by Rose Lerner
He struggled to sound calm. “If you’ve changed your mind…”
“Is that supposed to shut me up?”
Yes, Nick thought.
“Of course I haven’t changed my mind. Will it be easier for you”—she flushed—“in a certain position? Or—?”
“I assure you, it’s all the same to me.” He tried to sound merely obliging, but he could hear the edge in his voice. That carefully cultivated young-man-about-town indifference, meant to hide his own reaction to criticism. He hadn’t intended to use it with her. He could see the moment she lost her temper.
“Exactly how demanding do you want me to be? Would you like an opening statement and witnesses, too?”
How had this gone so wrong? This had never happened to him before. Had he forgotten how to do this in the last six months?
Only it had happened to him before, hadn’t it? Never this quickly, and not in the middle of lovemaking, but his liaisons with women generally did end with, Don’t I mean anything to you? Aren’t you even going to try to stop me leaving?
His answer was always unhappy, resentful silence. If they wanted to leave, what did it matter what they meant to him? “I don’t—I didn’t say anything. I expressed concern for your comfort. Women are incomprehensible! What do you want?”
“I want you to show even a quarter of the enthusiasm I have!”
“You didn’t seem dissatisfied with my performance a few minutes ago.”
She hunched over, brows drawing together like soldiers standing back-to-back. “No, you’re very skilled. I don’t—I don’t need skill, or to be satisfied with your performance. I wanted desire. I wanted to share something with somebody who wanted me just for me, who didn’t need any favors or votes or—this week is the last time I’ll ever be able to choose who I bed, and I chose you.”
She sounded on the verge of tears. Nick cursed himself. She had wanted him to help her forget, and he had botched it beyond recognition.
Next week she would be married to someone else. Next week Moon or Fairclough would have the right to bed her whenever they liked.
“I chose you too,” he said. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry. Come here.” He put an arm around her, leaning back against the sink for support and smoothing his fingers coaxingly over her bare, round arm. “Let me show you how much I want you. I’ll make you forget about everything but what’s in this room, right now—”
She looked away. “You always know what to say.”
He squeezed her shoulders. “It’s a gift.”
She shook her head. “It’s theft. You don’t mean it. You just know what I want to hear.”
His heart pounded, his panic out of proportion to her words. “Can’t it be both?”
She shook her head. “You told me that if you care about someone, you should see them for who they really are. You see me. I let you see me, and I want to see you, but you won’t—”
He gave her a cajoling smile. “If you wanted me to disrobe, you had only to ask.”
She glared at him. “It isn’t funny. If you told anyone the things I said today—if anyone found out we had done this—I risked everything for this, including my pride, because I wanted it so badly. It wasn’t easy, and you won’t even risk telling me what part of your body you want me to touch.”
“I can’t think of a place I’d complain about,” he protested. He ought to be feeling ashamed that he’d touched her at all, and instead she somehow made him ashamed that he hadn’t helped himself more freely to her body. He didn’t understand. He’d tried to be chivalrous. He hadn’t taken advantage of her or tried to push her into anything. When had that become a bad thing? Was he supposed to play the Pirate and the Captive Heiress with her?
“I didn’t want to forget,” she said. “I wanted something to remember. I wanted it to be worth the risk I took.”
He felt sick. Everything had been going so smoothly, and now suddenly he was being judged and found wanting by someone who a quarter of an hour ago had been begging him to fuck her. He had no idea what to say.
She reached up to ruffle his hair, as if he were a puppy or a confused child. Her fingers felt good against his scalp. She felt good in the curve of his arm. He didn’t want this moment to end. “You have a lot to give,” she said. “Someday you’ll find someone you want to give it to. Thank you for—” She coughed. “Well. I enjoyed it.”
“So did I.” It didn’t sound convincing even to him, which was ridiculous because it was the truest thing he’d said in years.
She sighed, reaching for her shift and pulling it over her head, shoving the ends of the fabric down under her stays. “You’d better help me lace back up.”
He could still have her. That was the devil of it; he knew he could still have her if he only said the right words in the right way. But anything he said now would sound false. He could tell her what to do, but if he was telling her what to do because she told him to, did that count?
And even that…he tried to imagine asking her to lie down so he could fuck her tits, and his throat closed. He didn’t understand why. What was the worst that could happen? She’d make a funny little face and say it was perverse and she’d rather not. That wouldn’t be so terrible.
He couldn’t do it.
She put her arms back through the straps of her corset, and pulled the sleeves of her petticoats and dress over her arms. He laced her stays for her, and buttoned her clothes, and tried to think of something to say.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice as she repinned her hair. “I told you I was hard to live with.”
He wished he could take that uncertainty out of her eyes. “It isn’t your fault.” That, at least, he was sure of. “I’ve been—I’ve been more honest with you than I ever have with anyone.”
Her rosebud mouth twisted and her eyebrows arched just a bit. He wanted to kiss the corner of her eye. “I threw myself at you. It wasn’t your responsibility to be thrilled about it. It’s like having your plate made up for you at table. You don’t have to worry about making the wrong choice or taking too much, but you never get exactly what you want.”
You’re the one who wasn’t happy with what you got, he thought.
Chapter Nineteen
Phoebe trudged home, feeling wrung out and empty. Jack was gone, and even if Mr. Jessop decided to be kind, it would be a terrific scandal. And now she had ruined things with Mr. Dymond. She was too much, just as her mother always said: too hungry, too loud, too demanding, too changeable. Never, ever satisfied. He’d been generous and debauched, driven her to ecstasy, and still she’d taken some notion into her head that it wasn’t enough, that she had to have it all. She’d never even touched him or given him one scrap of pleasure in exchange for what he gave her.
He’d looked so confused and frustrated and unhappy. What was wrong with her? What right did she have to complain that she was just a pleasant-enough distraction for him, a nice bit of fun fallen into his lap? Wasn’t he the same for her?
And now he wouldn’t be back to help her with the paper, and the one bright spot she could see in the rest of her life had winked out like a snuffed candle.
Marriage is hardly a tragedy, she told herself. Stop whining.
She was just so tired. Her whole body ached as if she’d fallen down stairs. Fallen back to earth, more like. If she could have just kept her mouth shut, she’d be sated and relaxed right now.
Helen would be waiting for her at home; there was no way even to quickly pleasure herself before bed. There was nothing for it but to eat some ham, work on her quilt and go to sleep, and hope she’d feel better in the morning.
Nick ignored entirely Toogood’s complaints about the state of his clothes. He tried to listen when Tony came by to complain about Ada, the freemen, and Lively St. Lemeston generally, but only managed about half an ear until Tony said, “You have to end this thing with Mrs. Sparks. Or if you have to bed her, can’t you at least wait until after the election?”
“I don’t have a thing with M
rs. Sparks.” It was true, now. He’d made it true somehow. At least the gossip would stop. That should have seemed important, but it felt like a paltry gift to give her when she’d wanted so much more.
“I know you.” Tony gave him a rueful smile. “You don’t care about the election or her votes. If you’re spending time with her, it’s because you like her. The last thing I need is a scandal, Nick.”
It was a fair assessment of his character, which was why it hurt. “I do care about the election.” It didn’t sound true, any more than his words to Mrs. Sparks earlier. “You’re my brother. Of course I care.”
Tony sighed. “Thanks.” He sounded about as convinced as Nick had been convincing. “I just—I need to win this election, Nick. If I don’t—” He stopped, as if even finishing the sentence would be painful.
“If you don’t, you’ll run in the next one, or Mother will find you a pocket borough.” He was trying to be reassuring, but Tony gave him a vicious glare.
“You don’t understand. I’ve been getting by in all this political stuff by the skin of my teeth. If I can’t pull this off, everyone will see—”
He broke off again, but Nick thought he understood. If Tony failed, everyone would see he was a failure.
“You can’t let everything have so much symbolic weight. If you lose the election, it will mean that Dromgoole got a few more votes. That’s all it will mean. Men who’ve been Whig leaders for decades lose elections all the time, and a place is found for them in another district.”
Tony shook his head. “Nick, I know you’re older and wiser than I am, and have seen more of the world. And if I want advice about”—here his attempt at tact ran out, because he said—“sleeping in the rain or eating raw wheat or being shot, I’ll ask you. But you don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like to try your damnedest and never be good enough.”
“Tony, of course I do. Why do you think—?”
But Tony barreled on, “You told Mama plainly enough that she couldn’t rely on you, and she doesn’t. But she’s counting on me to win this election. And I can’t do it.”
Nick opened his mouth, but despite all the words swirling inside him, nothing emerged. Tony was right. Nick had maneuvered very carefully so that he would never be in the situation Tony was in. By the time Tony was six and Nick was nine, Tony had been charming voters with his antics and Nick had been standing vaguely by the wall thinking about something else and not doing anything that could call his mother’s attention onto himself, because he couldn’t stand the constant weight of expectations and criticism.
“She’ll be proud of you whether you win or lose,” he said finally. “This is your first election. It’s just target practice. If she were really so determined to win, she’d be here instead of canvassing the county for Stephen.”
He could tell at once it had been the wrong thing to say. “Maybe you haven’t noticed that I grew up while you were in Spain,” Tony said tightly. “But Mama has. She isn’t here because this is a small borough and she trusts me to take care of it for her on my own.”
This was why Nick had given up on making his family happy. There was no pleasing them. “Mother doesn’t trust anyone to take care of anything on his own!”
Tony’s face turned red. “You’re just jealous because she doesn’t trust you.”
It was infuriating, how she had the whole family snookered. “Claiming to trust people is just her way of keeping a hold on them. Look at you, tying yourself in knots trying to please her. I’m glad I’m well out of it.”
Tony sneered. “Well out of it? You’re here, aren’t you? Sent to be nursemaided by your little brother because left to yourself you can’t even be arsed to get out of bed in the morning!” Everything stopped. Was that how Tony saw their time together? Was that how Tony saw him? Nick had no idea what his face looked like, but it must have been bad because Tony covered his mouth with his hand, stricken. “Nick, I didn’t mean that. I was angry. Of course you were convalescing. You’re a hero, I know that, and I’ve been glad of your company. Your support. I’m a rat, a rat who’s very sorry—”
“No,” Nick said with difficulty. The last time anything had hurt this much, he’d had a bullet in his leg. He felt as if he were coming apart and re-forming, but he wasn’t—he’d been this way all along. “You’re right. I’m no hero.”
“Don’t.” Tony’s fingers splayed across his eyes. “Don’t try to make me feel better. This campaign was supposed to teach me how to be a statesman, but mostly I’m learning that I’m a snake.”
As always, Nick’s stream of words dried up when it mattered. And he saw now that it wasn’t because he was a man of action. It was because while he did generally know the right thing to say—sometimes it was even true—that wasn’t enough. It had to be felt in order to sound convincing. His mother and Tony were good at that because in the moment, they felt it.
Nick was good at it too, when it didn’t matter to him. But now all at once it was as if he were watching Tony from a distance, as if Tony were a stranger and not a brother whom he loved.
Mrs. Sparks had been right. Yes, he wanted her. Yes, he’d dreamed of touching her breasts. But he hadn’t said those things because they were true. He’d said them to please her.
“I’m going to bed,” Tony said at last. “I’ll be less of a beast in the morning.”
Nick summoned up a smile. “It’s a little brother’s duty to be a beast. Don’t worry about it.” He could hear the weariness in his voice. He had to offer something more. “I’ll stay away from Mrs. Sparks for a few days.”
“Thanks, Nick.” Tony smiled gratefully back, clapped him on the shoulder, and headed off to his own room, leaving Nick’s thoughts still in a whirl.
Nick had thought his family was glib, while he had a knack for getting along with people. He’d thought they were manipulative, while he was agreeable and easygoing. But all along he’d been just like them, presenting what he thought people wanted. The problem wasn’t that it was true, or that it was false; it was that it had a life of its own, independent of his own impulses. It made his own desires irrelevant, hid them away so safely he sometimes couldn’t find them himself.
Was this why army life had suited him so well? Not because he was a man of action at all? Getting along with his fellow officers, charming his men into loyalty, and ignoring his own desires: those were his talents. He was good at forgetting that he was hungry, forgetting that he was cold and wet. He was good at forgetting that he was lonely or sad or afraid.
He’d always focused on his partner in bed because he was afraid to focus on himself. Why? Was he afraid that if he didn’t satisfy, she wouldn’t want him anymore? Was he afraid that if he really wanted her, if he really let himself feel how much he wanted her, he would feel how much it hurt when he lost her?
Nick felt that he ought to lie awake for hours, tossing and turning and thinking over his new insights, but instead he fell asleep with the ease of an old campaigner.
Phoebe would have liked to toss and turn, but she didn’t want to wake Helen. She’d gotten used to sleeping alone, and now she missed it. Helen might help keep her warm, but she also stole the blankets, put her feet precisely where Phoebe wanted to put her own, and made Phoebe self-conscious about every movement or tiny cough.
What if it were Mr. Dymond in the bed with her?
At once she was suffused by heat. She tried to push the top blanket off without shifting the mattress, but the sudden cool only made her feel exposed, reminded her of chill air on her naked breasts. If Mr. Dymond were in bed with her, he could curve against her back, lift up her nightdress and enter her from behind, easy as anything.
She’d never sleep at this rate. She slid back the covers and swung herself out of bed as quietly as she could. It was cold, and she couldn’t remember where she’d put her flannel night-rail, but she padded into the next room, shut the door behind her and curled up in Will’s armchair with a blanket over her.
Even the smooth, chilly
wood against her backside felt intimate and erotic, the carved saddle seat cupping her like a caress. She held her own breasts, remembering how hot and large his hands had felt. Her thighs parted of their own volition. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched her nipples hard, imagining Mr. Dymond, shirtless, pushing her legs apart and undoing his trousers. She pictured the play of muscles in his arms and shoulders, sliding one hand down to her—
The door to the bedroom opened, candlelight spilling across the floor. Phoebe hastily dropped her hands and tried to look as though she had been lost in pensive thought.
“Fee? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Phoebe said cheerily. “I just couldn’t sleep.”
“All right, now I know something’s wrong,” Helen said severely. She had known exactly where her wrapper was. Its flannel ruffle danced an orderly minuet around her neck and down her front. “If it wasn’t, you would have snapped at me for asking.”
Phoebe sighed. “I’m just worried about Jack. And it’s been a long time since I put a newspaper together. I can’t rely on Mr. Dymond to help me all week.” Or ever again. How had she made such a hash of things?
Helen came over and held the candle near Phoebe’s face, looking at her with a suspicious expression. “Mr. Dymond’s been helping you a lot.”
Phoebe’s heart raced. She shrugged. “He’s a kind man, and besides, he’s bored in Lively St. Lemeston. Don’t be so uncharitable.” Ugh, she sounded like their mother. “I mean—”
Helen pressed her lips together. “You’ve been keeping your promise to me, haven’t you?”
“What promise?”
Her sister’s lips parted in breathless outrage. “You promised me you wouldn’t let him kiss you again,” she said in awful tones. In the midst of everything else that had happened that week, Phoebe had completely forgotten. Her stricken expression was plainly visible to Helen, who drew herself up like an avenging angel. “Fee!”
“I didn’t—” Phoebe cleared her throat. “He didn’t kiss me.”
