All Dressed in White

by Charis Michaels

  And she had loved kissing him so very much. If ever they were to kiss again, if ever she were able to muddle through more than kissing, he must know of her . . . experience.

  But how could she articulate what she did not understand herself? Joseph, I enjoy kissing you and touching you but there are certain ways that you might touch me that will send me into hysterics.

  And I won’t know these incendiary touches until we are upon them.

  Good luck to us both.

  She toyed with blurting out these precise things, but she bade herself pause, take a deep breath, think. She reached for practicality, which had been a mainstay of the New Tessa.

  “Here,” said Joseph gently, “Tessa, please will you sit, or let us go—”

  “Yes,” she said. Without really thinking, she sat down again, right in his lap. She sat squarely this time, facing away, her spine straight. They sat like children on a downhill sled.

  When her bottom hit his thighs, Joseph went rigid. He made an odd sound, like someone had handed him a wet cat. He held his arms wide.

  Tessa took a deep breath. She wanted the closeness of sitting with him without the intensity of looking at him. And she’d wanted to be still. Everything effective about the New Tessa had been still and deliberate, not hysterical and reactionary.

  She raised her chin, examining the opposite wall. It was dotted with pegs on a grid, each peg hung with a man’s hat.

  “This family has a proliferation of hats,” she said.

  “Trevor doesn’t like the sun in his eyes,” Joseph answered cautiously. His voice was rough. “They travel much of the year.”

  “Resourceful,” said Tessa.

  “Tessa?” Joseph said. He sounded miserable. Slowly, he lowered his arms to his sides. He did not touch her. She reached on either side and gathered up his open hands. He clasped them, and she held on. He let out a fraught breath.

  “Joseph,” she began, “this has become so very strange, and I’m sorry.”

  “I was too aggressive,” he offered.

  Tessa shook her head at the hats. “No. No. I am determined to accept whatever amorous . . . er, tide you may wish to, er, be carried away upon. However—”

  “Accept my amorous tide?” Joseph repeated. His voice was too loud in the small room.

  “Yes,” she vowed, trying to sound very open, “however, there is more to my experience with, er, kissing, than you and me. As you know. I hesitate to bring it up, but I worry there is no help for it—for me—if I do not. Can you tolerate it?”

  “Tessa,” he breathed. “The only thing I can tolerate is not knowing what you want.”

  She sighed at this. Could she simply stop with this assurance? No, she thought, he deserved more. He deserved all of it. She forged ahead. “In the weeks before I met you, I endured an encounter with the man who fathered Christian . . .”

  Tessa gritted her teeth. It was physically painful to form the words, as if she spoke around a horse’s bit. Joseph fell silent, not a breath, not a shuffle. She had his full attention. She forced herself to start again.

  “On the night Christian was conceived, the man who was Christian’s natural father was rather . . . demanding. And he . . . he, well—”

  Now she squeezed Joseph’s hands tighter. She closed her eyes.

  “What he did was,” she said softly, “well, one of the first things he did was . . . to put his hand beneath my—” Deep breath. “That is, my skirt was lifted and his hand touched my ankle to begin, so . . .” She let the sentence trail off.

  Flashes of memory rushed back from that night. The darkness of the trees at the edge of the clearing. Marking’s face, lit by moonlight. The thin clouds sailing overhead, sailing smooth and fast, as if they couldn’t be bothered to stop, even to block the light from the moon.

  When she spoke again, her voice was dazed. “To be honest, I am shocked I reacted to you as I did, because you did not even touch my, er, ankle. Not really. I am wearing leather boots—I always wear sturdy leather now—but that night, of course I had worn silk slippers. I suppose it was the pressure of your hand and not that you actually took up my ankle, not that you . . . er, shoved.”

  Tessa stopped talking after that. She’d forced out all she could say on the topic of Neil Marking and silk slippers and ankles. No one knew these fine details, not even Willow or Sabine. Tessa kept them locked so deep in her brain that she thought sometimes even she could not remember them herself. But then a word or a smell would trigger a memory so distinctive and clear, she was immobilized, and she was reminded that it was all there, trapped in her head, and the key was very handy, indeed. The key was, in fact, in the lock, and she need only to turn it to remember the horrible events inside.

  Was it the wrong decision to share them, even a few of them, with Joseph? What husband, convenient or otherwise, wanted to hear the details of previous trysts, especially about a man who impregnated her? There was a reason she had not told him before the wedding, even with their entire lives at stake.

  She could not say what was at stake now. It felt very much like the rest of her life all over again.

  A fresh wave of despair floated up, and she stared at the Earl of Falcondale’s hats, straining to hear her husband draw breath or clear his throat, straining for some indication that he would speak. That he would exonerate her.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, after the circles of the earl’s hats had seared into her vision, Joseph said, very lowly and with more steel than ever she had heard, “He was demanding in what way, Tessa?”

  As much as Joseph did not wish to hear the details of his wife’s previous affair, he could not let go of the extremely troubling words that had, haltingly, emerged from her memory.

  Demanding, she’d said. Took up my ankle. And perhaps most disturbingly of all, the word shove. Added to that, she would not look at him. He was literally staring at the back of her head. And finally, terrifyingly, their kiss had ended because she’d leapt from his lap. She leapt like he’d jabbed a finger into a wound.

  His wife, he realized—and he cursed himself for his slowness—had been coerced or strong-armed or, God forbid, attacked. By Christian’s father. He was suddenly as sure of it as he was that she conquered motherhood alone or saved a dock slip for his bloody boat.

  The idea of a man forcing himself on her spilled rage into his veins like scalding water. Through sheer force of will, he paused. He cleared his throat. He was careful about the tenor of his voice. He would not grab her up or demand that she reveal everything, every detail, and reveal it this instant.

  She was talking. It was a private, halting, pained sort of talk. But it was progress.

  He’d wondered if there was some ulterior motive behind the heavy, dour clothes and the minimalist hair. He hadn’t asked what bothered her because he’d been too focused on what might please her. He’d thought mostly of the possibility of her feelings for him. Of a future. Hell, of a kiss.

  And now they’d had that kiss, and not an everyday, neutral, accommodating kiss but a voracious, skin-searing, heart-exploding kiss that went so far beyond questions and answers.

  But none of that mattered if she was being haunted by some incident or, God forbid, incidents. If she had been hurt in some way, emotionally or physically.

  He rephrased his last question with forced calm. “Tessa, what do you mean when you say demanding?”

  “Are you angry?” she whispered.

  “No,” he said gently. He wanted to shout the word. He continued, “I am curious. There is a reason that an otherwise . . . amorous—dare I say, enthusiastic—woman suddenly leaps from my arms like a frightened rabbit. I should like to learn what it is.”

  She said nothing.

  He asked, “Is that reason me?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’ve said no.”

  “Yes, you’ve said this. That means some other man has caused you to be afraid. I should like to know how and why.”

  “Oh, Joseph,” she sighed, dro
pping her head in hands. She sounded exhausted. “Do you really?” A challenge, not a hope.

  No, he thought, but he said, “Yes.” He meant yes.

  She looked at the ceiling and nodded. The beautiful curtain of her hair rippled between them. She sat up very straight, took a deep breath, and then—slumped. Slowly, very slowly, she settled back against him. The heat of his body segued with the heat of hers. He wanted to gather her up, but her hands burrowed again into his. He held on.

  “It is unpleasant for me to discuss it,” she said. “That’s putting it very mildly. Unpleasant. But I will do it, if you are willing to hear it. And you believe it will be useful.”

  “The more we can tell each other, Tessa, the better off we will be,” he said. “I believe. I hope.”

  She said nothing but squeezed his hands. She held his hands as if the grip kept her from falling from a great height.

  When she kept silent, he said, “But perhaps this boot room has seen all the honest talk one corridor can expect for an afternoon. What do you think? Shall we seek out somewhere less muddy, with fewer of Trevor’s sweaty hats?”

  This felt like an unnecessary detour, honestly, and he wondered how he could endure the wait. But regardless of what she had or had not managed today, it would always be her choice what to say and when to say it. He could only wait. It was the least he could do after not asking until now, after simply assuming. He’d assumed she’d had a youthful love affair. He’d assumed their passion was mutual. The alternative was unbearable to him, but he would wait to hear of it on her terms.

  Except, God help him, for one detail that could not go unaddressed right here, right now.

  “But Tessa,” he said, “there is one thing I must say, even in the boot room. You mentioned something about . . . about accepting ‘the rising tide of my passion,’ and I want to be perfectly clear.”

  She went stiff in his arms, bracing herself, and he swore in his head. He would not make it worse. He forged ahead. “Any affection between you and I, Tessa, will be a mutual endeavor—something that we both experience. You are not beholden to the rising tide of—of any part of me. I’ve never compelled a woman to . . . want me in this way, and I’ll be damned if I start now. Do you understand?”

  Tessa considered this, nodding finally with an impatient sigh. She sounded a little weary of heartfelt lectures. Joseph had grown weary of them too. And he was so very weary of the bloody boot room.

  “Right. Up you go,” he said, hustling her up and shoving from the bench. “Let us find somewhere more comfortable in the house. After seeing the glories of the cellar, you’ll not be surprised to learn that I know the perfect spot.”

  He tugged his demolished cravat from his neck. When he glanced at her, she was gathering up the long curtain of your hair.

  “Your hair is glorious,” he said. He could not stop. “I adore it.” I adore you, he added in his head.

  He looked again and saw her smile, a true smile, the first authentic gladness—delight for the sake of delight—since they’d entered the house.

  I want to delight you, he thought. I want the chance to make you smile every day.

  But first, I hear what I should have been told from the beginning.

  First, I hear what terrible thing has been done to you.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tessa allowed Joseph to lead her, first up a sweeping, curved staircase, and then up two more flights. At last, he drew her into a tiny attic corridor lined with servant’s rooms.

  “You’re enjoying the behind-the-scenes service tour of this house, lucky girl,” he joked. “Very exclusive. Given only to the most esteemed guests.”

  “Did you occupy one of these rooms, before the earl moved you to the family wing?”

  “I did, in fact. And, let me guess—you wish to see.” He winked at her. “I have noticed your keen interest in my days of service, by the way, so do not feign ambivalence. You aren’t the first gentleman’s daughter to have a taste for a strapping manservant like myself.”

  Tessa laughed. He was so very clever. He saw the irony and ridiculous in most things and didn’t hesitate to name them. He teased but without meanness. She’d laughed more at his comments and observations than any man she’d known, and her brothers were prodigiously funny.

  Joking aside, she knew the climb up four stairwells was designed as a distraction. He was calming her. He was allowing her to compose herself and the words she would say. He understood the challenge posed by telling him.

  And the challenge for him to hear it? He didn’t address this. Another man might threaten or demand, he might force her to report exactly what he wanted to know. Or he might lock it down, declare it in the past and forgotten.

  Not Joseph Chance. She felt more in love with every step of the stairwell. She floated behind him.

  “Are you certain we are welcome to prowl every level of the earl’s home when they are away?”

  “Quite certain,” Joseph called over his shoulder. They’d come to a small rounded door at the end of the attic corridor, curved at the top like a mouse hole. He tested the knob, found it locked, and then felt around on the transom of an adjacent doorway. He came back with a key, unlocked the small door, and ushered her through.

  She was immediately hit with the crisp, smoky air of London in September. Sunlight shone from an opening at the top of yet another small flight of stairs.

  “The rooftop?” she laughed.

  “Why not?” he said. “You’ve seen the cellar. Might as well see the other end.”

  He squeezed past her in the thin stairwell, pausing to steal a kiss, and she laughed again. She wanted to reach for him, to call him back. She wanted to say, But let us not go out. Let us avoid the brightness and cold. Let’s stay here, where it’s safe and dark.

  But he was already gone, pulling her toward the sunlight. She followed him onto a square widow’s walk, large enough for only three or four people. The walk was lined with a high decorative border in shiny black iron.

  All around them were rooftops and brick walls, church towers, and leafy squares of London. The city sky, so frequently shrouded by smoke and soot, shone blue today. The wind lifted Tessa’s loose hair, and she turned her face into it and laughed.

  “Are you frightened of heights?” Joseph asked, wrapping an arm around her waist. “I don’t even know.”

  She shook her head and reached for the railing, soaking in the view. “It’s wonderful,” she whispered. Far more wonderful was the warm security of his large hands around her waist.

  He came to stand behind her. “We can stay out here as long as you like. However long it takes.”

  She glanced back. His message was clear. The view was lovely, but they’d come to the top of the house for a reason.

  “Right,” she said, but she made no move to begin

  After a moment, Joseph said, “Should I . . . kiss you again?”

  She craned around. “Kiss me again? You are aware that I kissed you?”

  He laughed. “Rest assured that I will never forget that you kissed me. I shall never look at boot rooms the same way again.”

  She laughed and turned, burrowing against his chest. His arms closed around her like strong, safe ropes.

  She thought of the Old Tessa, who had been carefully coached by her mother never to discuss the attentions of one man with a second man, unless it was to ever so slightly tease a healthy measure of jealousy.

  She thought of the New Tessa, who avoided all men, and who thoughtfully and carefully said exactly what she meant to say with reason and calm. Emotionless and rational and businesslike.

  Against his chest she said, “I don’t want to tell you what happened the night that Christian was conceived, because it was horrible. It was the horrible culmination to a lifetime of flirtation and silliness and vanity, which I also have no wish to discuss. But I worry if I do not say it, I will fall from a very great height every time we endeavor to . . . to . . .”

  She looked up. “I want
a life with you, Joseph. If you can trust me to pursue one. If you . . . think of me in that way. And if you can accept my son. I want the life we dreamed of together at Berymede.”

  She paused, marveling that this had actually been easier to reveal than the events of the night with Captain Marking and the tree.

  Joseph said nothing. He betrayed not even the slightest tenseness in his arms, not an intake of breath. She stole a look at his face. He stared down with a creased expression, like he’d wanted to speak but could not.

  Tessa forged ahead. “I have vowed so many things since you went away, but the most important vow was not to conceal anything from you. Not again.”

  “Tessa, I love you,” Joseph said.

  The wind blew in the moment, lifting her hair. Long swaths of blond literally stood on end—and it felt so very appropriate. Her whole body seemed to levitate. She stared, disbelieving, at Joseph’s face. He looked almost as surprised as she was. He looked a little like he’d accidentally dropped someone’s priceless heirloom dish.

  “Before you declare that,” Tessa said, “wait until you hear what I have to say.” She could not bear to have him retract these words after she’d told him.

  “I don’t care what you have say,” he said, but he released her and stepped back. Now he looked gravely serious. Now he looked determine to take every dish in the cupboard and throw it at the wall.

  “Yes, well. Right then,” she said. She felt cold without the circle of her arms, but she took her own step back. She turned and faced the skyline of London. She clasped the iron fencing.

  She took a deep breath and the cold stung her throat. He had been right to bring her here. She could stare at the vastness of the city and feel small and inconsequential, but she could not get away.

  “The man who is Christian’s natural father is a captain in the Army,” she began. “His regiment was garrisoned in Pixham last summer. During this time, there were a number of dashing officers at village assemblies or private parties. This man and I, er, singled each other out as foils almost immediately. I flirted with him shamelessly. He was especially imperious and gallant, and he preened about with a manly sort of swagger whenever I was near. It was like a little game we played, one I’d played many times with many different beaux.”