by Farr, Diane
Heat suddenly sparked in his eyes. In her ignorance, she had evidently said something tantalizing. “Do what you will,” he said. His slow smile promised things she knew nothing of, but the very sight of that smile made her tingle.
He leaned down and began leisurely kissing her, his lips moving slowly and softly against hers. Cynthia’s eyes drifted shut and she sighed, relaxing into his embrace. It differed amazingly from the bruising kisses he had given her at the door. Those had set her ablaze bright and fast, like a lightning strike. These kisses coaxed passion into flaring up, like a match held to paper. The fire licked along the edges of her being, warm and sweet. She hardly noticed when the fire caught; the moment was so subtle that it sneaked past her. One minute she was relaxed and drifting; the next, she was burning with need.
He seemed to sense it when she quickened in his arms. Cleverly, however, he did not increase the urgency of his kisses. He continued to coax her, kissing her with amazing softness even though she had turned from pliant to eager. But his hands began to move. Slowly, slowly. His fingers lightly traced her waist, then moved languidly up her rib cage. He must have felt, with his hand against her ribs, how rapid and shallow her breathing had become. He must know what he was doing to her. But he was giving her time... for what?
Through the confusion that swirled in her brain, drugged with his kisses, she realized what he was waiting for. He was waiting for her to acknowledge what she wanted. But what did she want? She didn’t know. She only knew that she wanted. Wanted desperately.
“Touch me,” she heard herself whisper. The words had risen from some deep, primitive part of her. This unacknowledged corner of her nature evidently knew, despite her inexperience, what she wanted. She wasn’t even sure she had said the words aloud, but she must have. He instantly complied.
He broke their kiss when his hand covered her breast, as if he could not concentrate on two such overwhelming tasks at once. A tiny sound emitted from his throat, a soft groan of tortured excitement that magnified her own. He stared at his hand on her, watching his fingers stroke and outline and pet, finding the contours of her body beneath the clothes that confined her. The sight of his hand touching her so brazenly seemed to arouse him, and the look of arousal on Derek’s face enhanced the sensation for Cynthia. She arched her back, wantonly inviting more.
His eyes lifted to hers, drowsy and heavy-lidded with the opiate of their intimacy. And then he lightly raked his nails across her bodice. A softer touch would not have penetrated her stays; this, however, sent a jolt of pure pleasure from the tips of her breasts all the way through her. Cynthia gasped, nearly crying out with startled delight.
“Do you like that, sweetheart?” he muttered thickly.
“Yes,” she replied, nearly sobbing with reaction. “Oh, yes.”
He used his nails, then, to scratch rhythmically across the taut fabric that pressed the tips of her breasts. She was soon writhing mindlessly beneath his hands. It was the sharpest, keenest pleasure she had ever felt—it was almost unbearable, it was so intense—and yet it left her wanting more.
Amid the haze of sensation, she became aware that Derek was pulling her up to a sitting posture. She felt his mouth against her neck, kissing her throat, and then he whispered, close to her ear, “Let’s get you out of these stays, my love.”
An hour ago, such a suggestion would have embarrassed her. Now, however, it seemed such an excellent idea that she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it herself.
* * *
Derek taught Cynthia many powerful things that night. She learned that skin against skin, hers against his, was indescribably lovely—as sweetly drugging as the fragrance of the orange blossoms. And soon after that, she learned that the gift of touch required a mutual trust, a shared vulnerability, that bound the two of them with ties that were every bit as spiritual as they were carnal. And, eventually, she learned that there were so many ways to express love that it was possible to keep her virginity while still sharing intimate knowledge of each other.
She also learned that men are different from women in more ways than she had guessed. Derek’s response to her touch was subtly different from her response to his. Hers was emotional, diffuse, and seemed to intensify at a gradual, ever-increasing pace. His response to her touch was swift, physical, and shattering in its intensity. She found his inability to resist her—the way his control broke under the weight of what she made him feel—completely thrilling.
But the most important thing she learned was that emotion and sensation could not be disentangled. One enhanced the other and, eventually, emotion and sensation joined, becoming one. In the crucible of passion, their love for each other and their desire for each other melded into a single, all-encompassing force.
It was only later that she learned how much of what she experienced this night had been new to Derek, too. She was deeply glad when he confessed, in an awestruck whisper, that none of his previous encounters had prepared him for this. The totality of making love to someone he actually loved, was nearly as startling a revelation to him as it had been to her.
And thus Derek and Cynthia discovered, together, the awesome paradox of love: that at the point where humanity surrenders to its animal nature, it most closely approaches the divine.
Chapter 19
Lady Ballymere slipped nervously out of bed and wrapped her dressing gown around her. She probably should lie abed and wait for Lucy to arrive with her morning tray—it was nearly her usual time to rise now—but she could not bear the suspense another instant.
She had lain awake during most of the night, nerves stretched nearly to the breaking point, and was, therefore, almost certain that Cynthia had never come in. But ‘almost’ was not certain enough. What if Cynthia had somehow returned without her hearing it? She had to know. She shoved her feet impatiently into the mules placed ready for her on the carpet, and hastened to the door that connected her room to her daughter’s.
The bed was empty. It was better than empty; it was untouched. A sigh of relief escaped her. The plan had worked! She had been so afraid during the night. A thousand things might have gone wrong, and in the wee hours of the morning she had been tortured by visions of disaster. But nothing had gone wrong.
The biggest gamble had been deceiving Cynthia. She had toyed with the notion of consulting her, but had decided against it in the end. Cynthia seemed to feel some silly scruples about attaching John Ellsworth, and heaven alone knew what game Cynthia was playing with Mr. Whittaker. So she had resolved that it was safer to deceive Cynthia as well as Mr. Ellsworth. Nevertheless, last night... after the die was cast and it was too late to turn back... she had suffered great anxiety regarding Cynthia’s reaction to the deception. She had wondered whether Cynthia would play along once she realized what her mother was trying to accomplish, or whether she would be angry. Evidently, she had played along. It would have been a fairly simple matter to escape the trap. All they need do was to break either the lock or one of the windows. Since they had evidently done neither, all must be well.
On the other hand, it would be a mistake to triumph too soon. There might be another reason why they had not broken out of the orangery; they might simply have felt squeamish about damaging His Grace’s property. The young couple might have decided that it was better to stay where they were until they were discovered, claim innocence, and brazen it out. Matters could yet go awry. Cynthia might yet prove defiant. There was still work to do, to bring this marriage about.
At any moment, Cynthia and Mr. Ellsworth must be discovered and freed. The kitchen maid would go out at some point to gather the breakfast oranges. She might, even now, be at the orangery. Lady Ballymere must act immediately to ensure that her careful scheme did not dwindle into mere kitchen gossip. It would take more than kitchen gossip to seal this contract. The entire household must be set abuzz.
With a determined stride, Lady Ballymere went to the bell rope and tugged vigorously on it. Lucy was probably already on her way, but no matter. She must send a si
gnal of agitation and uproar to everyone in the servants’ wing. She tugged and tugged and tugged. And then, after a pause, she tugged again.
A grim little smile flitted across her features as she pictured the racket she must be causing belowstairs. The servants would doubtless begin by cursing her impatience. Then, as they recognized the urgency of her repeated summons, curiosity would stir. They would exclaim and wonder and speculate. And when the kitchen maid returned from the orangery, big with news, they would be primed to expect something scandalous. They would gather, eager to hear her tale. And then the gossip would spread like wildfire through the house.
When Lucy appeared, Lady Ballymere was pacing like a tigress, her dressing gown swirling dramatically. She pounced on the startled servant the instant she saw her.
“Lucy, thank heaven you’ve arrived! You will never believe it. Oh, I am distracted! I am prostrate with nerves! I hardly know what I am saying.” She wrung her hands to emphasize how distraught she was, and lowered her voice to a shocked whisper. “Lady Cynthia is not here. She did not sleep in her bed last night. Oh! What could have happened to her? Where is my darling child?”
Lucy was a highly satisfactory audience. She nearly dropped the tray in her excitement, but managed, in the end, to deposit it without incident on Lady Ballymere’s vanity. She then peeped through the connecting door into Cynthia’s immaculate bed chamber and clasped her hands to her bosom, gasping with fright.
“Lawks!”
“Is it not terrible? Oh, what am I to do?” Lady Ballymere sank gracefully down upon the sofa, her hand to her head. “Where could she be? I am at my wits’ end.”
Lucy turned to her mistress, her eyes wide as saucers. “She’s been kidnaped, my lady. Mark my words, she’s bein’ held to ransom.”
Lady Ballymere quelled a stab of irritation. “I sincerely hope not,” she exclaimed. “But she may have suffered some accident. We must send out a search party. Pray run out into the passage and find one of the footmen or housemaids. Cummings must be told at once. And then, for heaven’s sake, child, come back and help me dress.”
Lucy pelted out of the room as if pursued by hounds. It occurred to Lady Ballymere that she ought to be pale with fear. And, of course, she was not. While Lucy was away, rousing the staff, she carefully powdered her face with pure white talc. The effect was quite good, she thought.
Twenty minutes later, Lady Ballymere, suitably pale, swept into the breakfast room. Breakfast was a fairly informal affair at Oldham Park, and one never knew how many members of the household would be present or at what time they would wander in. But Lady Ballymere’s luck held—there was a sizable group in the room when she entered. The duke and duchess were present, as well as Lord and Lady Grafton and their youngest daughters, Jane and Elizabeth.
Lord Grafton rose from the table, approached, and took her hand in both of his, an expression of deep concern on his face. “Lady Ballymere, we have heard the most alarming rumor this morning. I hope you will put our anxieties to rest.”
She did her best to look pathetic. “Alas, my lord, I fear it is true. My daughter is missing. Her whereabouts are utterly unknown to me.”
Above the low murmur of sympathetic exclamations that greeted her statement, Lady Elizabeth’s young voice piped. “P’raps she’s eloped!”
Lady Jane hissed, “Betsy, hush!” in a mortified whisper, but Lady Ballymere was secretly grateful for the girl’s impertinence. It gave her an opportunity to clutch her throat, widen her eyes, and exclaim, “Surely not! Impossible! Lady Cynthia has been very strictly reared.” She flung out her hand in a gesture of appeal. “You all know her. My daughter is a model of circumspect behavior, is she not? She would never do anything so lost to propriety.” She shuddered and added, darkly, “Not willingly.”
The duchess gestured to her son, indicating that Lord Grafton should guide Lady Ballymere toward the table. “Lady Ballymere, pray sit down,” said Her Grace courteously. Her calm demeanor threw cold water on the burgeoning sense of drama in the air. “I beg you will not distress yourself. Doubtless some innocent explanation for your daughter’s absence will arise. These things happen, you know; people go for early walks and lose track of time. I hope she has not echoed my unfortunate granddaughter and taken a spill of some kind, but if she has, one of the servants will speedily rescue her. Two footmen, the groom, the stableboy and my entire gardening staff are searching for her as we speak.”
The gardening staff! Cynthia would, indeed, be speedily found. Lady Ballymere was running out of time to set the scene.
She murmured her thanks and sank onto the chair Lord Grafton held for her, her expression tragic. “I cannot eat until I know my Cynthia is safe. I have come here to beg your assistance,” she announced. “I hope you will understand, Your Grace, that I mean no disparagement of your staff. But I do not care to leave this matter in the hands of servants. The explanation you have suggested is, alas, not possible. Lady Cynthia took no morning stroll. Her bed was not slept in.”
This caused another minor sensation around the table. “Dear me,” said Her Grace, her forehead puckering slightly. “How alarming.”
Lady Grafton, usually self-effacing, leaned across the table to gave Lady Ballymere’s hand a timid pat. Her eyes were dark with sympathetic worry. “I am the mother of daughters, myself,” she said softly. “I can easily imagine the state you must be in. My heart goes out to you, Lady Ballymere.”
“Thank you, Lady Grafton. You are most kind.”
Her Grace touched her napkin lightly to each corner of her mouth, then bent a gaze of mild enquiry on her guest. “But—forgive me—how was it that you did not notice Lady Cynthia’s absence, if she did not go to bed last night? Did she not go up to her room when you did?”
“Indeed she did, Your Grace,” said Lady Ballymere quickly. “But I was feeling a bit down-pin last night, and took my headache drops before I retired.” She gave a sad little shrug, looking helplessly around the table. “So unfortunate! When I take my drops, I’m afraid I sleep like a stone. Anything might have happened.” She gave an eloquent shiver. “If my child has been harmed in any way, I shall never forgive myself.”
The duke placed his fingertips together as if pondering the mystery. “May I ask, Lady Ballymere, whether your daughter knew you were taking the drops?”
She opened her eyes in feigned surprise. “Certainly she did, Your Grace. I mentioned it to her before I—oh!” She pressed her hand to her cheek. “What are you suggesting, Your Grace? Do you think—do you think she may have planned a tryst with someone? Indeed, indeed, I cannot think it possible!”
Lord Grafton glanced ironically at Jane and Betsy. “We parents never think our daughters capable of bad behavior,” he remarked. “It has often astonished me, however, how much mischief girls will get into.”
His wife looked distressed. “Arthur, dearest, really,” she murmured, sotto voce. “We are speaking of Lady Cynthia.”
“Quite right, my sweet.” He glanced apologetically at Lady Ballymere. “I spoke without thinking. You are right, my lady, that your daughter’s conduct has always seemed impeccable. I merely point out that...” He broke off, perplexed. “I almost said ‘boys will be boys.’ Is there an equivalent expression for girls? If not, there should be.”
“My Cynthia has never given me a moment’s worry,” declared Lady Ballymere. “She has the keenest sensibilities—a precise attention to propriety unlike any I have known in a girl of her age. The idea that she would deliberately deceive her mother and—and sneak about is fantastical. She would do no such thing.”
Lady Grafton spoke soothingly. “No one is suggesting anything of that nature, my lady. I am sure Lady Cynthia would do nothing clandestine.”
“Certainly not.” She blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold back tears, and put a catch in her voice. “But I fear for her safety, Lady Grafton. I fear she may have met with foul play. Such a beautiful girl, although it is her own mother who says it...” She let her voice trail off,
and was gratified to see the ripple of worry that went through the room.
Lord Grafton exchanged glances with his father. “I shall aid in the search directly after breakfast,” he said grimly. “Malcolm is, naturally, otherwise engaged. But I daresay the Ellsworth men and Mr. Whittaker will join me.”
The duchess clucked faintly. “But there has never been any crime of that kind in this neighborhood,” she said. “Pray be calm, Lady Ballymere. I know of no dangerous persons in the vicinity who might have carried Lady Cynthia off. We must not let our imaginations run wild. She will doubtless return safe and sound. Why, she may walk in the door at any moment.”
Lady Ballymere was still trying to frame an answer that would contradict the duchess without appearing rude, when the door opened. Conversation ceased and all eyes lifted—but it was only Sir Peter and Lady Ellsworth who walked in.
Lady Ballymere was probably the only person in the room who was not disappointed. This was the audience she most desired to reach with her performance; these were the two persons whose opinion she must move. Her pulse fluttered with excitement. The prize was nearly in her grasp now. The days of cultivating Lady Ellsworth’s friendship were about to pay off. She rose and flew to Lady Ellsworth’s side. Lady Ellsworth seemed startled, but did not pull away.
“My dear friend,” uttered Lady Ballymere, actually sobbing with trumped-up emotion. Lady Ellsworth looked embarrassed at this display, but not displeased. She patted Lady Ballymere in a vague sort of way.
Sir Peter coughed. “No point in pretending, I suppose, that we haven’t heard the news,” he said gruffly. “Servants always trumpet everything that goes on in a household, eh? Very sorry to hear it, though, very sorry to hear it. Thought Lady Cynthia might have turned up by now. She still missing?”
Lady Ballymere nodded silently, as if too overcome by emotion to speak. Lady Ellsworth led her back to the table. “You must not worry, Lady Ballymere,” she said gently. “You accomplish nothing thereby. Did Lady Cynthia leave a note? No? Why, then, she must be somewhere on the premises. She would have left a note, did she intend to wander far.”
