by Anita Mills
"Where was that, my dear?" Arthur wondered. "I thought you rode her in."
"Actually, she'd stepped on a rock, and I merely feared it," Elinor managed. Not daring to look at Lord Leighton, she added, "It was on the road between here and Bude."
The viscount betrayed nothing. "Offered to take her up, you understand, but she thought the animal could make it home."
"Oh, my dear, but you must take a groom with you!" Mrs. Thurstan declared. "Think of what you might have encountered! I declare that with the Earl of Longford about, I cannot think any female safe!"
"You forget she nursed him to health. I daresay he would not repay her with any impropriety," the vicar said. "Myself, I should rather have worried over Lord Townsend."
"Naught's wrong with Lord Townsend. Indeed, but Clarissa was quite taken with him"—she looked to Leighton before adding meaningfully—"also."
"Every female seems taken with Bell," Leighton murmured. "Save one."
"It seems to me," Elinor said evenly, "that there is something amiss when one man is forever punished for divorcing his errant wife, while the man who led her astray is received everywhere."
"Just so," Thurstan agreed, nodding. "Long thought so myself."
"What an innocent you are, my dear," Eliza said. "Lord Townsend—"
"Dinner, my lord," Peake announced.
The evening seemed interminable, a poor social mix, with Mrs. Thurstan having an opinion on nearly everything, taking off on a new tangent every time Leighton tried to divert her. Before the evening was done, there was not a doubt in the room as to where she stood on the Whigs, the Prince Regent's reprehensible behavior to his wife, the decadence of the London Season, the importance of cold baths for children, the latest cough remedy, the efficacy of lint as a chest warmer, the war, the cost of lace—until Elinor sat there, utterly irritated, wishing fervently that Reverend Thurstan could be brought to take his wife off early.
Finally, the last course had been served, a final toast offered for "many long years of health and happiness" to Elinor by Lord Leighton, and it was over. At the doorway, as he was leaving, the viscount possessed her hand, and for a moment Elinor considered thanking him for not betraying her. Instead, she merely thanked him for coming.
It was not until she was abed that she thought to pray that Arthur would not come up. But as she lay in the darkness, listening to the steady ticking of the ormolu clock she'd forgotten to stop, she heard the door open, and she did not think she could bear it, not this night.
But he was there. There was the rustle of his dressing gown as he removed it, then the bed creaked beside her. She lay very still, hoping he would think she was asleep. He rolled over against her, and to her horror, he moved his hand over her hip, gathering her gown, pulling it upward. She flinched.
"I'd feel you, Elinor," he said, his voice raspy.
She caught at his hand. "No," she whispered. "No."
But he shook free and his hand slid beneath the hem of her gown to the bare flesh underneath. "I'd just touch you—nothing more."
Not since her wedding night had he done this, and she felt the revulsion rise, nearly choking her. Willing herself to lie stiffly beneath his hand, she felt his fingers touch the softness between her legs, stroking the hair. She swallowed, hoping he meant to do no more, but he probed inside, violating the place where only Lucien had been. She was afraid she was going to vomit, but his finger explored, going deeper.
"Please, I'd not—"
Abruptly, he withdrew his hand and lay back, satisfied. He'd had his answer. She was still the vessel of his ambition. He'd give them a month, possibly two, but no more than that.
CHAPTER 29
It was as though the weather conspired against her. She stared out the window, seeing the blowing rain scatter the last of the rose petals across the cobbled walk. She crossed her arms, holding herself, wondering what had become of her. Was she so wanton that she could think of naught else? What if he did not come because of the weather? And what if he did? She could scarce bring him up to her chamber, not beneath Mrs. Peake's and Arthur's very noses.
One day of lying in Longford's arms, and she was utterly, completely obsessed with him. One day and he'd opened a whole new world to her, showing her what pleasure her own body could give her beneath his touch. One day and she was prepared to tell whatever lie, practice whatever deception it took to spend another like it. It was as though after five years of lying beside Arthur, of being denied any physical or emotional satisfaction, she'd come alive beneath Longford.
Mary came up behind her and looked out the window. "Well, ye ain't going ter be riding terday," she observed practically.
"No."
"Look a bit hagged. Mayhap if ye was ter go back ter bed-"
"No. I did not sleep much last night, but I am awake now."
"It ain't right—a man his age a-worriting ye. If it was me, I'd a-given him the laudanum—fer his gout, don't ye see?"
"If he comes tonight, I mean to."
"More like it."
Elinor let the window hanging drop. "I have been thinking of sending for Jeremy," she mused finally.
"Eh?"
She turned around. "I don't think it at all fair that you have no one, Mary."
"Well, it ain't as though he don't write to me," the maid conceded. "Got a whole collection, I do."
Elinor shook her head. "Too many things happen. All we have left of Charles are his letters and the journal, you know." Her eyes met Mary's for a moment. "Life is too short to deny it, don't you think?"
"Me 'n' Jem ain't got the money—be years before—"
"No." Elinor went to her desk and took out the box where she kept the pin money Arthur allowed her. Most of it was still there from last quarter day. She took out a handful of bank notes and held them out. "Tell him you want him to come, Mary."
"Oh, mistress!"
"Fiddle. I'll have Mrs. Peake send to London for him."
The day wore on slowly, inching its way through a silent nuncheon shared with Arthur, who read the papers posted from London at his end of the table. It was as well. After what he'd done to her last night, she didn't even want to talk to him. Instead, she kept her head down, staring at her plate, pushing her food around without much enthusiasm.
"Lord Longford, sir!"
Her heart leapt, but Arthur merely looked up from his paper. "Tell him he is welcome to join us for nuncheon," he murmured. "Or he can wait in the front saloon." He peered over the top of the sheet at her. "Is that quite all right with you, my dear—if he should join us, I mean?"
"Of course."
He was still wiping the rain from his face when he came through the door, and it was as though his presence filled the cavernous room. When a footman hastened to lay another place, he shook his head.
"I've eaten. Deuced unpleasant out," he said to Arthur.
"Not precisely the best day for a drive," the old man acknowledged.
"Foolish of me, I know," the earl said, his eyes still on the baron, "but I've new cattle just sent down from London, and I rather fancied taking them out."
"What sort of cattle?"
"A bang-up pair of grays—identical down to the speckles on their noses. I don't suppose you'd like to accompany me while I put them through their paces."
The old man appeared to consider it, and Elinor's heart was in her throat, but in the end, he declined. "Rain's bad for m'legs, I'm afraid."
Lucien turned to her. "Lady Kingsley?" he inquired casually.
"Well, I—"
Arthur looked up. "If you do not mind the rain, I've no objection. Better than being cooped up with me, I'd think. Besides, I am committed to a hand of piquet with Daggett." His eyes took in her still-filled plate. "Humph! If that is all you mean to eat, you might as well do something."
She felt like a child let out of school on holiday. "Well, I'd hoped to take Mignon out—to test the foot again— but as the weather does not appear as though it will clear—" She drew it out, hoping th
at Arthur would push her. Somehow that made it seem less furtive, less dishonorable.
"Told you—go on. If you want, you may take Mary, but there ain't much as I'd think you got to worry about in a carriage. Besides, Longford knows what he owes you—don't you?"
"Yes," Lucien answered tersely.
She rose, passing him on her way out, and she could almost feel the heat between them. Already her pulse pounded with the thought of being alone with him.
He watched her race up the steps, his expression sober. He felt guilty for what he was doing to her, for he'd already glimpsed her conscience. If he were an honorable man, a truly honorable man, he'd leave her alone. But it had come too far for that, and now he could not. He was as eager for her as a boy discovering his first calf love, as enthralled by her as by anyone from his salad days. At thirty, he was rediscovering his youth, rediscovering the life he'd nearly lost.
He paced the floor waiting, his impatience mounting, not with her, but with time. It was taking her too long, and he'd not wait.
Arthur came into the hall behind him, startling him. "Best see that you have a carriage rug," the old man said mildly. "If the roads are too muddy, you may become stuck in the mire."
"I have one."
"Get another from Ned," Arthur advised. "Unless you are into bundling."
The old man knew, and he was letting her go, disgusting Lucien. But at the same time, it was as though he now had tacit permission to take her, as though Arthur Kingsley gave him the right to possess her, exonerating him. He wanted to lie to him, to deny it, but he could not.
"Ready, my dear?"
The old man looked up as she came down the stairs, seeing the simple black dress with the row of tiny buttons closing the high-waisted bodice. Over her arm, she carried her pelisse.
"You are better advised to take a cloak," he told her, then turned to Lucien. "What say you, my lord—is she not a woman to give a man pride?"
She looked almost regal despite the plainness of her gown, and just watching her, Lucien felt his mouth go dry with desire. "She is that—most definitely she is that." He took the pelisse from her and held it for her. As she stuck her arms into the sleeves, he pulled it close and fastened the frogs.
"It's all right—I am not cold," she murmured in understatement.
She waited until they were outside, then she admitted, "I thought you were not coming."
"As if I could stay away."
Even the low timbre of his voice was exciting. "Where do you mean to take me?" she managed to ask.
"That, my dear, depends on you. Now, if I were Bell, I should offer you Paradise, but you behold a merely mortal man." He opened the door and boosted her up, leaning closer to add, "Albeit a besotted one."
She sank into a seat and leaned back against blue velvet squabs. "Well," she admitted shamelessly, "I am ready to go anywhere."
He dropped onto the bench opposite and smiled crookedly, reminding her of a wild schoolboy. Tossing his hat onto the floor, he leaned back, watching her. "But in truth we are going nowhere."
"Nowhere!" For a moment, she betrayed her dismay. Then the coach began to move as the driver flicked the whip from the seat above them. "Oh, I collect you are funning."
"Not at all."
She turned to stare out the window, seeing the parkland passing by. "One of us must be going mad, my lord, for we seem to be traveling."
The smile twisted more, turning one corner of his mouth decidedly down. "Actually, I think we both are." His expression sobered abruptly. "You deserve better than this, you know."
She sucked in her breath, then let it out. "I am willing to take whatever I am allowed, Luce."
He said nothing for a time, but the air in the passenger compartment seemed to crackle with the tension between them. Finally, he spoke softly.
"Come here."
She slid across the seat into his arms, feeling once again the solid hardness of his man's body through the greatcoat he wore. He pulled her into the crook of his good arm, holding her, savoring the smell of the lavender in her hair. She slid her arms around his waist and laid her head against his shoulder. His hand massaged her arm, and had it not been for the terrible need, the desire that left her taut as a bowstring, she would have liked to have been held like that forever. But now... now... she wanted something more.
He twisted his head to look down at her. "I don't think I can get enough of you, you know."
She buried her face in his greatcoat that he could not see what even his words did to her. "You could try," she whispered.
"Oh, I mean to, Nell—I mean to. But first I've got to get out of this." He shifted her again and eased the greatcoat from one side, then from the other. It fell back against the seat behind him, "You know you've got too damned many clothes on, don't you?" As he spoke, he reached to slide the window cover closed behind her, plunging the tiny world into semidarkness. "Take off the pelisse."
Her hands shook as she unfastened the frogs, then eased out of the jacket. As she folded it and leaned to lay it across the seat opposite, he shut the other window cover. Her heart ticked as loudly as the ormolu clock in her bedchamber.
She could hear the rustle as he did something with his own clothes, then she felt his hands on the tiny buttons at her bosom. Despite the darkness, she closed her eyes and swallowed as her own desire nearly overwhelmed her. He fumbled and muttered until she began unbuttoning them for him. His hand slid beneath the cloth, finding her breast, and despite the fact that it was no longer totally new to her, she sucked in her breath, nearly sobbing as he rubbed her nipple.
He lay back against the side of the compartment, pulling her with him, lifting her until her head was above his, then his mouth was on her breast, pulling, teasing until she could scarce stand it. Her hands rubbed his hair, combing it restlessly, opening and closing in the thickness of it. But as the familiar ache welled deep inside of her, she knew this would be all she could get of him, that he would have to leave her wanting.
"Please," she whispered brokenly, "oh—please—" Her whole body was hot, and already she could feel the wetness below. "Oh," she moaned.
He pulled up her gown, baring her legs above her silk stockings, moving his hands lightly over her thighs until she quivered. And then he reached higher, slipping inside her with ease. She arched and tried to move against his hand, and then he was gone. And once again, she could hear his working with his clothes. He sat up, disappointing her.
"It's all right," he whispered against her ear. "Just kiss me. And put your knees on the seat."
She knelt awkwardly, nearly losing her balance from the motion of the carriage. He caught her. "You've got to sit facing me."
"I don't—"
To her shocked surprise, he lifted her, settling her onto his lap as his hand guided himself inside her. At first, she had no notion what to do, but as he rocked beneath her, she began to move, to gyrate, to grind her hips against him, feeling a certain power over him. She caught hold of the seat behind him and worked, savoring the freedom, the intensity of what she was feeling inside. His mouth moved hotly over her arched throat, finding the sensitive hollow, then he buried his head in her breasts, tasting them, rolling the nipples with his tongue, and finally sucking deeply.
She moved with abandon against him, sliding, slipping, holding, until she felt it, and wave after exquisite wave of ecstasy consumed her. It was so complete, so intense, that she did not even hear him cry out, nor did she feel the flood he released into her.
She collapsed, resting her head on his shoulder, gasping, panting for air. His arms held her tightly to him and his head was still buried in the softness of her breasts. She didn't want him to leave her, not now, not ever. She was still floating, savoring the peace that came after when she heard him murmur, "I knew I could make you howl."
"You didn't."
"Oh, but I did." He moved slightly and flinched. "Damn!"
"I hurt your shoulder, didn't I?"
"One of us did."
&nbs
p; She pulled away reluctantly, then groped for the other seat. He opened the window cover slightly, then began buttoning his breeches. Keeping her eyes averted, she fastened the tiny jet buttons at the neck of her dress.
"You didn't wear the zona."
She reddened all the way to her toes. "I know." Turning away, she struggled to pull down her petticoat and her dress.
He leaned back, watching her lazily. "You're beautiful, Nell—the loveliest woman I've ever seen."
"And you have seen many."
"More than my share," he admitted. "But there is only one of you. Come here."
Her eyes widened. "Again? Oh, but I—"
"No. I'd just have you hold me." When she hesitated, his eyebrow went up slightly. "You did not think you were the only one who does not want to be alone, did you?"
"No, of course not." But as she slid across the seat and laid her head against his good shoulder, encircling his waist with her arms, she had to admit he'd surprised her. After Arthur, she could not imagine a man who wanted, who needed to be held.
He opened the window shades, and she roused slightly. "Where are we?"
"On our fourth or fifth turn about Langston Park, I think." His arm tightened around her shoulder. "I told him I should not be satisfied with less than twenty-five."
He was warm, he was secure, and she was sated. She leaned into him, hearing the beating of his heart beneath his shirt, and closed her eyes to enjoy these moments with him. And all the while the carriage swayed easily on its springs, lulling her.
When he looked down, she slept, and he felt a deep need to protect her, an unexpected tenderness, and for possibly the first time in his life, he wanted to take a woman home with him, he wanted to keep her. And the greatest, the most bitter irony of it all was that she was another man's wife.
CHAPTER 30
She rode every day that it did not rain, meeting Longford at different prearranged places. But there was something less than satisfying, something degrading, about the furtiveness, the lies, the constant fear of discovery and disgrace. But she could not stop, and she knew it was because she loved him passionately, hopelessly, completely. It was as though for the first time in her life, she had a reason to live.
