragrance, wondering why I have ever thought his scent was the same as Noah’s. His is more tart, more bold. He is not one for subtlety.

“This one would prove interesting,” he says, his voice low, provocative, hypnotic.

I want to turn into him, press my cheek against the center of his chest, and have his arms close around me. But it is too soon for such intimacy. I need to be more certain of my feelings, that we are not influenced by grief and the prospect of loneliness. So I stay as I am, watching as he slowly tips back the leather-bound book, brings it down and places it in my hands.

He steps away. “Brandy?”

“Yes, please.” Why do I have to sound breathless, why is it that he always manages to so easily send my nerve endings rioting?

Cursing the unsteadiness of my legs, I make my way to a chair near the fireplace. He hands me a snifter, and I study the reflection of the flames in the glass, in the amber.

“To new beginnings,” he says, raising his own snifter.

I look over at him, lounging back in the chair, so casual, so comfortable. Always at ease with himself, always confident as to his place, even when that place has been as a second son, younger brother. Even when that place had been pretending to be Noah.

After taking a sip of my drink, I set it aside, turning my attention to the book resting in my lap and burst out laughing. “The Husbandry of Sheep?”

“There’s an excellent chapter on breeding, quite titillating.”

“You’ve read it?” I don’t bother to hide my skepticism.

“When I was a teen it was the most risque reading we could find. I was quite good at embellishing the narrative whenever I read it to the others.” He holds out his hand. “Would you care for me to demonstrate?”

Smiling, I shake my head. “How did I ever believe for a single second that you were

Noah?”

“Because the alternative was unthinkable, and that’s what I was counting on.”

And now the thought of him being dead is unthinkable. I set the book aside, pick up my glass, and take another sip. “What if Noa is the only child, healthy and strong, I shall ever bring into the world?”

“I don’t want you for your breeding capabilities.”

But he should. Now that we know the troubles that plague me, I am an awful choice for him, for a man who needs an heir.

“That said,” he begins slowly, “I very much want you for the act that leads to breeding.”

He speaks of mating as though it isn’t something that should be limited to beds and darkness. My face warms with the thought of us finishing what we have merely begun. “You’re a bad influence.”

“You like that about me.”

I do, but it is more than that. “There are aspects of myself that cause me to experience a sense of shame. I am left with the impression that in a similar circumstance, you would experience no humiliation.”

Leaning forward, he braces his elbows on his thighs, his hands cupping the bowl of the snifter as though it were an offering. “I’ve always been of the opinion that what people do in private is of no one else’s concern.”

His gaze is so intense, practically boring into me, and I have to fight to hold it. “What if I wanted to do something that you found disgusting?”

“Such as?”

Why have I traveled here? “You are already quite familiar with my penchant for whispering naughty words.”

“Based on my reaction that unfortunate night, I should think you would be well aware that I have no objections to any words you would utter. Some of my favorites are naughty ones. Words should bring you no shame. What else?”

Taking another sip, I realize I haven’t really considered his reaction that night. I have been angered by his deceit, mortified that he heard my words, but it wad my own shame that had prompted my reaction. He has never given me any cause to experience a sense of degradation. He has never teased, chastised, nor tormented me for the folly of my actions. I circle my finger around the rim of the glass. “Sometimes, I think about putting my mouth where I shouldn’t.”

“Where exactly?”

“Your...” I nod toward his lap, or try to.

“My cock?”

I glower at him. “You say the word with such ease.”

“It’s a good word. Trust me, I would not take offense if you put your mouth there.”

“I’m not talking about putting it on the word, but on the object. And I don’t know why you make me think such wicked things.”

“Look at me.”

It is much easier to stare at the fire. Maybe I should leap into it.