“Thank you,” he said
“For what?”
“For ignoring the fact I behaved deplorably. Not at all like the marquess and gentleman I’m supposed to be.”
Confused, she asked, “Surely you jest? You are a marquess and a gentleman to the core of your being. Don’t ever think otherwise. I don’t, neither does anyone else.”
“Yes. Well.” He placed his large hands on top of hers, and warmth settled nicely inside her heart. “Sometimes I’ve disregarded my morals and...We can speak about that another time.” He turned toward her, his arms around her back and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “After your travels and the excitement you endured you need your rest. Allow me to escort you to your chamber.”
She didn’t want to leave the library. She’d never been this close physically and emotionally with Amesbury, and pray tell, she didn’t want it to end. Elizabeth’s insides quaked at the thought of breaking the connection with him. It may be all she ever received from him. She loved him, and she believed he cared for her, but would anything come from it? After all, he’d been betrothed once for a whole year and the marriage never took place. Something she’d always pondered about. Indeed, she was elated the nuptials never took place, but still...she wondered.
He’d been stricken with a mysterious illness, which still remained a mystery. During that time Lady Beth’s father ended the betrothal under baffling circumstances. Elizabeth wanted to know what happened so if by some miracle they become affianced, it wouldn’t have the same outcome. She swallowed her gasp at realizing for the first time they shared the same name. Would fate be cruel a second time? No, she refused to believe any such thing.
Tilting her head up, she looked at the man holding her. If he truly looked into her eyes he’d see love and longing. A love so deep she believed she’d never be whole if he didn’t return it. A longing so extreme even she didn’t understand all she longed for.
His Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed hard and loud, fascinating her. “We should...” he said in a deep baritone.
Suddenly parched, her tongue darted out and slid across her lips.
He groaned.
She whispered, “I agree, we should.”
His eyes flickered from her lips to her eyes and back, causing her body to sway closer and tingles to dance up her spine.
“Should what?” he murmured.
As the air expelled from her lungs, she said the word fast before she lost her nerve, “Kiss.”
A KISS? WHAT HARM COULD one little kiss cause? Edward new the moment his lips came in contact with hers, control would vanish for him. As he held her soft, pliant body, which trembled in his arms now, he knew he had to taste her. He was a man being offered a kiss by the woman he cared for most in his life, even if he never admitted it to anyone, much less her. How could he refuse her request for a kiss? He would do anything to never see disappointment on her face.
Her full, newly moist, pink lips slightly parted, tempted him, so he did what came natural. He dropped his head and captured her mouth. A mewing sound escaped her. He splayed his hand on the small of her back and pulled her close, so their bodies touched intimately where it mattered most. Neither of their scant clothing provided much of a barrier. His hips were forward, his arousal making full contact with her lower stomach, and he groaned with need. A need so deep within his soul, it frightened him.
Tilting his head for better access, he thrust his tongue inside her warm mouth. It traveled to unexplored places and crevices, her hands moved to his hair and held on as she swirled her tongue with his and became an avid participant in the mating of their mouths.
Again her body trembled and little sighs and moans came here and there when she breathed. Her hands moved from his hair down his back. Tentatively they caressed side to side and up and down, fueling his lust he could not get release from. Not with Elizabeth. Not unless they wed. When they wed. Wed?
Disconnecting from her emotionally and physically, he stepped back twice, took a deep shaky breath, and let it out. Ignoring her parted, swollen lips, her glazed eyes, he spoke. “I’ll see you to your room.” It amazed him the words came out without relaying all the emotions warring inside him.
She blinked, her eyes focusing, and she frowned. He waited several moments for her to speak. “Thank you.”
When they reached the door to her chamber, he bent down and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Sleep well.”
Once inside his rooms, he poured himself a brandy and sat by the warm hearth. What was he to do about Elizabeth? If the world were a perfect, happy place he would marry her in a second and produce heirs. She would say yes if he asked. He could see it in her lovely blue eyes. He may as well admit to himself that he did indeed love her. So why did his heart ache so? Why, after dealing with his past issues of family loss, guilt that he lived with and his addiction to opium, did he suddenly feel unsettled and on the verge of out of control behavior. He’d been getting better. Dealing with all his problems with a clear head. Except fear. Fear that Spencer, when he found out the truth of his past, would refuse to allow Elizabeth and he to wed. Fear as an emotion, was the one that terrorized him now. He’d not experienced this depth of fear in the past not since the carriage accident. He’d had nothing to lose since then. Now that he had Elizabeth to lose, fear twisted in his gut, refusing to ease.
Spencer would find out from him about his life since the accident because he owed it to the man to know the truth about him, about an unspeakable past that embarrassed and mortified him. A past that plagued him and made him unworthy of loving someone like Elizabeth.
If he lay with Elizabeth, his vile hands would soil her and bring her down to his depraved level.
When he’d sent out the invitations to all his friends to come to his country house for a midsummer get-a-away, he’d not thought clearly. Too many of his friends’ wives were increasing or had just given birth, leaving the Spencer family the only ones unencumbered to attend.
He was nothing but thrilled Spencer and his family were attending, he’d just hoped Wentworth and Myles would be here to boost his confidence. Not once since his family died, had anyone been to Cliff House. His favorite of his homes by far. His ancestral home was in Northern England, a place he rarely visited. The estate manager was competent and sent him monthly updates.
Indeed, this was the first time he’d entertained, and he prayed it turned out successful with the help of his butler and housekeeper. He had his doubts. Not with the way it had started. Poor Smythe. The runner really needed to find a less dangerous profession. Edward also needed Spencer and Miranda to arrive so he wouldn’t be tempted to kiss Elizabeth again...or worse...seduce her.
THE MOMENT AMESBURY closed the door to her bedchamber, Elizabeth ignored the fact that he dismissed her rather abruptly in the library and ran to her bed. Diving facedown she relived the passionate kiss. Rolling onto her back, her quivering fingers touched her lips, she closed her eyes, and sighed deeply. Good Lord, tonight’s kiss didn’t compare to the short one he’d given her before. He’d used his tongue then, but she’d not participated. Her cheeks heated and she patted them. Innocent debutants gossiped how they thought kissing with tongues unpleasant. Nothing remotely unpleasant about it.
Quite the opposite. It felt right and natural. Somehow she’d known what to do this time once his tongue slipped inside her mouth. Elizabeth suddenly knew how to kiss him back without awkwardness or restraint. Everything in the room had melted away, and nothing existed but the two of them. If strangers kissed, would they feel the same emotions? She hoped and wanted to believe the answer was no. That only Amesbury could make her feel the longing she’d experienced. And she desperately hoped he felt the same only with her.
As she drifted off to sleep curled up on her side, her hands pillowed beneath her cheek, she dreamed of her next kiss with Amesbury and hoped she didn’t have to wait an eternity.
Chapter Four
Mary startled awake sometime during the night after
having bad dreams was disheartened to find Elizabeth had left her alone. Shivering from the cold, as she’d kicked off the coverlet, most likely do to her nightmare. Bits and pieces of her wretched dream came to her. She remembered rivers of blood, people screaming, and Mr. Smythe trying hard to save everyone he could from the monsters attacking a small village. A village, it appeared she and he lived in after they married. Monsters she could hardly see attacked in the dead of night. They were unearthly shadows wielding claymores and guns, killing all they came across—be it woman, man, child, or animal. Smythe and several other men she didn’t recognize battled the shadows to no avail. Their weapons went through the transparent beings. Mary saw herself, as though she floated about the carnage, holding an infant and watching wide-eyed out a second story window. The room overflowing with other people trying to hide as well. They believed Smythe could save them. Mary wasn’t convinced he could save himself, never mind anyone else.
Blood covered his face, his arms, and stained his white shirt. He slashed with a sword—long since out of ammunition for his guns and rifle. Not that he would’ve had time to reload anyway. The monsters didn’t reload. Their bullets were one endless stream after another. They could move so fast you never witnessed the actual movement. They went from one spot to another in a blink of an eye.
She took a deep shuddering breath hoping to ease her pounding heart and worried mind. The dream had seemed so real. Still seemed real as she relived it now. Mary’s body was exhausted, her mind anguished as though she’d actually lived through it. That it occurred for real, not in a dream. Taking several breaths, in and out, she tried to ignore the images emblazoned on her mind. Because the nightmare didn’t end well for any living soul in the village. Not her. Not her baby. Not Smythe.
Mary needed to see him. Needed to convince herself the dream hadn’t transpired. That he lived and breathed. After donning her robe over her night rail, she quietly opened her chamber door, not wanting to wake anyone up, not wanting to be found wandering the halls in the middle of the night. Or being found inside Smythe’s room at this hour. That would be disastrous.
Taking a moment outside his door to gather herself, she placed one hand over her heart, willing it to calm. When she believed she was composed, she knocked gently, hearing nothing and not expecting to if he were alone and sleeping. She opened the door a crack, peered inside, and let out the breath she’d been holding. A lone candle burned beside the bed, illuminating Mr. Smythe. Dying embers that glowed from the hearth cast shadows throughout the rest of the room and sent an ice-cold chill up her spine. The shadows reminded her of her nightmare.
Opening the door just wide enough for her to sneak inside, she entered and closed it silently. Leaning against the closed, wooden door, she gulped in air feeling as though she’d run across an open field with the hounds of hell chasing her so winded she was. When would her mind stop running away with morbid thoughts and images?
While she caught her breath, her eyes fell on Mr. Smythe lying on his back, looking pale beneath the white covers. Since he spent much time out of doors, his skin was usually darker than most, making him appear much paler now. His contrasting dark brown hair didn’t help.
Obviously he’d lost more blood than she’d realized. Silently approaching his bedside on bare feet, she sat on a cold wooden chair someone had pulled next to the bed. She tugged the fabric of her robe up by her neck, pulling it closer together, hoping to ward off the chill. It helped somewhat but not nearly enough to chase the cold away.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
At hearing his words, her shoulders slumped forward. “Please forgive my intrusion.” She stood. “I’ll leave you alone then.”
“Please stay.”
She sat back down, the rejection of seconds ago replaced with joy. “Thank you.”
“You shouldn’t be here, but I would appreciate it if you would stay.” He turned his head to look at her, his brown eyes glazed in pain and something else. “Mr. Spencer would have my hide if he knew you were in here.”
“Then it is a good thing he’s not arriving for four more days.” Since she’d already ignored propriety, she scooted the chair up against the bed and placed her hand on his, shocked at how chilled it felt. “Excuse me a moment.” Heading over to the fireplace, Mary placed two large logs on the coals. Using the poker, she poked and prodded until flames licked up thick and bright. Without hesitation she returned to the chair and covered his hand with hers again.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“The fire. I was lying here pondering how the hell...pardon me...how I was going to drag my broken body over to do what you just did easily enough. For that I’m grateful.”
“It was nothing.”
His friendly eyes widened and he smiled. “It was everything. People don’t usually do for me—I do for them. So please know how grateful I am for your friendship.”
She squeezed his hand, removed hers, and curled them together on her lap. “Tell me about your life?”
He made a sound resembling a snort. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“I beg to differ. I find you fascinating.” Oh dear, had she really voiced that out loud? What must he think?
Once again his lips curved into a smile. Mary had no idea how old Mr. Smythe was, perhaps thirty, but when he smiled as he just did, he looked younger.
“You do realize nothing can come of our friendship. It can never go further?”
“Oh dear.” Heat suffused her cheeks, scalding them. “Go further?”
His eyes and demeanor turned serious. “What I have to say may shock you. I’m not used to having conversations about feelings with the aristocracy. Indeed, not with a gently bred innocent as yourself, so please accept my apologies if I shock your sensibilities. Where I come from, we speak our mind using plain words. “Ever since we met, the time I was stabbed while working for your brother, and you sat at my bedside, much as you are now, I’ve had thoughts and dreams of you.”
“You have?” Mary was shocked at how breathless her voice sounded.
“Improper thoughts.”
“Oh dear.” His words had her squirming in the chair. And not just her face heating this time, the warmth encompassed her entire body.
“It would shock you if you knew my thoughts.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s not proper for a lady’s ears.”
“Tell me anyway.” More breathlessness. Heat along with tingles in her body intensified. If only she understood the meaning.
He inhaled a ragged breath and exhaled. “First and foremost I kiss you and hold you in my arms. You’re a perfect fit to me. Everything about you is perfect. I worship your body with mine.”
She gasped and her whole body engulfed in flames at hearing such improper words.
“Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes. No. Some.”
He groaned. “I would give my life to be the man to introduce you to the carnal pleasures of the body. To make love to you.” He groaned again and shut his eyes—a pained expression taking over his face. “It is never to be. And for that I’m eternally sorry. You will find a gentleman of worth to marry, and God help him if he doesn’t make you happy and treat you respectfully.”
Mary could hardly breathe. He sounded so melancholy. “What is your Christian name?”
“Robert. After my father.”
“Who is your father?”
“He was a Viscount. My mother was his...mistress.”
“Are they both...”
“Dead. Yes.”
“I take it he never acknowledged you as his bas...”
“You can say it. Bastard. I am a bastard.” He spoke the words with such discussed. “No. According to my mother he loved her and treated her like a princess. When he learned my mother was breeding, he threw her out of the home he’d rented for her with nothing but the clothes on her back and what little coin she’d squirreled away from the years as his mistress. So much fo
r love. Shortly after I was born in the sewers of London the money ran out. You can use your imagination to fill in the rest.”
On occasion Mary would glimpse courtesans or mistresses going by in an open carriage. They dressed nicely and looked happy especially if their protector accompanied them. Mary didn’t believe their life was a happy one. Always at the whim of their male protector who could decide at any moment to replace them with someone younger and more beautiful. Then there were the street whores who plied their trade on the open streets. Dirty, poor and most likely diseased. Mary’s stomach clenched to think of Smythe’s mother in such a way.
“I’m too raw to relieve the demoralizing of my mother right now. Or her slow agonizing death from consumption when I was eight. She’d been a gently born daughter of a vicar, fallen in love with my father, given herself to him believing he’d marry her. One cannot marry for a second time when one’s wife still lives.”
“Robert.” Mary leaned forward, grabbing his hand with both of hers. “May I call you Robert?”
“Yes. The viscount, after two years, came looking for my mother. His wife had died in childbirth, the babe as well. He planned to beg my mother for forgiveness. When he realized she whored herself for money, he deserted us again. It was more than my mother could bear. She spiraled into despair. She’d always been choosey when picking a lover, not anymore. A succession of men came and went. Some rich, some poor, some sadistic bastards that beat her. I truly believe she hoped one of them killed her.”
“Robert, I don’t know what to say.” She didn’t. She believed her tears dampening her cheeks said it all. “Can I still be your friend?” The thought of not being his friend pained her heart and the burning lump in her throat made breathing difficult.
“I don’t believe your brother would allow it. I think our friendship should end tonight, and I shall go back to being your brother’s employee. Nothing more, nothing less. Please forgive me for causing you the anguish I see in your dim blue eyes.”
The Spencer Sisters Forbidden Loves and Broken Hearts Page 4
