Was it fate that drew me to Trevelyan Hill? Or was it my bid to alter my fate that brought me to the mansion?
I didn’t know. I did know that with every breath I drew, I awaited the return of the master of Trevelyan Hill.
Upon returning from the lecture, I found myself dwelling on the tense emotions swirling around me, like the thickening of the air before a storm. The grief underlying Constance’s obsession with fashion. Katherine’s art, mirroring the pain of those surrounding her and her self-imposed imprisonment. The stark break in Stephen’s carefree facade, and the antagonism with his brother. Benedict’s difficulty relating to his sons, and Justin’s growing isolation. Even Mrs. Trevelyan’s hidden grief and anger. The myriad of conflicts and troubles encircling me kept pulling me closer and closer to the torn fabric of their lives. I wanted to take the needle of truth and the thread of wisdom and mend the gaps between them before the edges of their lives became too frayed to ever repair.
But as I lay down to sleep, it was Benedict who had me tossing and turning until I thought my sanity would flee. Finally, when I reached the screaming point well into the dark hours after midnight, I arose and checked on the sleeping boys, then returned to the windows of my room. I stared out at the mists swirling around the manor in the moonlight and imagined that I saw ghosts dancing at a grand ball until rain chased them away.
Then Benedict stole into my mind. I saw him as he stood on his doorstep that first morning, when I’d come to apply for governess. I saw him relaxed and laughing as I told him about Captain Balder’s wish to add my mother to his list of wives. I saw him rising from his bath naked. But when he advanced on me and kissed me rather than covering himself, I just simply had to do something to distract myself. Upon my night table, I found Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s little book of poems that I’d borrowed from the Trevelyans’ library the other night and settled on the couch to read. Opening the book, my mind stumbled over what I saw. On the inside cover of the book was an inscription in faded ink:
Dearest Cesca,
I die each day I spend with you, even as I live for your every smile. My heart beats with a love I can never give. And though we are destined in this life to be apart, prisoners of circumstance, know that in the immortal words of Mrs. Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese, our love will live through eternity.
“‘Guess now who holds thee?—‘Death,’ I said.
But there,
The silver answer rang,—‘Not Death, but Love.’”
You’ll forever make sunshine in my heart.
The note was unsigned. But “make sunshine” was as clear as a signature.
Stephen had told me a cherished memory of Francesca teaching Justin to play that game. The proof before me came as no surprise, but still my heart twisted painfully at what Benedict must have suffered, to be betrayed by his brother and wife.
Had jealousy and rage driven Benedict over the edge? Or even Stephen? What if it wasn’t his own neck he broke to free himself? What if it had been Francesca’s?
It was with dread that I turned to the sonnets and read some of the most beautiful words I’d ever read. Tears filled my eyes, and an odd yearning gripped my heart. It was as if a tide of feeling, of wanting, pressed so heavily against my practical nature that I thought I’d burst.
“Titania, how do I love thee?”
Startled over how clearly I’d heard Benedict’s voice in my sleepy mind, I jumped up from my reading chair, confused.
“Damnation, what in the devil?” came a deep voice from the other room.
Blocks clattered on the floor as a heavy scraping sound snatched my attention. I ran to the schoolroom with my lamp. Benedict came barreling through the secret passage door, thunder furrowing his dark brow. I stared at him, drawn as one might be to gaze at the beauty and fury of a dangerous storm during the dark of the night.
“Miss Lovell, what in the bloody hell is going on here?” His clothes were dripping wet and plastered to his imposing body. His dark hair gleamed with moisture, and a rakish stubble shadowed the determined set of his jaw. From the look he centered on me above his Roman nose, I got the feeling I was in for a good dose his of dominating characteristics.“I will have that answer immediately. You are boxed in like a bloody rebel unit with nothing but bluecoats in sight.”
I stiffened my spine. “I was merely being prudent, Mr. Trevelyan.”
“Indeed, Miss Lovell?” He raked his fingers through his hair, sending droplets of water flying as he stepped over the blocks and advanced on me. “Did you fear I would steal in upon you in the middle of the night? Good God, woman, if nothing else, I am a man of honor.”
He was so close I could smell the rain on him and feel the damp chill of his body. “P—Pardon? I do not see—” My eyes widened. “Mr. Trevelyan, do you think you’re the only person on earth? Might you consider that there are others about who use the secret passage? That perhaps I sought to warn them that I would not tolerate being spied upon? And that I most certainly would want to warn myself if they did?”
He took hold of my shoulders, dampening my gown with the water dripping from him. I shivered, but not from the cold of his fingers. I shivered with the need to warm him.
“What are you talking about? Dobbs telegraphed me that my household had run amuck. Justin and Robert were in tears, and you had overstepped your position and taken them off to picnic at their mother’s grave. I come rushing home to find you barricaded in your room. What is going on?”
“What is going on?” I blinked, quite taken by surprise that Dobbs had contacted Benedict. I considered the battle that Dobbs and I waged a private one. The man had had no right telegraphing tales. It had never occurred to me that Dobbs could be my intruder, the author of my warning note, and the destroyer of the children’s garden. Maybe it should have. I then recalled that I was miffed at Benedict.“If you were not always running off, maybe you’d know what was going on in your own household.”
“Running off?” He released me and took a step back as if I’d slapped him.“Running off!”
“Precisely,” I said. I knew I’d more than overstepped my boundaries. In fact I most probably had obliterated them, which left me no choice but to brazen out the truth. I decided to pace, for an instinctual self-preservation told me that a moving target was harder to shoot than a standing one.
Benedict looked as if he were a loaded six-shooter in what Captain Balder would have described as a poker game gone sour.
“I have been giving a great deal of thought to the situation and can see how business decisions rather than the complexities of personal problems could have an appeal to a man of your nature,” I said. Benedict crossed his arms, and his gaze targeted me. I paced faster and spoke faster, too, feeling the urgency to get everything said while I had the chance. “It is entirely logical for you to gravitate toward financial dealings. You are a man who requires instant results. You see situations as clear cut and have little time for emotional difficulties, such as Justin’s fear that something dreadful will happen to you and he will have lost both his mother and his father. Then there is Robert’s fear that while you are away you will find a boy who will behave perfectly and you will love that boy better. And I must say that considering birthdays as frivolous is quite—”
“Miss Lovell!” he said tersely, the muscles of his hard jaw drawn so tightly, I thought his teeth would crack. “I have ridden without stop for fourteen hours, the last two in a torrential rain, all because of a telegraph from Dobbs concerning my sons, and you have the audacity to tell me that I—good God, woman—I cannot even formulate the words to describe what sort of man you are attempting to make of me.”
I bit my lip but didn’t stop pacing. “Mr. Trevelyan, perhaps I am mistaken, but did you not kiss me last Monday? An event that left me so out of sorts that I was too flushed to attend dinner that night.”
“You were flushed?” He looked surprised.“That was all?”
Heat stung my cheeks anew. “Quite flushed, a most
embarrassing condition. Now, the next day, I attempted to discuss the situation with you, but before I had a moment to explain, you had already reached your own erroneous conclusions and promptly departed on business. What other conclusion can a woman draw, but that business has more appeal than—”
I paced past him. He grabbed my shoulders and swung me around to face him.“Than what, Miss Lovell?” His voice had lowered and softened, doubling its smoothness. My heart raced like a runaway stagecoach.
“Than… complexities,” I whispered, the heat of my ire dampened by his obvious concern.
“Would that I had an aversion to… complexities, Miss Lovell. Unfortunately, I find myself quite attracted to them.” His words seemed to be forced from him, confirming his turmoil.
He had come rushing back home, clearly worried by Dobbs’s telegraph, an action that told me that not all of my suppositions were true. Maybe he didn’t run away. Maybe he just didn’t see the problems as I saw them. And maybe— no, more than maybe—he’d had no hand in his wife’s death. But he’d suffered pain and betrayal, and my heart twisted for him.
I reached up and brushed away a droplet of water dangling on his chin, and I let my fingers linger against his rough beard. “I did not mean to imply you do not care about your sons, and I apologize for causing you worry. Justin and Robert have been grieving for their mother a long time. Part of healing from a loss is being allowed to continue to love that person. They have not been given the opportunity to love their mother since she died. When we had an upset with their herb garden, they needed to express their grief before it swallowed them. We took flowers to my mother’s grave and then to their mother’s grave. I cannot educate their minds and ignore the needs of their hearts. It is not within me to do so.”
He didn’t say anything, nor did he release his hold on me. I saw a battle wage within his intense eyes, and I wondered what he wrestled so hard with—until he moved his head. When his lips brushed my fingers still lingering on his chin, he sent a shock of fire racing though me. I knew then that he warred with his attraction for me. I could feel it now that the steam of my words had cleared. My mother hadn’t kept me ignorant of the relations between a woman and a man. Though briefly, she’d spoken of it, believing fore-knowledge would save me from the mistakes she’d made. Yet here I was, about to toss her wisdom aside. I had to know another of his kisses, as if my very life depended on that knowing. He was a storm I couldn’t seem to keep myself from walking out into.
My lips parted, and I leaned to him, pressing my fingers into the supple heat of his lips.
“Miss Lovell,” he whispered hoarsely against my fingertips,“I must warn you that—”
“No,” I said, stopping his words.“I want no warning, Mr. Trevelyan. I fear all I want is for you to kiss me aga—”
Before I could finish my sentence, his mouth fell upon mine, and he pulled me into his embrace. His body was wet and hard against my warm softness, and I needed to press him closer to me more than I needed to breathe. I wrapped my arms around his neck, driving my fingers into the silky dampness of his hair. He groaned, and his large hands slid down my back, pulling me even tighter to his hardness. His tongue plunged into my mouth, searching for everything womanly within me. And I responded in kind as my hunger for him erupted into a burning need that grew with his every touch.
He ended the kiss before I was ready, and I clutched him tighter against my breasts.“Miss Lovell, we—”
“We have not investigated this kiss thoroughly enough, Mr. Trevelyan.” I kissed him this time. Twice he’d kissed me and then stopped before I’d had the presence of mind to enjoy the experience. This time I wanted to explore all of the sensations he sparked inside me. I moaned from the pleasure filling me and delved deeper into the passion of the kiss.
My word, I thought, as my action spurred Benedict into motion. He swept me into his arms and carried me into my bedroom, kissing me again and again with a passion I’d never imagined possible. The brush of his beard, the soothing feel of his lips, and the plundering quest of his tongue held me captive. In a haze I saw the curtains of my cloudy blue bed over me, and it seemed right that he should be there, for I’d dreamed of him there. My back sunk into the softness of the bed, but I didn’t want the comfort. I wanted to feel every inch of his lean hardness against my body. He stepped back as I reached for him.
I would have spoken had not the stark hunger in his gaze taken my breath away. That and the sight of him so obviously aroused. His pants clung to every nuance of maleness that seemed to grow with his every harsh breath. He stripped off his wet shirt, exposing the massive expanse of his chest, and my fingers itched to feel him. I had to grip the covers, for I knew not what to do. How could I tell him what I had no words to describe? I just knew that I needed him next to me. I needed his kiss. I needed more of the wondrous world of desire he brought to me.
In the flickering lamplight, I saw that water from his body had rendered my gown transparent. The coral tips of my breasts strained against their prison, begging to be freed. I moaned with need.
“Shh,” he said softly. Lying next to me, he brushed his fingers against my cheek.“It is all right. I will not hurt you. I am a large man, but I know only gentleness with a woman. You do not have to fear me.”
“I know,” I whispered. “I have never feared you. I hurt with yearning… for you… for your kiss.”
He gasped for air like a man drowning, then he groaned as if he were in pain. “Miss Lovell—Ann—I do believe you have quite undone me.”
His hands were no longer cold, yet I shivered when he began to unbutton my gown. For I feared that the master of Trevelyan Hill wasn’t the only one undone.
15
Benedict slid the last button of my gown’s bodice from its mooring and leaned over to kiss me again. My heart thundered partly with desire and partly with the fear of being seen naked.
Before he could open my gown, I turned toward him, pressing myself against his chest, to feel him and to keep myself from being exposed. He seemed to sense my shyness and kissed me again, burying his hands in my hair, taking his time, kissing my cheeks, my neck, and my lips.
Slowly my desire to know more of his touch grew to overflowing. I eased back from him and ran my fingers up his chest, across his shoulders, and down his back. I reveled in the heat of him, in the supple strength pulsating within his brawn. His lips left mine, and he kissed a trail down my chin to the sensitive skin of my neck. His beard pricked and tickled slightly, but his lips spread fire.
I was lost in the new sensations, overwhelmed by them, yet my body seemed to know what to do to respond to him. I leaned my head back, threaded my fingers into the full silkiness of his hair, and his kisses moved back to my mouth, then lower again, and again, and again. The passion of his touch stole away my shyness, making me forget about improprieties or anything to do with any sense of practicality I ever possessed. A madness filled me with such agonizing pleasure, I thought I could take no more. I arched to him, and his lips moved lower still, parting the edges of my gown until I could feel the coolness of air upon my aching breasts.
He leaned back from me to gaze at me, and I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling as if I wanted to cover myself again, but I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed, frozen at a place where I could not retreat, but neither could I face going forward.
“Ann, you are so beautiful, everywhere,” he said, and shifted on the bed. My eyes flew open as his heated hands cupped my breasts, lifting their aching fullness to his kisses.
I gasped. I couldn’t breathe as his mouth covered the tip of one breast and he suckled as a babe might. But there was nothing motherly in the shock of pleasure so intense that my heels dug into the bed and my hips lifted.
Proving that it knew no bounds, my blood rushed wildly, and the light-headed sensation that had enveloped me in the stable returned. A fever washed over me. My skin grew damp, my lungs barely functioned, and my mind abandoned me. I wanted nothing else but to know where this sweet r
oad of pleasure led.
He moved to my other breast and did the same. I could feel the fever in him, too. His hands shook, his breaths rasped, and his body quivered.
“Please,” I cried, and he kissed me silent. The aching pleasure had grown so great that I thought I’d scream.
“Shh,” he whispered. “I know.” Shuddering expectation filled me as his heated hand eased down my stomach and brushed over the heart of my femininity. “Let me show you there is pleasure in my touch.”
Did he not think that he was driving me insane with the pleasure?
I grabbed his broad shoulders. “Show me,” I demanded. Then, over the damp gossamer cotton of my gown, he firmly pressed his hand between my legs. Though I had asked for his touch, I still gasped at the newness of it. He slid his wet leg over mine, urging my legs apart, and through the soft cotton, he caressed me where I ached the most. A whirling wind of sensation wrapped around my body, tighter and tighter.
I thought that at any moment I would die, for I couldn’t possibly live through the pleasure consuming me. My body fled from my control and wavered upon every brush of his finger against me and every kiss he gave until stars burst before my eyes. Heaven reached down and captured me in a golden light. I felt more glorious, more beautiful, than the stained glass windows, and I shuddered uncontrollably in his arms. When I stilled and a warm peace covered me in a cloudy cocoon, I slowly realized the desperation in the quivering tenseness of Benedict’s body still wrapped around mine.
The mists cleared from my eyes when he rolled on top of me, sliding between my legs, pressing me into the softness of the bed. The hard ridge of his maleness covered by his wet pants thrust intimately against me, and an odd, almost welcome but uncomfortable sensation of being invaded flooded through me. He levered up on his arms, his body shaking with an effort I didn’t quite understand as he pressed his hard maleness against my soft femininity.
The Mistress of Trevelyan Page 20
