by Juliana Gray
“I was so worried! Oh, darling! I’m so sorry!”
“I was after this grasshopper, Mama. The biggest ruddy grasshopper you’ve ever seen. And Lord Roland . . .”
Roland’s voice wrapped around her ear, low and concerned. “Were you so worried, then? I’m awfully sorry. I saw him hanging about the trees, happy as a lark.”
She looked up. He stood there against the base of the boulder, propped up by one sturdy shoulder, staring down at her with an intense concentration of emotion in his eyes. A tweed cap concealed his hair, emphasizing the impeccable bones of his face, the firm cut of his jaw, the long cords of his neck disappearing into his loosened collar. In the spreading noon sunshine, his skin had turned to gold. He looked like a classical painting, an Adonis in modern clothes, too beautiful to be real.
“I’d fallen asleep,” she said, voice hoarse. “I thought . . . I didn’t know where he’d gone . . . I panicked . . . the water . . .”
“Oh, Mama,” Philip said scornfully. “I’d never go swimming with my shoes on.”
She buried her face in his warm, sun-scented hair. “No, darling. Of course not. I was so silly. Of course you were all right. You’re a big boy.” She lifted her eyes again, hardly daring to look at Roland, lithe and handsome and invincible against his rock. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He smiled, and all at once he was human again. “I promised I’d bring him directly to you next time, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” she said. Philip’s curls nestled against her cheek like a cloud of down. “You promised.”
He took off his cap, examined the inside, and put it back on again. His eyes cast a considering gaze up to the sky. “I was thinking a chap might have a reward for a job well done.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “What sort of reward?” she asking, rising to her feet.
“It seems to me a picnic might do very nicely.”
“Oh, can he, Mama?” Philip grabbed her hand. “Can he, please?”
She squeezed Philip’s fingers. Roland wore an inquiring expression, eyebrows raised, chin tucked inward. No longer godlike, nor even human: rather like a particularly irresistible golden retriever, hoping for a bone.
Relief, deliverance, euphoria still sang in her blood, danced in the tips of her fingers. The back of her head blazed in the warm Italian sun. She was in love with Roland Penhallow; she was in love with the world.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course he can.”
* * *
Three hours later, his shirt collar unbuttoned and his jacket slung over one shoulder, Roland dragged his eviscerated body back up the hill to the castle.
Until now, he’d considered a hard day’s hunt atop a vigorous stallion the most exhausting pastime known to man. An afternoon spent chasing a vigorous young boy about a lakeshore had relegated that notion to the land of fond nostalgia.
“He needs a father,” said Roland.
Lilibet didn’t reply. She trudged by his side, between two long rows of grapevines, her face shadowed by the brim of a large hat. Fifty or so yards ahead, Philip ran from vine to vine with the superabundant energy of his species, stopping every so often to check for new growth.
What the devil were they feeding him?
Roland pulled aside his collar with one finger to allow a trifle more air to circulate around his heated skin. “I suppose you would say he has a father already,” he continued. “A blood father.”
“Yes, he does. He loves his father.”
Roland switched the picnic basket to his outside hand, bringing him closer to her body, to the swish of her lettuce green dress. “Is Somerton a good father?”
“Not particularly. But it doesn’t matter. Children love you regardless.” She was subdued, thoughtful. He couldn’t imagine what she was thinking. She’d been so happy and animated at the picnic, almost like the lively Lilibet he’d known that summer in London. Her laughter had bubbled through the warm spring air, had made his heart swell with joy. But as they’d packed up the basket again, an intense quiet had settled over her. She’d folded the cloth and stacked the plates in silence, avoiding his glance, avoiding his touch.
A gentle drone rang his ear, a passing bumblebee, black and fat and drunk with pollen from the orchards. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the word father,” Roland said. “I only mean that he’s a boy, a growing boy. He needs—I believe he needs—a man about, from time to time.”
“It’s all right,” she said softly. “I know what you meant.”
“Do you agree?”
“It depends, I suppose. On who the man might be.” She didn’t look at him, didn’t so much as tilt her head in his direction. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, on Philip’s larking figure, the lines and curves of her body snugly encased in her dress. With piercing sharpness, he longed to touch that body, to lie with her, to peel away the layers of cloth between them. He wanted to bury his face in her bosom, to lay his hand atop her growing belly, to plunge his body into hers, to make her weep with pleasure, to worship her.
He brushed the back of her hand with his own, grazing the tips of her fingers for an instant. “And if that man were me?”
“I don’t know, Roland.” Her voice ached in his ear. “I can’t . . . I can’t even think about starting again. Even if . . . even if my marriage . . . even if Somerton were magically to disappear, without any consequences, without his killing you or taking Philip, or both . . .”
“I’d never let him do that. You know I wouldn’t.”
“Even if all these things were to happen, I can’t . . .” She checked herself.
“Can’t what?”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” she whispered. “You don’t know. To be betrayed like that. Oh, I know you’ve sworn that you’re different. Every man says that. But all I have to go on, Roland, is what you’ve done. All I know is that you’ve spent the past six years tumbling from bed to bed . . .”
“Oh, for God’s sake . . .”
“. . . and how can I possibly expect you to change? Even if I were madly in love with you . . .”
“You are madly in love with me. As I am with you. Let’s not pretend, Lilibet.” He stopped and took her arm and turned her to face him. With one finger he lifted her chin. “Look at me. Let’s not pretend that, at least.”
She regarded him steadily, her eyes a startling blue in the bright afternoon light. “Even if I were in love with you, I couldn’t ask you to be someone you’re not. And I couldn’t give another child a faithless man for a father.”
The air seemed to empty out of his ears at her words. “I am not faithless,” he said, but it sounded feeble, even to himself. “I have not . . . I’m not what you think. I’m not what everybody thinks. I . . .” He stopped himself by brute mental force. Do not say it. Do not tell her.
She raised one eyebrow, waiting for him to finish.
He tightened his grip on her arms, willing her to believe him. “This . . . this reputation I have. I won’t pretend it doesn’t exist. I won’t pretend I didn’t cultivate it. But . . . the popular rumor . . . the things you’ve been hearing . . .” He closed his eyes, drew breath, opened them again. Her beautiful face swam before him, intent lines drawn in her forehead. “It is all exaggerated. I swear it, Lilibet. Greatly exaggerated.”
“How am I to believe you?”
“I swear it, Lilibet. On my honor, I swear it.” He slid his hand down her arm to enclose her hand. She glanced up the row of vines to Philip and back again to him. “I swear it,” he whispered.
She shook her head and turned to continue up the row. “Rumor is usually wrong in the details, I’ve found, but seldom in the essentials.”
“In this case, both,” he said. “In this case, rumor is what I’ve designed it to be.”
“Oh, come,” she laughed. “Why on earth would any man cul
tivate a reputation for promiscuity, without enjoying the reality?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Terribly convincing of you. I’m telling the truth, darling, but I can’t tell you why. Yes, frightfully sound.” But her hand remained in his, warm and slightly damp, returning just the smallest amount of pressure.
“Can you not have the slightest particle of faith in me?” he asked.
Philip turned abruptly and began to run toward them. Lilibet dropped his hand like a stone, leaving his fingers empty and grasping for her touch.
“I’ve learned, your lordship,” she said, under her breath, “to prefer deeds over words.” She asked Philip, “What do you have for me, darling?”
Philip shook his head and held up his hands in Roland’s direction, closed together in a ball. “It’s not for you, Mama. It’s for Lord Roland. Look! It’s a grasshopper!”
He opened a crack between two fingers and Roland peered inside. “Egad! Look at that fellow! He must be an inch long, at least!”
“His name is Norbert,” Philip said, looking in his hands himself with a fond parental gaze. “I’m going to make a cage and fill it with grass and keep him in my room.”
“Our room,” said Lilibet, “and you won’t do any such thing.”
“Oh, Mama! Please! He’s really a well-behaved grasshopper! He let me catch him without any trouble!”
“Nevertheless. No inch-long insects in my room, if you please. Not even well-behaved ones.”
Philip’s lower lip trembled. “Please, Mama! I’ll feed him myself!”
“Look here,” said Roland, unable to withstand that trembling lower lip, “I’d be happy to keep the little fellow in with me. I’ve no objection to inch-long insects. Properly caged, that is.”
The sun burst out onto Philip’s face. “Oh, sir! Would you? Would you really?”
“With pleasure,” Roland said, “properly caged.”
“Really, Lord Roland, it isn’t at all necessary,” said Lilibet.
He smiled at her. “My dear, it’s quite necessary. Every young man should have a pet of some kind. Why not a grasshopper?”
“That’s right, Mama! Norbert’s a lovely pet.”
Roland held up his hand and ticked off his fingers. “Doesn’t require meat. Doesn’t require daily walking. No hair on the upholstery. No puddles on the Aubusson.” He brandished his closed fist triumphantly. “A most eligible pet. Don’t know why I don’t keep a flock of them myself. Or . . . or is it a cloud?”
She was laughing. “Oh, very well. But you’ll have to sort out the cage yourselves. A very sound cage, if you please.”
“I believe we can manage that all right, can’t we, Philip?” Roland chuffed the boy’s shoulder.
“Yes, sir! I’m sure Abigail will help us find some chicken wire.” Philip dashed on down the row. His words floated behind his racing body, growing faint. “I think I shall train him up for a flea circus!”
“Oh God,” Lilibet said.
Roland took her hand again, and she didn’t resist. They were drawing near the end of the row; in a moment, they would be out in the open, with only a short meadow between them and the flagstones of the kitchen courtyard. “May I see you again later?” he asked quietly.
“For what purpose?” She gave a nervous laugh. “Another attempt to seduce me?”
“If you like. I’d be more than happy to oblige.”
Another laugh. “You’re trying very hard, aren’t you?”
Philip had disappeared around the end of the vine row. Roland stopped and turned to face her, taking her other hand in his, her palms smooth and fragile against his fingers. At some point during the walk, her hat had shifted a bit to one side; he reached out and straightened it, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “Is it working?” he asked.
His heart thumped in his chest, waiting for her answer.
Her blue eyes slipped for an instant to his lips, and back up again. “After dinner,” she said. “I’ll ask Francesca to keep watch on Philip, or Morini.”
“Who’s Morini?”
“The housekeeper. She won’t mind.” She spoke a little breathlessly; her hands tightened around his. He could smell the lavender of her skin, the sweetness of her breath. Her round pink lips beckoned irresistibly.
And really, why resist?
Before she could object, he took her face between his hands and buried his lips in hers: not gently, not inquisitively, but as if he were devouring the delicate flesh of a peach from the inside out. He stroked her tongue, the roof of her mouth, the satin sides of her cheeks; he inhaled the scent of her like a drug, shooting through his veins. After a single shocked gasp, she arched her back and leaned into the kiss, returning the stroke of his tongue, her hands Good God! grasping the curve of his buttocks with a firm, possessive grip and pressing his hardened cock into the curve of her belly.
She made a hungry growling sound from somewhere deep in her throat; he thrust his fingers into her hair, beneath her hat, and moved his feet to trap her legs between his.
“Mama!”
Philip’s voice drifted over the rows of vines.
Lilibet stumbled backward with a little cry, pushing him away.
“Coming!” she called hoarsely. Her hands went to her hair, pushing the pins in place, straightening her hat. Her eyes held his, wide and round, the blue so intense he wanted to crawl inside. “I must go,” she whispered, and turned away.
“Wait.” He gripped her hands. “Tonight.”
Her chest heaved for breath, breasts straining beneath the thin linen of her dress. He could see the tick of her pulse where it jumped in her neck. “Yes, tonight.”
“What time?”
“Late. Eleven o’clock, perhaps. Outdoors, where we can’t be found.”
“I’ll think of something. I’ll send a note.”
She nodded, drew her hands away, and hurried down the row, disappearing almost before he could move. His stunned brain took a moment to review what it had just learned.
Tonight. Outdoors. Note. Eleven o’clock.
If he could survive that long.
FOURTEEN
Guilt. Shame.
Her ears rang with it; her pulse throbbed in her neck, her wrists, her chest.
“Mama, do I have to study with Abigail this afternoon? I think building a cage is enough learning for one day, don’t you?”
Trollop. Adulteress. No better than you should be.
“I suppose it depends on how long the cage takes,” she said, “and how busy your cousin Abigail is this afternoon.”
Abigail was delighted to build a cage for the grasshopper. No, it wasn’t too much trouble. They’d pick up their writing and sums again tomorrow. Certainly, she had some chicken wire. Only perhaps the loops were too large to hold in a grasshopper, even one of so magnificent a size as Norbert? Well, they’d find something. Come along.
A kiss on Philip’s forehead, a wave good-bye. The hallway alive with some fragrant draft from outdoors, the stones cool beneath her back as she slumped against the wall, her womb hot beneath her hand as she clutched it.
Weak. Wicked. Filled with unnatural lust.
She wanted him so much. What torture it had been to walk next to him, to feel the heat radiate from his body, and not make a single movement toward him. Her skin had flushed, had burned with the desire to tumble with him on the grass, to press his beautiful flesh against hers, naked in the sunshine.
Her eyes screwed shut. His kiss, oh God, his marvelous mouth on hers. The yearning streaking down her limbs, melting between her legs. She would burn in hell; she would die of shame. She’d given in, again, again. She’d kissed him back regardless, and cradled his arousal between her hips.
She’d agreed to meet him tonight and complete her ruin.
“Signora Somerton? You are not well?”
The warm scent of baking bread drifted across Lilibet’s nostrils, at the same instant as the gentle voice reached her ear.
She started upward. “Oh! Signorina Morini! No, no. Quite well. It’s just . . . such a warm day . . .”
The housekeeper stood near, quite near, her face creased with sympathy. “You need perhaps a cup of the tea? I am making very good tea, now. Signorina Abigail is doing the teaching.”
Refusal hovered at the tip of Lilibet’s tongue. What she said, however, was: “A cup of tea would be lovely, signora. Thank you.”
She followed the slender white-shirted back of Signorina Morini down the hallway and into the kitchen, where the fire had been banked low and the loaves of bread stood cooling on the table. Next to them, a teapot and a cup waited expectantly.
Lilibet picked up the pot and poured into the cup. Steam drifted upward in fragrant spirals; she buried her nose in them and dropped into a chair with a sigh.
“You see?” Morini eased herself into the chair at the head of the table. “Is better now, yes?”
“Very nice. It’s kind of you, to adapt to our English ways. The breakfast, and tea.”
The housekeeper smiled and shrugged. “Not so many things. The lunch, the dinner, they are all very much of Toscana, of the hills and the valleys. The things we are growing here, from the earth.”
“It’s delicious. In England everything is either roasted or boiled within an inch of its life. I never knew artichokes had such flavor.”
Another shrug. “You are leaving behind many unpleasant things in England, I think.”
Lilibet looked into her cup. “Yes.”
“Signora, you have still the tear in your eye. You are not happy. Why is this? You have the beautiful child, the love of the kind signore. You have soon his baby. God is smiling on you.”
Lilibet jerked her head up. “Signorina!”
Morini was smiling, her face eased into kind lines. “Is true. I am knowing these things. You meet him tonight, yes?”
“How did you . . . who . . .” Lilibet’s mouth stumbled around the words, unable to form a logical connection with her brain. Ghosts: The word echoed unexpectedly between her ears, in Abigail’s eager voice. She pushed it away.
