‘What are you thanking me for?’
‘For trusting me.’
‘Trusting you with Trusty, eh? You did well. Are you all right?’
‘Yes. And you?’
‘Yes. No thanks to...’ His head swivelled and he stared back along the path. ‘Wretched pheasant.’
‘No wonder poor Trusty bolted. It startled me, too.’
‘Poor Trusty?’
With a single quirk of his brow, Richard indicated his opinion of the horse. Then he stilled. He cupped Felicity’s chin. Desire licked through her veins as she stared up into his darkening eyes. His head lowered. He hesitated, searching her face, his mouth scant inches from hers. With an impatient inner huff, Felicity slid her fingers through his hair and crushed her lips to his. She wanted him. She was weary of tiptoeing around him, fearing he did not desire her. His eyes revealed the truth: at this moment in time, he wanted her. She would deal with any regret later.
Richard’s arms slid beneath her cloak, enfolding her as the kiss deepened and she pressed against him, the evidence of his arousal hard against her belly. As their tongues tangled, his hands slid around her waist and up the sides of her ribs. He tore his lips from hers to murmur huskily, ‘No corset, Felicity Joy?’ before reclaiming her mouth. Pure lust sizzled through her as he unbuttoned her jacket and caressed her breast through her linen shirt. She reached between them, unfastened his breeches and closed her hand around him: hot, silky skin sliding over engorged flesh. She stroked and he growled, deep in his throat, pulling her skirts up, and up again to her waist, exposing her.
A long finger slid between her aching, swollen folds and she pushed against it, frantic for more, her cry of pleasure swallowed by his kiss.
Then she was in the air, her legs tightening around his hips as he entered her. Still coupled, he turned to trap her against a tree. He was quick, hard, demanding. She urged him on, meeting each thrust, clenching around him. Frantic for release, she wound tighter and tighter until she shattered, throwing her head back, her cry echoing in the still December air, drowning his deep cry as he pumped his seed into her.
His forehead rested against hers as they stilled, panting. Felicity closed her eyes. He was still inside her, softer now, her legs still tight around his hips. Warm lips caressed her lids, trailed down her nose to kiss its tip.
‘Why have you stayed away from me?’ The words were out before she could stop them. She kept her eyes tight shut.
‘I...when?’
‘At night.’
Silence. She peeked through her lashes. He studied her, frowning. Her courage faltered. If only she could unsay those words.
‘You must be uncomfortable.’
He supported her as he stepped back from the tree and slowly lowered her to the ground. She did not meet his eyes as she rearranged her clothing.
‘Felicity?’
Reluctantly, she looked at him; took heart at the hint of vulnerability in his expression.
‘Do you mean...that is, I thought, now you are with child, you—’ He spun round and strode over to a nearby sapling which shook as he thumped it. His shoulders rose and his back broadened as he sucked in an audible breath. ‘I have been trying to respect your wishes.’ He strode back to face her. ‘You seemed unhappy with my attentions, other than in bed, and I thought you only welcomed those as you were keen to get with child.’ Deep brown eyes bored into hers. ‘Was I wrong?’
She tamped down her embarrassment at discussing such intimate details. He was her husband, if she could not discuss such matters with him, then with whom?
‘Yes. I would like it if we could still...’ Her face burned. ‘That is, I would like it if you would continue to visit me at night.’
He lifted her chin. ‘Only at night, Felicity Joy?’
No. I want you to love me. Always.
An image of her mother, hopelessly yearning after her father and, now, her stepfather, swept into her mind, followed by Emma, in despair over a man she had trusted, who had heartlessly abandoned her. They would go back to London in February. He would go back to his mistress. She hardened her heart. ‘I think it is for the best.’
‘Why?’ His eyes seared into her, scrambling her thoughts. ‘What are you afraid of? Is it because of your sister?’
‘It is not only her.’
He gripped her shoulders. ‘Not only Emma? Who else? Why does this barrier between us feel insurmountable? Your mother? Is it her?’
Felicity wrenched away from him. ‘It is how I feel. It is what I want.’ Every nerve in her body was strung tight, every muscle rigid.
The silence hummed with tension. She refused to look at him, staring fixedly down the track, back the way they had come.
‘Very well, if that is how you feel, I shall not ask again.’
Richard strode over to the gig. ‘It is time we went back,’ he said, and waited to help Felicity aboard. What else could she have said? She had no words to explain. Her feet dragged as she walked towards the gig.
‘Richard?’
‘Felicity?’
‘I am sorry. I—’
He almost threw her up into the vehicle and leapt in after her, gathering the reins.
‘Get up, Trusty.’ He slapped the reins on Trusty’s broad back, his lips tight as he glowered at the track ahead.
Chapter Forty-Two
Mid-January, 1812
As Richard crossed the hall, he glanced up at the staircase. Felicity, dressed in a woollen walking dress that clung provocatively, was walking down the stairs. His breath caught at the tantalizing sight. He never tired of caressing the gradual changes to her body—her ripening breasts and the gentle swell of her belly. Her condition was not yet obvious, except to him, who knew and revelled in every inch of her.
‘Are you going out for a walk, my dear? I should be happy to provide an arm to lean on,’ he said, as she had reached the foot of the stairs.
‘Thank you, Richard, but I am to call upon your mother. I am persuaded you will find it tedious beyond measure and, as you see, Yvette is to accompany me.’ She gestured behind her to where her maid had followed her down. ‘Besides, I see you are dressed for riding and I make no doubt you will enjoy such exercise far more than walking at my slow pace.’
His wife was consistent, he would give her that. She had said she would not welcome his attentions during the day, and she had kept to her word. Despite his efforts to convince himself it was for the best, the terms of their marriage were eating away at him. Angry words, he knew, would get him nowhere.
He bowed. ‘Enjoy your outing, dear. I shall see you later.’
Ten minutes later, Richard waited, tapping his whip against his boot, as Dalton saddled Thor.
‘You’ll be wanting someone to accompany you, milord.’ Dalton voiced it as a statement, not a question.
‘No. I shall ride alone.’
Dalton paused in his task. ‘He’s very fresh, milord. Mebbe—’
‘Are you suggesting I cannot handle my own horse, Dalton?’
The groom stiffened before buckling the throat lash.
‘Forgive me, Dalton, I should not have snapped at you. I am in no mood for company. There is no need to worry about my safety.’
‘Very well, milord.’ Richard closed his mind to the doubt in the groom’s tone.
Dalton held the stallion as Richard mounted and Thor threw his head up in reaction to the weight on his back. As the horse’s muscles bunched beneath him Richard grinned in anticipation of the ride to come. It would take all of his concentration to settle the horse—exactly what he needed. He rode Thor out of the yard, using seat and legs to drive him up to the bit and encourage him to drop his head.
The strains of the day drained from Richard as they trotted along the track leading from the stables down to the
river meadows a mile away. Once down in those broad, flat fields—through which the River Fern flowed—he would give Thor his head and shake the fidgets out of them both with a long gallop. Despite his intention to focus his full attention on Thor, Richard’s mind continued to meander, his body reacting instinctively to the stallion’s antics as he boggled at rustles in the hedgerows and shied around puddles.
Why was he so restless? Why did he feel as though something constantly hovered beyond the reach of his understanding?
He should be content: his mother was now settled at the Lodge and Felicity was with child, yet she continued to welcome him to her bed. A tremor shuddered through him at the thought of the spine-tingling satisfaction he found in his wife’s arms night after night. She oversaw his household in a calm and uncomplaining manner and she appeared content with her life, yet... No amount of teasing or probing by him had yet uncovered any chink in her outer shell. He hated that Felicity would not confide in him.
Trust. He longed for his wife to trust him. He wanted...needed to be the centre of her world, the most important person in her life.
They reached the gate at the end of the track, and he stretched down to unlatch it. As it swung open, Thor bounced into the meadow, snatching at the bit.
Richard laughed, his spirits lifting. ‘You know what’s coming, don’t you, old fellow?’
This had been a favourite ride since his boyhood, when he and Adam would race their horses, jumping over the numerous ditches that drained the fields above into the river, then riding home, happy and exhausted, through Fernley woods. Despite the age gap, they had been close. Until... His spirits dived again, like a swallow in flight.
He nudged Thor until he breasted the gate shut, then reached down to latch it. He felt those powerful haunches bunch under him as Thor tried to wheel round, anticipating the gallop. Richard sat deep, holding the stallion between hand and leg, heading for the river at a slow, collected canter. The decision to gallop would be his, and his alone.
As they reached the bank, lined with trees, he reined to a halt to admire the sun glinting on the river and the sound of the river rushing past. He sat and watched for several minutes, enjoying the moment, aware of half a ton of quivering horseflesh between his thighs. Then he turned Thor and pointed him downstream. The big horse needed no further encouragement, catapulting into a gallop, the ground a blur beneath his pounding hooves. Richard felt his lips stretch into a wide smile as they flew over familiar ditches, the wind in his face blowing his troubles away.
At the far end of the meadows they slowed to a canter, a trot and, finally, a walk, both heaving for breath. Here, a tributary joined the river. It was too wide to jump and the sloping banks were too high and unstable to negotiate, so a footbridge—around fifteen feet long and strong enough for a horse and rider—had been constructed. Once over the bridge, there was a quiet lane to cross into Fernley woods, towering majestically up a steep slope before levelling out.
The way home.
Thor jibbed at setting foot on the bridge.
‘Come on, lad. I know you don’t care for it, but you’ve done it before.’
After some urging, including firm encouragement from Richard’s heels and a tap with the whip, Thor ventured on to the narrow bridge, ears flat to his head. He jibbed again at the halfway point and an inkling of danger struck Richard.
Too late.
The wooden structure sagged and tilted with an ominous crack. Frantic hooves scrabbled for purchase on the wet boards as Richard kicked Thor on, hoping they might, by some miracle, reach the opposite bank before the bridge gave way. The stallion made a valiant attempt to respond, lurching forward, his front hooves almost home even as his hind legs slipped over the side of the bridge. He hung there for a few seconds, giving Richard precious time to kick his feet free of the stirrups and throw himself clear of the falling horse. He landed with a thump, on his back, in the freezing water.
* * *
Remorse needled Felicity as she took tea with her mother-in-law. It had been so very hard to resist the heat in Richard’s eyes as he watched her come down the stairs, but she had forced herself to deny his company.
She was a coward. She did not want their marriage to continue like this but, whenever she was on the verge of relenting, the thought of his mistress stopped her. Her dread was all too real that, once back in London, Richard would forget her and once again plunge back into his old life. She must not become reliant on him or his presence.
Other than their continuing driving lessons—she had by now graduated to driving a pair—she had become adept at avoiding any but the most fleeting of interactions with Richard.
Except at night.
A tug of anticipation deep inside recalled the passion and ecstasy she experienced night after night at his skilful touch.
A gentle cough returned her with a jolt to the present, and to her mother-in-law’s cool appraisal.
‘Oh.’ Felicity felt her blush build up once more. ‘I am sorry.’
The dowager patted her on the knee. ‘Ladies in your condition are known to be prone to a little absentmindedness.’
The dowager had been delighted with the news of Felicity’s pregnancy, and she and Felicity had become ever closer over the past weeks. Richard’s relationship with his mother, however, had continued to be fraught.
‘It will be dark shortly,’ Felicity said eventually. ‘I should—’
A sudden flurry of activity in the hall—raised voices and running footsteps—prevented her from finishing her sentence. A glance at the dowager revealed a face leached of colour.
‘Wait there, Mother. I will see what is amiss.’
Richard—skin whiter than the neckcloth swathing his head, his clothes soaking wet—sat on a chair in the hall whilst a footman tugged at his boots. The butler and various other servants hovered nearby.
‘I am perfectly well, I tell you, Davis,’ Richard said to the butler. ‘There is no need for the doctor. Send for Dalton immediately, will you? Thor is in need—’
‘Never mind your horse.’ Felicity dropped to her knees beside him. His hand was freezing. ‘What on earth happened?’ She reached to the cloth wrapped around his head, and he flinched. Then she saw the blood and her stomach roiled. ‘Davis,’ she said. ‘Send someone for the doctor. Immediately.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Hold hard there, Davis.’ Richard glared at Felicity. ‘What do you mean by—?’
‘You have an injury to your head. I cannot be certain you are capable of making rational decisions, so I have done it for you.’
Their gazes clashed, a storm brewing in Richard’s brown eyes.
Chapter Forty-Three
Felicity held her breath, determined to stand firm. Richard held her gaze for what seemed like an age until, suddenly, he smiled. It was like the sun appearing from behind thunderclouds.
‘Very well, Felicity Joy. Davis?’
‘Milord?’
‘Tell Dalton to come here first, before he sees the horse.’
‘Dalton? But he’s a groom.’
‘He’s patched me up many times, Felicity. I’ll not have that quack from the village anywhere near me, and anyone else is too far away.’
‘Very well.’ Dalton was a man of sense, he would very soon say if he thought Richard in need of a doctor. Felicity touched his cheek. ‘What happened? Were you thrown?’ She was always apprehensive when Richard rode the lively stallion.
‘Thrown?’ Disgust coloured his tone. ‘No, I was not thrown. The bridge gave way as we crossed. We landed in the stream and had to wade along the river until the bank was low enough to climb out.’
Felicity’s imagination embroidered his spare tale with horrific images. ‘You were fortunate Thor did not...’ Her blood ran cold. She probed Richard’s ribs as she scanned him for inju
ries. At his bellow of pain, she snatched her hands away. ‘Did he land on you? Were you crushed?’
Richard hacked out a laugh, which merged into a cough which, in turn, merged into a groan. Felicity sat on her heels, hardly daring to touch him in case she caused any damage. Eventually, he gasped, ‘Do I...look crushed? I rolled...clear...pleased to say. Ribs...damnably sore. This was...nearest place.’
‘I am so glad I was still here. Here, let me help, can you stand?’ Felicity slid her hand under his arm, then hesitated before she tried to help him to his feet. He had begun to shiver violently, and she did not like the sudden greyish cast to his skin, or the roll of his eyes.
She beckoned to two male servants. ‘Help his lordship upstairs immediately. He needs to be dried and kept warm.’ Davis came hurrying back along the hall. ‘I think a measure of brandy would be welcome, Davis, if you have such a thing. And you,’ she addressed one of the maids, ‘go to the kitchen and ask Cook to send up hot water and a tea tray, please.’
Richard’s arms were draped over the servants’ shoulders, and their arms linked together around his back. Felicity could see the effort he made to take some of his weight on his own legs, which alternately buckled and straightened.
‘I will go ahead of you and—’
A moan caught Felicity’s attention. The dowager had emerged from the drawing room and stood, visibly trembling, her eyes riveted on her son.
‘No, you go ahead. I will be with you shortly.’ Felicity scanned the hall, and spied the worried-looking housekeeper hurrying from the rear of the house. ‘Mrs Norton—’ she called, as the men began their slow climb up the stairs, half carrying Richard, whose head lolled alarmingly ‘—her ladyship is taken ill. Please ask Cook to prepare another tea tray for the drawing room and ask Tallis to attend us there.’
Anxiety clawed at her as she hurried to the dowager’s side. As she put her arm around her Felicity registered, for the first time, her physical frailty. Her erect stance and unyielding manner gave the impression of strength but, in reality, there was little flesh covering her bones.
From Wallflower to Countess Page 20
