Oysters, Vermicelli Soup, Fillet of Sole, Roast Duck... He was confused. He had not eaten dinner at home in days, and he couldn’t imagine she would cook such a meal for the staff.
“Matilda?” He gestured the slate. “What is this for?”
She glanced over her shoulder but did not turn around. “Your mother sent me a note in the post this afternoon, requesting that bill of fare. Apparently those dishes are all the rage in London, and his lordship has taken a fancy to them. They will be home tomorrow.”
He was stunned. His mother hadn’t sent him a note. Shouldn’t she have sent him a note?
“I don’t know, my lord. Perhaps she thought you were busy, or that someone would inform you.”
He blinked. Had she read his mind? “What?”
“You asked why your mother had not sent you a note.” She looked at him as if she were a schoolteacher and he a particularly dim pupil.
“Oh.” He had not realized he’d spoken aloud. Apparently he had consumed rather too much drink this evening. It was Martin’s fault. Martin was always encouraging him to drink too much.
He blinked again as a plate was set before him. On it sat two perfectly fried eggs and two pieces of buttered, thinly sliced bread. He looked up at the bringer of such delicacies. She smiled encouragingly.
“Eat, my lord. I think you’ll feel better when you have.” She moved away again, and he watched her walk to the sink, where she started to wash the pan she had used.
He began to eat and then remembered he had already done so, and not particularly long ago. A cottage pie, if memory served. Even though he wasn’t at all hungry, he continued to place bite after bite in his mouth. No egg had ever tasted quite so good.
“Where did you learn to cook?” he mumbled around a mouthful of bread.
Her back straightened rather forbiddingly, and she did not answer for a moment. He began to wonder if he should repeat himself, when finally she said, “My mother taught me a bit, and the rest I learned after I married.” She did not turn to face him and was almost completely still.
“What was he like, your husband?” Now that he was inebriated he could not stop himself from asking the questions he’d wanted to ask for weeks.
More silence. Finally she said, “My husband was fond of good food.”
Interesting response. Of all possible answers, this is what she came up with? “What did he do?”
“What did he do?”
“Yes, to make a living. How did Mr. Milsom support his lovely wife?”
Silence again. Jonathan had the overwhelming sense whatever she said next would be a fabrication.
“He worked in a factory.” This news was delivered in a monotone, as if she could hardly bear to utter the words.
“Really? How interesting. What did the factory make?”
“What did it make?”
He smiled to himself, perversely pleased at her obvious discomfort with every lie that dripped from her lips. “Yes, the factory. Did it manufacture something?”
She looked side to side, and then down at her feet. “Shoes! He made shoes.”
“Shoes?”
She shrugged but still would not look at him. “Yes. Um, boots, mainly.”
“He made boots? Leather?”
She finally turned around then, and he was gratified to see he had made her angry. He loved to see her passion rise to the surface, even if it was anger.
“Well, of course, leather! What else do they make boots with?”
He smiled. Having finished his eggs, he was happy to note he had sobered up a bit. Perversely pleased, he said, “Ah, I see. Was he very good at leather bootmaking?”
She stood across the room, frowning, her hands on her hips. “You are, I think, the world’s most exasperating man.” She snatched his plate off the table and turned away from him again and went back to the sink. Her shoulders were pinched with indignation as she washed his plate and fork.
“Does that mean you won’t answer me?”
She grunted and said quietly, “He was good at everything he did.” Her shoulders hunched now, and she seemed defeated.
“How did he die?”
She turned around and gaped at him. “What?”
A bit puzzled at her response, he said calmly, “My mother said you were a widow.” Was that a lie as well?
Relief seemed to course through her body. “Oh. A fire.”
“In the factory?”
“The factory?”
This was amusing. “Yes, Matilda, the factory in which he made boots.”
“Oh, um, no. A house fire.” She returned her attention to the dishes. There was no sound for a moment, save for the clink of the dishes against the wooden drying rack.
“Did you love him very much?” he asked quietly, afraid to know the answer.
Her voice almost a groan, she whispered, “Please, Jonathan. Enough.”
It was the “Enough” that was his undoing. In that single word, he heard years of torment, from a woman who clearly had not loved her husband, at least not for some time. Whoever or whatever he had been, Jonathan was certain he was the source of her fear. But if he were truly dead, why did she still fear him?
He stood and walked to her, encircling her waist from behind. He could think of nothing to say; he simply wanted to feel her in his arms.
She pressed her back against him for only a moment, but it was enough for him to grow rock hard. He spun her around to face him and covered her mouth with his own. She murmured something unintelligible but did not resist. She brought her damp hands up from her side to tunnel through his hair. She kissed him back with the fervor he had been waiting weeks to experience.
He lifted her up so her backside rested on the counter, and her legs came up to wrap around his waist. She hung onto him, her fingers pulling on his hair as their tongues tangled in a glorious dance. He reached around and placed his hands on her bottom, and lifted her, nestling her around his waist.
He released her mouth long enough to murmur, “We mustn’t do this in here.” He was afraid she would try to run away again, so held her tightly against him. Instead, she nodded, burying her face in his neck. Clasping her to him, he all but raced up the stairs.
****
Theodora barely registered where she was or what she was doing. When he had kissed her in the kitchen, she had given in to sensation. All of the tension and stress of the last several months, the flight from her husband, living this wonderful lie, it all flew away with his touch. Her legs were jelly, but no way could she have run away from him again even if she was physically capable of it.
He climbed the stairs while holding her tightly against him. Her head rested on his chest. She could feel his heart racing and his breath coming fast, but she did not think it had anything to do with the exertion of carrying her. She curled against him, her fingers massaging the base of his skull.
He pushed open a door, then kicked it closed behind them before carrying her to the bed. He gently laid her down and stood staring at her. She reached for him, but he held out his hand.
“Wait,” he said. “I just want to look at you. I have been waiting for this moment almost since I first saw you.”
“When you first saw me, you nearly ran me down in your carriage,” she said.
“I said ‘almost.’ ” He smiled and moved closer. She sat up on the bed, feeling uncomfortable under his gaze. “You are so beautiful. I feel like I will break you if I touch you. But you’re rather stronger than you look, aren’t you?”
“Stop talking, Jonathan. Please.” She didn’t want him to give her an excuse to flee again, didn’t want to think, because if she did she might not go through with this. And she had never wanted anything so much as she wanted him, at this moment. She stood and grabbed his cravat, which hung sloppily around his neck. She pulled it off and flung it to the ground. Ignoring his amused look, she continued to undress him. When she reached his trousers, he tried to unbutton them himself, but she smacked his hand away and smiled at
him.
He stopped resisting, and she removed his trousers, then his smalls. He stood at full, magnificent attention. She reached for him, but he gently pushed her away.
“My turn.” He began to unbutton her dress. She cursed the fact she had worn the dress with at least fifty buttons down the front, as after unbuttoning each one, he leaned over and caressed her. In a different place each time. First he stroked the edge of her earlobe, then the nape of her neck, then the curve of her breast, then her nipple, getting lower and lower with each button. When he was finished, he slid the dress off her shoulders. He untied her corset and slid her petticoat over her hips and down until it puddled on the floor. Her chemise he pulled over her head and threw it to the floor. He pushed her onto the bed and knelt before her. He lifted one ankle, and after stroking her from thigh to heel, he removed first the left shoe, then the right. She was nearly squirming on the bed, but he had submitted to her torture, and she thought it only fair she should submit to his.
He pulled off first the left garter, then the right, then each stocking. She sat there naked, shivering. He looked up.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” She reached for him and pulled him up and toward her, and they fell together on the bed.
She kissed him and felt him hard between her legs. She reached down, but he slid down her body to her feet. She felt a warm wetness along her toes, then her foot, her ankle. He lingered at her knees, massaging her with both mouth and fingers as he made her way back up her body.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, “and you taste like strawberries.”
“Strawberries?” Her breath was coming in short gasps, and she was finding it very hard to talk.
She felt the vibration of his chuckle against her thigh as he moved still higher. She moaned at the pleasure of it, was nothing but a lump of sensation.
“Why do you smell of strawberries?”
“Hmm?”
“I am very fond of strawberries.”
“Oh, do shut up about berries!”
He chuckled again, and his lips reached the apex of her thighs. Without warning, he entered her with his tongue, and she cried out.
“Shhh. You’ll wake someone.”
“There’s no one here,” she gasped.
Jonathan looked up, his mouth glistening, his eyes hot. “Very well, then. Scream as loud as you like.” He pulled himself up alongside her and kissed her. He thrust his tongue in her mouth, and she could taste herself. Strawberries, indeed.
He pulled himself alongside her and gently wrapped a hand around her throat, caressing her neck as he stroked down toward her chest. She closed her eyes, lost in the sensation. Jonathan placed his lips against her throat, gently sucking. Theodora was inexplicably transported to her honeymoon—Lucien was particularly fond of her throat, and when he was feeling generous he had...
Her eyes flew open and she gasped. Jonathan’s face was close to her own, and his expression darkened as she rolled away from him and leapt off the bed. She stared at him, transfixed, horrified at what she was doing. For all her antipathy toward her beast of a husband, who may or may not be alive, she could not break her marriage vows.
“What?” Jonathan asked, his face overwhelmed with confusion, and if she dared to see it, hurt. “What’s the matter?’
She backed away from the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t do this.”
“What? Why?” Disappointment, an undercurrent of anger, rumbled in his voice.
Theodora reached for her dress, but he came off the bed in a single fluid movement and stopped her hands. He pulled her down to sit beside him on the bed. He cupped her face in his hands, his face inches from her own. But he was not romantic now. He was concerned, tinged with anger.
“You cannot run away from me again, Matilda. You’ve been hiding something. Since the day I met you, I knew you were not what you seemed. Please, if you care for me at all, tell me what the hell is going on!”
She swallowed hard. She had tried to banish her husband from her head while she was with Jonathan, but comparison was unavoidable. Where Lucien was dark, Jonathan was fair; where Lucien was stern, Jonathan was sweet, even a little silly; where Lucien was harsh, Jonathan was kind but firm. Oh, she had loved Lucien once, and during the first days of her marriage she had basked in his appreciation of her body, reveled in the discovery of her own sensuality. But always, she knew now, he had held a part of himself away from her. Perhaps he had cared for her, in his way, but he had not loved her. He had owned her.
And now Jonathan wanted to give her everything, and it was she who was holding back. But unlike Lucien, she wanted nothing more than to take all he offered. Because of Lucien, she could take nothing at all.
Perhaps sensing her internal conflict, Jonathan pulled her closer.
“You are a passionate woman, Matilda. And an experienced one. But you are hiding something, aren’t you?”
She nodded, afraid to speak, knowing as soon as she opened her mouth the entire story would tumble out. If she told him who—what—she was, he would throw her out. Or worse.
“Were you lying about being married?” he asked, more patiently than she had a right to expect.
She shook her head.
“Is it too soon?”
She turned quickly and stared at him, her eyes wide. He thought she mourned. He reached out and stroked her hair. She wanted to purr, or scream. He was being so kind, and everything she had told him was a lie. She shook her head violently, pulling away from his touch. She couldn’t bear for him to touch her, to soil his own hands on her duplicitous flesh.
“Yes. It’s too soon.” Then she stopped. She couldn’t lie to him again. “But not for the reasons you think.”
He frowned. “What is that supposed to mean? I know you didn’t love him!”
She smiled thinly. “Oh no. I did love him, once. But that’s not why. It’s too soon because...because my husband is still alive.”
Chapter Sixteen
Jonathan blinked. She could not possibly have said what he heard. “What?”
Matilda sighed, stood and began to pace, still naked. Jonathan wasn’t sure she even realized it. “I said my husband is still alive. At least I think he is.”
“You think? How can you not know? What about the house fire? Or did you lie about that, too?”
Matilda began wringing her hands. “Oh, there was a fire.” Jonathan’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak, when she said, “Before you ask, no, I didn’t start it. I simply took advantage of it to escape the prison that was my life with my husband. Although I cannot say for sure, I assume he survived it.”
She stopped and looked out the window, and snorted disdainfully. “Lucien would never allow himself to be done in by something so messy as a house fire. He...disliked mess.” She looked down at herself and obviously realized she was unclothed. She grabbed her chemise off the floor and pulled it over her head. He thought she took a little too long, relishing being hidden from his eyes for just a moment longer. Settling the garment around her shoulders, she then stepped into her gown, then began to fasten the buttons one by one, avoiding his gaze.
Jonathan just stared at her. Of all the possible scenarios he imagined when he wondered what she was hiding, this really wasn’t one of them. “Your name isn’t Matilda, is it?”
“No.” She fastened the last button. She smiled sadly and stood in front of him. She cupped his face in her hands, tears welling in her eyes, and kissed him.
“I’m sorry. So sorry. You cannot possibly know how much.” She grabbed the rest of her clothing, then turned and strode to the door. She was gone before he realized she never told him her real name.
****
Lucien bought a ticket to Newcastle, in the unlikely event anyone should decide to trace his steps. He had no idea why anyone would do so, but he was a cautious man. He boarded the first class carriage and took a seat by the window, which he promptly closed. He disliked the smell of coal smoke from th
e engine.
A few people attempted to enter his carriage, including a handsome aristocratic couple and a teenage girl who could only have been their daughter, so closely did she resemble the older woman. A forbidding glance from Lucien, however, and they moved along. He smiled to himself. He had no patience for female prattle. Ultimately the train moved, and Lucien was alone, save for an older gentleman who had been immune to Lucien’s sneers, but who fortunately had no interest in idle chat.
Some hours later, Lucien was uncomfortable and feeling filthy when the train entered the station at Durham. Lucien rose and fastidiously brushed his trousers. He nodded curtly to the gentleman, who had blessedly slept for the entire journey, and left the train. The noble threesome he had spotted in London disembarked as well and piled into a waiting carriage with a colorful coat of arms emblazoned on the side. Lucien decided to take a short stroll into the town, where he had arranged to stay at an inn recommended by Bradshaw’s Handbook. After a good meal, assuming one could be obtained in this tiny backwater, and a night’s rest, he would resume his search for his wandering bride.
****
After a restless night, Jonathan reached for Matilda, finding nothing but a cold, empty space. Closing his eyes, he groaned, remembering she hadn’t stayed, they hadn’t finished what they started. She was married, and he didn’t even know her name.
He had tried to follow her, but by the time he had pulled on his trousers and gone after her, she had hidden herself away in the female servants’ quarters, and it was more than his life was worth to be caught up there by Mrs. Appleton, even if he was a viscount.
He had returned to his room and paced for hours, wondering who she was and what she had been through. He had finally undressed and collapsed into bed, falling asleep sometime after dawn, exhausted and profoundly depressed. Twice he’d fallen in love, and twice he’d lost the woman to another man. Somehow it didn’t matter he had never really loved Caroline, or that whatever-her-name-was had met her husband years before she met Jonathan; both women had lied to him.
Stirring Up the Viscount Page 12
