Lady and the Rake

by Anders, Annabelle

  Margaret would not go to Sebastian that night, nor ever again. He’d walked her out of the garden, and she’d only kissed him on the jaw when she’d handed back his jacket. He’d told her he did not wish to return inside.

  She’d understood. She had no desire to make nice with anyone herself, but she entered through the terrace doors anyhow.

  She was comfortable with pain—with loss. It was rather something of an old friend to her. She forced a smile and joined Lady Sheffield where she was talking with Lady Riverton; two very stubborn women whose argumentativeness might even make Margaret forget that she’d just lost a part of herself.

  Feeling numb, Margaret listened as the two women disagreed on practically everything under the sun.

  She ought to be feeling something—anything—but she just felt frozen inside. She’d wanted to cry when he’d told her about his daughter. The physician’s suggestion to dispose of the child was not unheard of. She blinked away the stinging in her eyes.

  If her child had been born and lived, there was no way she could…

  She couldn’t even imagine it.

  Sebastian had loved his daughter. She’d heard it in his voice. It hadn’t mattered that she wasn’t perfect; she had belonged to him and his young bride.

  She wished she’d known him before. So very ironic that the loss of a child caused her to wish more than anything else to try for another, and his loss had caused him to never want to try again.

  “They shouldn’t have placed that gown in the front of the store. It was obviously an inferior replication of Madam Chantal’s,” Lady Riverton groused.

  “What does it matter if it’s similar to something another dressmaker designed? Isn’t every gown a copy of a gown that came before it? You’re being ridiculous, as usual, Edith,” Lady Sheffield returned.

  “That’s beside the point. You saw it, didn’t you, Margaret? The one with the puffed sleeves that billowed out like a bell—past the elbows.”

  Margaret nodded. “It was lovely. Too many ruffles for my liking but imitation is the highest compliment. Everyone in London will know Madam Chantal created the dress first.”

  What did it matter? Dresses? Weather? Society?

  “I suppose you have a point.” Lady Riverton bobbed her head. The plumes on her head swayed and tilted, bringing her own mother to mind.

  “My Lady, I have failed spectacularly in telling you how lovely you look this evening.” Baron Linde, the son of an old friend of her mother’s, approached and made a short bow in her direction. He was young and handsome, and she wondered if his pockets were not in a similar condition to George’s. Were impoverished gentlemen standing in some invisible line queuing up to sell her townhouse out from beneath her?

  Was she truly that pathetic?

  His cunning smile was nearly her undoing.

  She’d smile and laugh and listen to all those people who needed listening to. She would nod and answer questions, and perhaps someday she’d even entertain some gentleman’s flirtations.

  But not today.

  She touched her fingertips to her forehead. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll retire early.” Glancing around and not catching sight of Penelope, she addressed Lady Sheffield. “Would you be so kind as to inform Penelope when she returns?”

  “Shall we send up any tonics?” Lady Riverton frowned in concern.

  Margaret shook her head. “I am simply tired. It has been a long day.”

  And it had been an even longer night before that. A wonderful, poignant, passionate night that she would remember fondly in the years to come.

  “You’ve been quite brave, Lady Asherton, in light of that nasty business with Mr. Kirkley.” Lady Riverton had likely been dying to ask her about it all evening.

  The baron’s eyes lit up.

  “Hush, Edith,” Lady Sheffield chastised. “Run along, Margaret, and I’ll make your apologies to Penelope.”

  Margaret made her escape an instant later. As she stepped into the empty corridor, a choked sob escaped unchecked, sending her running toward her chamber.

  There were times, she surmised, when a woman must allow herself to fall apart if only for a day or two. This was one of them. Because she’d found a gentleman she could love. He was gentle and passionate, and she’d never felt more connected to anyone in her life.

  One little problem.

  He did not love her back.

  * * *

  Unwilling to return indoors and even less willing to return to his chamber, the bed they’d shared the night before, Sebastian headed up the hill behind the house. Perhaps he would avoid sleeping that night altogether. Even the thought of her mouth on him, of her hands working a very special magic, along with the look in her eyes that managed to be bold and timid at the same time had him growing hard.

  For Margaret.

  Maggie.

  And only for her, God damnit. How long would it be before he stopped wanting her?

  He leaned forward, picked up a rock, and dashed it into the trees. The resulting thud and sound of leaves gave him no satisfaction whatsoever.

  Nonetheless, he threw another before marching onward.

  He’d told Margaret about Angel. She’d been a skeleton in his family’s closet since her death, but she’d never been far from his thoughts as much as he’d tried to push them away. If he kept busy enough, if he focused his energies on things he could perhaps have some control over, perhaps those memories would cease to haunt him.

  There were days when it had worked and others when it did not. If only he could wipe away parts of his life the same way chalk was erased from a slate. But life was not that way, because as much as it hurt to remember, it would be even worse to forget.

  Sebastian had somehow convinced himself Margaret was only marrying George for companionship. He’d thrust away the truth. Had she told him directly? Likely, she had. Several times. Hell and damnation, that was the reason she’d come to his room that first evening. He’d convinced himself she’d only been seeking physical pleasure.

  It was doubtful that Margaret had even realized she’d wanted the other aspect of love.

  He’d been so damn intent upon his needs, on his dreams, that he’d failed to acknowledge hers. When had he become such a selfish bastard?

  He and Margaret had come to an impasse and this ought not to have taken him unawares.

  A sharp pain in the region of his heart ached—not quite physical but it might as well be. He stared up at the sky. The night was clear, making it easy to locate Ursa Major and then Polaris. This normally caused him all manner of excitement for his coming journey but tonight it only served to remind him of the distance he would put between himself and Margaret. He lowered his chin and glanced around to note his more earthly coordinates. But of course, he’d stopped at the exact spot where they’d been searching for the ring.

  A glint in the grass had him blinking and then walking forward, almost as though in a daze, he bent over to identify the source.

  The ring.

  25

  So Good

  Margaret was floating, as though in water but not quite. It was more as though she was flying. The sun shone brightly all around her. She was not alone.

  Lawrence sat beside her, dressed in his favorite waistcoat and jacket and well-worn Hessians. A child walked beside him, a boy. She did not recognize him but knew that he must be Little Laurie.

  Her son.

  “Margaret.” Lawrence touched her arm. She couldn’t see his face, but it was him. His presence filled the space around her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave you.”

  “I know.” She spoke, but not really. She communicated with her thoughts.

  “Nor did I, Mama.”

  She’d had this dream before but not for some time. It was all very familiar, comforting even.

  Lawrence leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Again, it was familiar, comforting. The same as it had been when he was alive. Uncanny, really.

  He’d been her
friend, first and foremost. He’d had his faults, but everyone did. The child ran away but before the form of her husband could follow, she reached out and grasped his wrist.

  “Did you love me?” she asked. “Did your heart race for me?”

  He smiled sadly. “Please, Margaret. You know the answer.”

  “Did you never want more for us?”

  A look of disappointment. “Why would we want anything more? Was not my affection enough? You are my countess, my lady. I loved you. I would never have disrespected you with my baser needs.”

  “Disrespect me.” She’d wanted to demand that on so many occasions. “Please!”

  She’d lain beneath him in frustration, chastised on those few occasions when she’d grasped at his buttocks or writhed so that he could touch her core more intimately.

  “Please, dear, hold still for me.” His words had been spoken with love.

  She squeezed her eyes tightly.

  “Won’t you leave your gown on for me? We are not commoners.”

  She had not removed it again. Even so, when he went to leave, she felt empty, unsatisfied.

  “Stay with me this time.” The face above her was no longer that of her husband but of a healthy man, a strong and vibrant man with eyes almost the color of silver.

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “I don’t want to. But it was right for you to demand it.”

  Her eyes flew open. “Sebastian?”

  He’d come to her chamber. He was in her bed. A glance toward the open drapes assured her she no longer dreamed. She was in her bed.

  He crawled into her bed and took her into his arms. “God, Maggie, I’m going to miss you so much.”

  She was not alone.

  His mouth devoured hers, desperately, until he dragged it down her throat. “I would try if I thought that I could. You must know that. Don’t hate me, Maggie.”

  She’d drifted off to sleep in tears and now they would come again. “I’m not angry with you. I could never hate you.” Every touch felt different. As though he would memorize her. As though he would impart what love he had to give. Love for today but never for the future.

  “I need you tonight. I’m not ready. One more night.” He spoke the words against her skin in between soft, tender kisses, and then frantic, hungry ones. He was unclothed. He’d climbed into her bed in the same manner she had done on the night he’d arrived.

  He lifted her gown upward and over her head. No barriers between them tonight.

  His hands grasped hers, and he pinned them onto the mattress above her head. “Tell me you want me. Tell me you need this. It doesn’t have to end yet, Maggie. I can keep you happy.”

  “I want you.” Her body wouldn’t allow her to dissemble.

  It doesn’t have to end.

  Yet.

  He settled between her thighs and kissed her again, teeth clashing, tongues sparring. She lifted her hips, and he eased inside of her. Ah, yes. When had they come to fit together so perfectly?

  Their mouths parted, and he stared down at her as moonlight slanted across the bed.

  Don’t leave me, she wanted to whisper. Don’t leave me. She begged him with her eyes.

  They’d gone into this affair seeking only to satisfy one another sexually but tonight his eyes burned with an intensity of emotion. Building his thrusts slowly, his eyes never wavered. Love was meant to be forever, wasn’t it? Sebastian wanted her to be his lover, in London. For now.

  He is not done loving me.

  Yet.

  Lawrence had said he’d love her forever. He’d promised to love her, comfort and keep her.

  As long as we both lived.

  He’d left her a widow.

  Sebastian drew out and poised his tip at her opening. He hovered, teasing her, and then filled her with a violent force. She loved it. She loved being wanted, being desired. She loved that this man could lose all control when they were together. She loved that he was not afraid to open himself, to make himself vulnerable. In bed, he withheld nothing and in the short time they’d had together, he’d encouraged her to do the same.

  She’d always wanted this.

  He slowly withdrew and then filled her again, as though he could convince her to come with him, to be with him.

  He is not done loving me.

  Yet.

  She loved his strength, his vigor.

  Releasing her hands, he anchored himself by gripping the headboard and then drove himself into her again. Margaret grasped his wrists, holding on so she could meet him thrust for earth-shattering thrust.

  “You will want this.” Deep stroke.

  “You will come to me.” He penetrated her deeper.

  Margaret took him into her body, knowing that most of what he said was true.

  This. What they shared. It was a once in a lifetime sort of passion. People could not be so lucky as to experience such a euphoric connection with another human being more than once.

  She ground her hips against his, closed her eyes, and clenched her teeth together to keep her emotions in check.

  I love you! She wanted to say the words when he was so deep that he surely must have touched the very center of her person.

  I love you! She wanted to say it as this haunting rhythm of lovemaking lifted her to new heights.

  He halted. “You are crying? Am I hurting you?” Always his concern for her feelings and her safety and her comfort.

  “No. It’s good. Don’t stop, Sebastian. Don’t stop.”

  * * *

  Sebastian couldn’t look away from her eyes as he began moving again, focusing on the friction building between them. Into her. Into her.

  It was as close to becoming one as he’d ever known. Her hands holding his wrists, his cock buried in her warmth, her legs tightly wrapped around his waist. This was not just sex. He knew it.

  He even contemplated letting go of his fears. He contemplated imagining that he could plant his seed and allow it to grow. He could almost imagine the two of them having a perfectly formed child with Margaret emerging healthy and safe.

  Almost.

  He focused on the heat and wetness surrounding him. So damn beautiful. How could he leave her, but how also could he not? If he allowed it, he would give in and likely sail off anyhow.

  “So fucking good, Margaret.” Buried to the hilt, he ground his hips against her.

  She clenched him with her inner muscles. “So good.” She panted.

  He didn’t want it to end and had to stop again. If this was to be their last time, he’d draw it out for a lifetime.

  She opened her eyes, and he nearly broke at the emotion in them.

  This kiss was tender, searching, forgiving, grieving, and then wanting. So much wanting.

  This woman was both kitten and tiger. He’d been lucky enough to know both sides of her and hated to think of all he was going to miss.

  She bit his lip, and the kiss turned demanding.

  He could not deny her. Slowly, they moved together, staring into one another’s eyes.

  “More. I want more.” She writhed beneath him.

  Come with me. He moved deliberately but with force.

  Love me. Her eyes begged.

  Come with me. He drove into her again.

  Stay with me.

  Their completion crept up on both of them with a surprising stealth.

  And when she cried out, he barely remembered to withdraw from her body before he shot his seed along her thigh and onto the bed. Fear numbed him for an instant. It had been too close. He’d not been thinking, no, he’d been feeling. He’d been feeling far too much for comfort lately.

  Shaking, he fell onto the bed beside her.

  “Someday you won’t fear it anymore.” She spoke into the darkness, her breathing still labored.

  She was wrong but he would not contradict her.

  “Believe me, Maggie, if that were to occur, I’d race across the world to find you,” he promised. “But don’t wait for me.”

  Marga
ret lay in bed. His scent was on the pillow, aches in her body proved it had not been a dream, and yet she lay in bed alone.

  Shortly before dawn, he’d removed himself from her arms, from her bed. She’d feigned sleep as he’d gathered his clothing from the floor and dressed.

  She’d not moved when warm lips pressed against her temple and then each of her eyelids. She hated goodbyes. If she had opened her eyes and made to bid him farewell, she wasn’t certain she wouldn’t have made a fool of herself.

  She’d not wanted him to leave but she could not go with him.

  A fling at a house party might be considered an indiscretion; a full-blown affair in London would alter her social status forever. Oh, not officially, but she would be that woman. Rockingham’s aging mistress… Until she was only aging.

  Of course, she’d had to tell him no.

  Although, there had been moments when she’d almost considered it.

  Almost.

  Rolling on her side, she pressed her face into the pillow and caught an even stronger whiff of his scent. Maleness. There was no other way to describe it.

  Emotions, passions, all of it burned hot between the two of them now, but he would leave on his journey eventually.

  She’d thought he was the braver person, but recalling his fears, she wondered if it was her. But none of that mattered now.

  She was being left behind.

  Again.

  26

  Winter

  Land’s End, December 2nd, 1828

  The sky appeared low and white and ominous, and Margaret could almost imagine it would snow as she stared out the window of the drawing room where she’d intended to open and read all the mail that had been forwarded to her from London.

  Invitations. A letter from one of her mother’s cousins and…

  Her heart stopped. She knew his handwriting immediately. Tidy, small, and deliberately formed words. He’d promised to write to her but she hadn’t expected him to follow through with the letters after the way they’d ended things.