by Anita Mills
"What the devil—?"
For a moment, he was stunned, then he swore softly. She was in no case to be out there in the dark. He gulped his brandy, then dressed quickly, not bothering to discover waistcoat or jacket. If he did not hurry, she'd disappear into the fog, and he'd have no notion which way she went. It was wet and muddy out, the sort of weather that gave one consumption. He pulled on the knee boots he'd worn the day he'd come, and having no cloak, pulled a blanket from his bed and flung it over his shoulder.
He took the back steps two at a time, half-stumbling down them, coming out at the rear of the house. There was no sign of her—no sign of anything. Moving around to the front, he took down one of the lanterns and started across the wide expanse of lawn. In the distance, he could hear the wild roar of the sea as it rolled over the rocks, and he felt his stomach knot. It was no place to be in the foggy dark, not with the high, gray cliffs that plunged into narrow inlets frequented by smugglers. Fear seemed to clear his head, to pump strength into his body.
"Elinor! Elinor!" he shouted into the swirling mist. It was as though his words were swallowed.
Why would anyone, least of all a sensible female, be out on a night like this—or any night? And the answer, when it came to mind, did not bear thinking.
He cupped his hands, calling through them, "Elinor! Elinor! Elinor!"
He was dizzy from running, scrambling over the rocky land toward the sound of the sea. Visions of her broken body seemed to loom before him, forcing him on.
The moon was like a hazy beacon too weak to give much direction. Then he saw her. She was walking, her arms crossed against the damp chill, along the edge of the cliff. She stopped and looked downward into the churning sea. Not wanting to startle her, not wanting her to jump when she saw him, he dropped the lantern and came up to her from the side, then as she moved closer to the edge, he caught her, pushing her back, falling with her to the muddy ground.
"Lucien! What—?"
"You little fool! You damned little fool!" he shouted at her, shaking both her shoulders until his fear ebbed. She stared at him, her eyes luminous, her expression one of total shock, then he enveloped her in his arms, holding her, rocking her against the wet earth. "It will pass-believe me, it will pass. Do you think this is what Charles would want?" Before she could answer, he pulled her closer, lying over her, twining his hands in her muddy hair. "Oh, Nell," he groaned, possessing her cold lips.
For a moment, she was bemused, then she clung to him, giving herself up to the exhilarating feel of his hard, masculine body against hers. Her hands moved over his shoulders, holding him, and she returned his kisses breathlessly, twisting beneath him, trying to get closer. And it was as though all the years of denial, all the years of yearning for someone to hold her were over.
He had never wanted anyone, never wanted anything as much as he wanted her now, and as her hands trailed fire across his damp shoulders, his body's need conquered thought. Pulling the blanket from his arm, he tried to spread it over the rough grass, all the while kissing her lips, her jaw, her ear.
His hot breath sent shivers of anticipation coursing through her, heating her blood despite the cold ground beneath her. As his mouth moved to the hollow of her throat, she arched her head, moaning, while every fiber of her being told her this was what she had been made for.
He forgot his resolve, he forgot the pain in his shoulder—everything was lost in his urgency to possess her. He rolled her onto the blanket, then slid his hand beneath her cloak to find the buttons at the neck of her nightgown, keeping his lips against her neck. When her hands came up between them, he brushed them away, croaking hoarsely, "Don't."
Somehow, he managed to get the neck of the gown open, to slip his hand inside. His palm brushed over a breast, tautening the nipple.
She gasped, for she'd felt nothing like this. Her eyes widened, then she squeezed them shut as though she would rather hide than stop him. His head moved lower, resting on her chest, as he turned his mouth to her nipple, teasing it with his tongue, sending ripples of pleasure through her. It was beyond anything she could have imagined. Her fingers caressed the thick black hair, opening and closing restlessly, as her head turned from side to side in the wet grass.
He tasted first one, then the other breast, as his hand moved lower, skimming lightly over her gown, tracing fire over her hip, her thigh, to the hem. Once again, his mouth possessed hers, eliciting a deep, hungry moan as she tried to move beneath him, to entice him with her body.
The gown came up, baring her pale legs, allowing his hand to move inside her thigh. When he found the wetness, he thought he would surely burst. He raised his head, trying to see her in the misty night, but her eyes were closed, her face damp either from fog or passion.
"Spread your legs around me, Nell," he whispered. "And kiss me."
"Just don't stop," she moaned, raising her lips to his. "Please."
With one hand holding her head and the other guiding himself, he took possession of her mouth and body at the same time. To his surprise, she stiffened as her body resisted momentarily, then he was inside, feeling the warmth of her close around him. Dimly, he realized she was a virgin, that he ought to wait, but he could not, as the feeling of her overwhelmed him.
She was being rocked, ridden, driven, pounded inside until she thought she could stand no more, and as the shock ebbed, she felt her own desire intensify. She cried out, begging him not to stop, and all the while she moved her hips, bucking beneath him, seeking a more complete union. She was hot, wet, and wanting with abandon.
He couldn't stop. He was going to explode. Grasping her hips with both hands, he held her as her body urged him home. He moaned loudly, then collapsed over her, exhausted, finally floating back to earth.
She felt the warm flood inside, and with it came the terrible realization of what she'd done. She didn't want to open her eyes, she didn't want him to see her.
After a time, he eased off her, but not before he saw her turn her head away. The passion was gone now, replaced by guilt. He knew he owed her more than this, that he had repaid her care with dishonor. And all the things he usually told his lovers were inadequate now,
for even if he told her it was as good as he'd ever had, she'd probably think he lied.
She was utterly, completely mortified, thinking herself no better than the whore Arthur had called her. She wanted to cry, but somehow that would compound the humiliation she felt.
He rolled to sit, his back to her, giving her a chance to put her clothes back in order. "I'm sorry," he said simply.
Her throat tightened. He was sorry. "Why?" she managed to whisper, her face red in the dark. "Isn't that what men do to women?"
She had a right to be angry. He was angry with himself. "Nell—"
"No—I pray you will not make it worse, my lord." She managed to stand, pulling her gown down, and turned to button the neck. She could feel the warm trickle going down her leg. Pulling her cloak closer, she looked down at the foamy waves as they crashed over the rocks.
"I did not come for this," he said finally.
She crossed her arms over her breasts. "Why did you follow me?"
"I was afraid—I thought perhaps after what you said this afternoon that you meant to jump."
"No. Sometimes when I cannot sleep, I come to listen to the water."
"It's dangerous."
Her chin came up. "So Arthur says."
He picked up the muddy blanket and offered her his hand. "You still have my regard, Nell."
She didn't take it. Instead, she started walking back toward Stoneleigh. When he caught up to her, she seemed saddened. "I'm sorry I disappointed you," he offered her.
"No." For the first time since he'd had her, she met his eyes. "I disappointed myself."
They managed to get back into the great house undiscovered, but that was little consolation now. Whether Arthur Kingsley was apprised of the matter or not, it was going to be impossible to keep the servants from noting the laundry.
At the bottom of the back stairs, he stopped.
"If you want, I will return to Langston Park tomorrow."
Her hand was already on the newel post. She turned back to him. "I think it would be best, don't you?"
Long after he heard her door close, he lay awake, cursing himself. Bell Townsend had been right—there was more of Mad Jack in him than he'd ever wanted to admit. And even if she forgave him, he knew that nothing with Nell Kingsley would ever be the same again.
She sat for a long time, her muddied cloak still pulled about her, staring from her bedchamber window into the thickening fog. She told herself that she hoped he left early, for she did not think she could face him in the morning. A sense of desolation settled over her, for now she'd lost not one friend, but two.
When she finally rose to clean herself up, she had only a bowl and pitcher of water to marshal against the mud. But she managed to rinse her hair, wash her face and hands, and wiped the unexplained blood and sticky seed from the inside of her legs. All the while, her mind accused her—he'd been there.
She'd given him that which he'd had no right to take. With the memory of what had passed between them came the nearly unbearable humiliation. She had not even the excuse that he'd seduced her, that he'd made her do that which she'd not wanted. Her own words echoed in her ears, reminding her that she'd begged him not to stop.
Finally, she went to bed to lay there, too awake to forget her shame in sleep. Instead, she closed her eyes, remembering the feel of Longford's arms around her, the intensity of his passion—the feel of his body inside hers. And the most shameful thing of all was that she knew she wished to feel it all again.
CHAPTER 26
Although she'd not slept at all, she did not go down to breakfast, nor did she bid Longford farewell. She heard the carriage brought 'round, and she heard him tell Mary and Daggett goodbye in the hall. She even knew when he walked past her door, stopping as though he meant to knock, then finally going on. His booted steps took the stairs slowly, his voice carried from the foyer as he thanked Arthur and asked him to convey his "best wishes to Lady Kingsley." Then he was gone.
She rolled over onto her stomach and bit her knuckles to stifle the urge to cry. He was gone, leaving her once again with naught but Arthur.
"My lady—?" Mary entered the room and carefully closed the door after her. "His lordship said I was ter give ye this—and not ter tell yer husband."
"Go away," Elinor whispered.
"Aye." But before she left, the maid laid a folded piece of vellum on the pillow, then patted Elinor's shoulder sympathetically. "It's sorry I am ter see him go also," she murmured.
Elinor rolled over to sit and stared at the letter he'd left her. Finally, unable to stand it, she opened the sheet to read the bold scrawl.
My dear Nell,
There will never be any words capable of conveying my gratitude to you, for I know I owe you my life. And despite what you must now think, I'd have you know that you will forever have my highest, my most devoted regard. If there should ever come a time when you have need of a friend, I do pray that you will not hesitate to ask anything of me. I remain your obedient servant.
He had signed it simply "Luce."
That was it—nothing else. She read it again, thinking it sounded rather stilted, as though he'd felt he had to write it.
The door opened again, and this time it was Mrs. Peake come to inform her that before he'd left, "the earl had quite ruined one of the blankets."
"Yes."
The woman's gaze dropped to where Elinor had wadded her muddy, blood-spotted nightgown and thrown it onto the floor. Her eyes narrowed, making Elinor wish she could somehow disappear.
"That will be all, Mrs. Peake—Mary will attend to that," she said, not daring to look at her.
The housekeeper's mouth drew into a tight line, but she nodded, "As you wish, my lady."
No doubt before nightfall there would not be a soul in the house as did not know or at least suspect that she had been tumbling in the mud with Longford. It must surely be written on her face for all to see—"Lady Kingsley, for all the fine manners she has pretended to, is naught but a slut." She didn't want to face anyone, not now, not ever again. She pulled her covers up, covering her head, and turned to the wall.
There came an insistent tapping at the door, and for a moment, she considered ignoring it totally. But it did not cease, until finally she snapped, "Who is it?"
It was the last person on earth that she wanted to see. Arthur pushed open the door with his stick, then moved slowly to take a chair by her bed. Leaning forward, he lifted the sheet, waiting for her to turn to face him.
"Mary would have it that you are plagued with the headache, my dear," he murmured.
"Yes," she lied.
"Perhaps it was something you ate—or yesterday's brandy," he observed sympathetically. "In any event, I have ordered that you are not to be disturbed. A cool cloth—perhaps a cold collation for nuncheon later—and no doubt you will feel more the thing on the morrow."
"Thank you."
"You have worn yourself haggard nursing Longford, I'm afraid." He peered closer, taking in her reddened eyes. "He has left, you know."
"Yes."
"I made your apologies for you."
"Thank you." She clenched her hands tightly, wishing he would go away.
"And now that he has gone," he continued mildly, "I shall expect to return to the conjugal bed." She lay very still, wondering if he suspected also, but his next words dispelled it. "We both needed time to grieve, my dear. And Longford was so very, very ill, after all."
"It has been but two months," she managed, swallowing the revulsion she felt. "Charley—"
"Charles is gone, Elinor—and I cannot bring him back." He reached a bony hand to stroke her copper hair, smoothing it against her pillow. "I no longer blame you. After I read his journal, I could see it was boyish infatuation, nothing more."
She wanted to scream, to rail at him that she had no wish to speak of Charles, not now, not after what had happened with Longford, but she dared not. She could not let him know that she felt she'd betrayed what Charley had felt for her. She covered her eyes with the back of one hand.
"Please, my lord—my head aches until I can scarce think," she said.
"I quite understand your distress, my dear," he murmured, rising. "Until tonight, Elinor."
She held her breath as he walked past her soiled nightgown, but despite catching his cane in it, he did not appear to note it. It was not until he was safely out of her bedchamber that she dared to let it go.
Arthur was coming to sleep with her. It was a sort of justice, she supposed, God's punishment for what she'd done.
True to his avowed intention, Arthur sought her bed, not on the formerly customary Wednesday and Saturday night, but for a full week, until she found herself taking laudanum for sleep. And still there were times when she lay there, listening to his thin, reedy, whistling breath, thinking she was going mad. Times when he wrapped a bony arm about her, as though he sought the warmth of her body. Invariably, as she recoiled silently in her mind, she could not help thinking of Longford.
And the very memories that shamed her sent remembered heat coursing through her body until she ached while her sinful mind yearned for more. Sometimes, despite the wild, tumbling dreams of a drugged sleep, shed waken, her body wet and hot with desire. It was as though, awake or asleep, she could think of naught else. The feel of him, the hardness of his body, the solid strength of his arms around her could not be forgotten, not when Arthur's thin fingers smoothed her gown over her hip, not when Arthur's wheezy breath sounded in her ears.
But if Arthur made her nights nearly unbearable, Bellamy Townsend did little more for her days. Almost as soon as he'd heard that Longford had removed himself back to Langston Park, the viscount had presented himself once more at Stoneleigh to pay her the lavish compliments of a lover. It was, she reflected wearily, as though he counted Arthur already dead and her a widow.
And it was not as it had been before—now she had a fair notion of what he was about. "Dear Lady, a kiss to treasure," he'd coax. But, when despite her protests, he'd stolen one, she felt nothing beyond an urge to struggle. As handsome, as well-muscled as he was, his presence could not replace Longford's.
For Bell, it was a novel experience, and one he could not like, for his inability to endear, let alone his inability to seduce, was wearing on him. He'd lost his touch, he told Leighton tiredly. To which his host had suggested a repairing lease somewhere else, pointing out the adage that absence was said to make a heart grow fonder.
He gave it one last try.
"Dearest Elinor," he began, possessing himself of her hands, "you behold a man besotted. Only say the word and I shall be the happiest man in England—I swear it."
"There are only two words I can think of," she answered, pulling away, "and neither seems quite proper."
"The only improper word is 'no,' " he insisted. "I should even count a 'perhaps' enough to sustain me."
"Lord Townsend," she retorted, betraying her asperity, "if you are asking me to wed, you are a trifle premature, for my husband is quite alive. And if it is something else, I shall count myself quite insulted."
"Elinor, I cannot wait! You are in my thoughts night and day," he protested. "Not since my salad days have I-"
"A-hem," Arthur coughed. When the younger man swung around guiltily, he fixed him with cold eyes. "Townsend, you are de trop," he said mildly. "Surely by now you must realize that Lady Kingsley neither encourages nor desires your company."
"Elinor—"
"Lord Townsend—Bellamy—" Drawing in a deep breath, she managed to look up at him. "I should always cherish your friendship, sir—but nothing more."
"It's Longford, isn't it?" he asked bitterly.
"Don't be a fool, sir," Arthur snapped. "She still mourns my grandson!" He lifted his cane, poking Bell with it. "I suggest you hang after someone else's wife. And a word to the wise—discretion, boy—discretion."
